Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“‘Already halfway there,’” echoed Martlew. “And he’s probably going to kill another Russian.”

“Hell of a busy guy,” said Cowley.

Exasperated by the military’s insistence that it would take at least a month to run a three services’ personnel comparison against the Chicago e-fit and the manufacturers’ equally frustrating estimate to collate the distribution and purchase of maroon Land Cruisers throughout Illinois, Pamela seized the Oldsmobile intercept as the breath of air to blow her out of the doldrums.

Acknowledging the near impossibility of a search without a name-if indeed Leanov hadn’t traveled under his own-she used Frank Norton’s White House muscle to have immigration check every Russian passport arrival at every U.S. port or airport, East and West Coast, and to run checks for American residency addresses on the visa forms. There was renewed frustration at further insistence that such a search could take weeks despite the narrow timeframe since Leanov’s disappearance from Moscow.

“You want to tell the president it’s going to take that long or shall I?” Pamela asked the deputy director of Immigration, guessing the director himself had ducked her call.

Observing local territory protocol, she had Stephen Murray pass to Chicago Customs the information that the arms cargo ship was already in the Atlantic. In minutes Terry Osnan’s master index identified Peter Samuels as the Customs director who’d attended the first Washington emergency meeting. Unlike the head of Immigration, Samuels personally and at once took her call.

“We’ve got planes as well as ships,” said the man. “If it’s somewhere in the Atlantic, we’ll find it.”

“We don’t want them to realize we’re looking.”

There was a pained silence. “It’s something we’ve done before.”

And they did it again, in just six hours. Pamela immediately called Leonard Ross. She said, “We’ve located the shipment. But we wouldn’t have been able to without Bill Cowley.”

“I still can’t believe it,” said Patrick Hollis. There were six people around the cafeteria table, including Carole Parker. They were all so occupied with Robert Standing that they hadn’t rejected Hollis when he’d joined them.

“I don’t know,” said Carole. “There was always something about him not just quite right.”

“There must be a lot involved for there not even to have been a bail application,” suggested a teller.

“You spent a lot of time with the FBI guy,” said another, to Hollis. “You get any idea how much?”

“No,” said Hollis, enjoying being asked for an opinion. “But I got the impression it was fairly substantial.”

“So he’ll go to jail?”

“I would think so,” said Hollis. “Poor guy.”

“Why ever feel sorry for him?” demanded Carole.

The aerial surveillance docking estimate of five days was confirmed by the Cidicj Star ’s cargo manifest filed with Chicago Customs. It gave the fifteenth as the arrival date and listed three containers of tractor and engine parts for OverOcean portside collection. With so much time to prepare, William Cowley had the uneasy impression that he was returning to a vacuum, an impression heightened by all the necessary planning already under way. Worryingly, Leonard Ross’s diary was too full to see him on his first day back.

Terry Osnan had installed a large map of the eastern seaboard of the United States, extending up to include the east coast of Canada and the St. Lawrence Seaway entrance to the Great Lakes. On it he marked the progress of the Cidicj Star -appropriately designated by a red stick pin-constantly updating from Coast Guard aerial reports. Pamela had organized three SWAT teams and fixed at twenty the number of extra agents needed in Chicago to maintain the necessary surveillance on the containers once they were unloaded, to lead them to the terrorist group and the General for whom the military hadn’t offered any identification. Neither had the General made any further approach to the now totally FBI firewalled Cyber Shack.

Although the contact between Washington and Moscow had been absolute, Cowley and Pamela reviewed every development in his absence. Pamela began to regret the meeting halfway through, because it came out like a litany of her achievements, which she hadn’t intended. She thought Cowley looked drained-worse, he looked distracted.

She was even more discomfited when, at the end, he said, “Quite a success story! Congratulations!”

“You already said that, from Moscow,” Pamela reminded him curtly. “I got a couple of lucky breaks and you had a bad one. From which we’ve recovered. We’re still in good shape.” Her ex-husband had drunk too much-it was as much that as her career determination that wrecked the marriage-but she couldn’t recognize any of the signs in Cowley, although there was perhaps the vaguest hand tremor.

“Can’t think of anything you haven’t already got in hand,” he said. There was something like condescension in Pamela surrendering the desk chair to him. The irritation came at once. That was self-pity-or something like it-and went way beyond any remorse he needed to feel. Unless, perhaps, the uncertainty wasn’t remorse at losing the cargo-which she’d pointed out they’d found again-but something else. Back on base now. Time to get a grip on himself.

“What about going there ourselves?” Pamela said.

Cowley considered the question. “Chicago’s going to be the focus. Nowhere else we need to be.”

“Together.”

Cowley wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. “There’ll have to be split-second coordination between us and Dimitri in Moscow. I can do that as easily from Chicago as from here; better, even, actually being on the spot.”

“I think we should be together,” stated Pamela.

“So do I.”

“How’s Dimitri taking the death of his wife?”

Cowley had forgotten Pamela had known. “OK.”

“What was it?”

“Routine operation that went wrong,” avoided Cowley. “Don’t know the details.”

“Your hair doesn’t look as if it’s sliding off the side of your head anymore. How have you been?” She couldn’t talk about what she wanted to in official surroundings like this. When-how-could she talk about it?

“OK,” he said, leaning sideways to his briefcase. “I brought you a present.” It was a joke matroyshka set; the one-on-top-of-the-other doll representing Boris Yeltsin had a red nose and a glass of vodka in its hand.

Pamela smiled her thanks and said, “I haven’t been anywhere to justify bringing back a gift. I could buy you dinner if you’re not one of those old-fashioned guys who thinks a man always has to pay.” Was this how it was done in singles’ bars? Not that the intention was sex. She wanted a different setting for a quite different sort of intimacy, and this was the best she could think of.

Cowley appeared as surprised as Pamela was at herself. He said, “That would be a nice welcome home.”

They went to Georgetown again. It was Cowley’s suggestion to stop for a drink at the Four Seasons, and Pamela chose a martini to his scotch. She changed to mineral water at Nathans and because that meant a half bottle Cowley fit in a second whiskey while she finished it. After walking aimlessly along M Street, they decided on the restaurant in which they’d eaten with Danilov. Again they were early enough not to need a reservations. Cowley had another scotch while they considered the menu and chose a French beaujolais to go with the meal.

Pamela said; “I’ve forgotten who’s to be the host.”

“So had I. Sorry. Want me to cancel the wine?”

“Shouldn’t you?” she asked, taking the opening.