The Night Watch

by Julian Dinsell

  The hotel room was quiet and it was dark outside. The magnificent view of the sea was long forgotten. Wolski, close to complete exhaustion, had been shepherded away to bed by Latchford. Nobody wanted to be the first to speak.

  “Hell or Hoboken by Christmas.” It was Thornhill who broke the silence.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Darcy was looking unusually dishevelled. His normally well-groomed hair was a tangled mess and his voice was laden with impatience and fatigue.

  “Stream of consciousness, I suppose,” Thornhill said absent-mindedly. “It’s what ‘Black Jack’ Pershing said to American troops sailing off to the First World War. Hoboken was close to where Wolski came ashore.”

  “What other good news is there?” Darcy asked tartly.

  “He’s still alive and it’s not yet Christmas,” Thornhill replied.

  In the adjoining room, Morag sat at her computer waiting for any key word or phrase that the system could analyse. Nothing came up. Murphy was draped diagonally across the king-size bed behind her, listening through headphones.

  Morag thought, as she had so often before, how sharply people were defined when you could hear them but not see them. Darcy seemed tiresomely pleased with himself. But she felt differently about Thornhill, sensing an inner strength that she found strangely attractive. It was an emotion she found puzzling. It wasn’t sexual attraction, or was it? Were intellectual attraction and sexual attraction two sides of the same coin?

  Thornhill’s voice broke into her reverie. “Case conference, Morag. Murphy, will you join us?” Thornhill knew that they would hear him on the sound recording system. “Let’s try and get the essentials agreed before we turn in,” he said, stretching his limbs as he lay back in the big chair.

  Morag and Murphy came through the connecting door and Murphy sat on the arm of the sofa. Morag took Wolski’s chair.

  The hallway door opened and Latchford, not wanting to interrupt the discussion, eased himself into the room without a greeting.

  “How’s the patient?” Thornhill asked.

  “Sleeping. Bullivant is staying in there with him.”

  “Let’s get on then. Darcy, you first,” Thornhill said.

  “The story doesn’t hold water,” Darcy said. “On one hand, we are asked to believe in mega-computers, vast amounts of money, some sort of techno-Gestapo that experiments on humans and threatens the lives of anyone it takes a dislike to. On the other hand, the fruit of all these labours is the most spectacular cock-up. And…” He emphasised the word. “…on top of all that, there is supposed to be a supra-national conspiracy to pull some kind of stunt at the summit. Doesn’t that all sound ever so slightly paranoid? I recommend we give him to the Psychos, see what they have to say before we go any further.”

  “If all that is so, how do you account for Wolski’s presence here?” Thornhill asked.

  Darcy had a ready answer. “I account for it with the greatest possible caution. Somebody may be feeding us a line, perhaps our old friends from the former Soviet Union, the kind of people now engaged in every kind of squalid struggle for power in some glorious new Russian Empire. Or he may be just a plain nutter, I don’t know. What I do know is that, either way, in the present political climate, if we get this wrong we’ll all be out of a job.”

  “Thank you for your professional concern,” Thornhill replied sharply. “Murphy, you saw him first…”

  “The way I see it,” Murphy, uncertain of his conclusion, responded slowly, weighing his words as he spoke, “it could be a scam, but who’s in that line of business any more? He could be crazy, but if he is, he’s not like any other nut I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot. I think he’s for real,” he said with a shrug.

  “Thank you; I’m inclined to agree,” Thornhill said.

  Morag, protective of Thornhill, sensed the scale of the disaster if he were persuaded to believe a fantasy. Uncharacteristically, she did not wait for an invitation to speak.

  “Did you know that there are more than seventeen million items on so-called ‘mind control’ on the Internet? It’s a crude phrase and may not present an accurate description of what we are being asked to believe. But the fact is that most people taking a sustained interest in this kind of thing are themselves crazy, at least in a small part of their lives.”

  “Maybe they’re crazy with good reason,” Murphy said. “It’s on the record that the US government has spent billions on things not so very different from what the good Professor is talking about.”

  “You can’t be serious, Latchford.”

  Murphy shrugged. “Don’t take my word for it, look at the Congressional Enquiry report back in the late 70s. The Enquiry found a so-called ‘Truth Drug Programme’, with all kinds of psycho experiments in prisons and mental hospitals. There was a programme called MK Ultra that proposed multiple kinds of madness for a whole decade in the Cold War. Then later, the CIA was out of control with craziness like throwing LSD-filled light-bulbs in the path of subway trains to see how far the effects would carry. Just for the hell of it they also tried spraying several different kinds of junk over cities from the air.” Murphy continued in full flood. “Ever heard of ‘National Security Brothels?’ They were in business to develop sexual techniques for extracting information. Then there was something called the Law Enforcement Assistance Administration, a special favourite of the late and unlamented Richard Nixon. Among other things, they proposed a child screening programme to identify potential criminals while they were still in first grade. Nothing came of it, or so we’re told.” Murphy paused briefly. “Don’t you see the point? If anybody came in here with ideas like that we’d say they were nuts, wouldn’t we? But we’d be wrong.”

  Darzi joined the argument. “Murphy is right. There are claims about government money for proposals that could be regarded as psychotic: killing by eye contact, telepathy, even remote seeing; TV without the technology.”

  Latchford was incredulous. “Why didn’t anybody notice?

  Murphy turned sharply to Latchford. “Why didn’t you notice? There are eighteen thousand pages of declassified information about this. What were you back then, a student? Students are supposed to get angry about this kind of shit.” Nobody interrupted and Murphy continued. “You know what makes me believe Wolski’s story? I’ll tell you, it was the brick wall.”

  “Brick wall?” Darcy was genuinely puzzled.

  “Yes, the brick wall in the East Wing. All this stuff was going on just one course of bricks away and nobody noticed. That’s real life, that’s why I believe it.”

  Darcy was having none of it. “Think cautiously about this – it’s also real life that there are people out there who believe that a million kids a year are snatched off the streets for brain experiments and are held in multi-storey cages like lab animals on Long Island and in disused missile silos. And there are others going around in tinfoil hats to ward off mind control messages from mobile phone masts. Then there are those that believe there is some kind of giant conspiracy to control thoughts by ultra low-frequency sound waves. These ideas come and go like waves of hysteria in a henhouse.”

  Everyone saw the conflicting arguments for what they were and instinctively looked to Thornhill for a judgement.

  “Where better to hide a scorpion’s egg than in a henhouse?” Thornhill said.

  Darcy replied impatiently. “Sir Jack, with respect, I must ask you to consider the possibility that your own judgement is prejudiced. This man targeted you personally. He said so. They put a lot of effort into attracting your attention. Consciously or otherwise, that’s flattering. Look at it objectively. You’ve been fascinated with the man ever since.”

  Nobody in the room had heard Thornhill being spoken to like that before and everyone wondered how he would react. He didn’t dismiss the point, but neither did he dwell on it.

  “Thank you, Darcy. That needed to be said. I will so consider.”

  Darcy said nothing. He shuffled in his seat and tapped his gold pen on the
little leather notebook he always used at meetings.

  Thornhill wanted to move on. “Latchford, you’re the medic; is he a madman?”

  “It depends on what you mean by mad. It’s not a medical term. Sorry, but I can only offer an opinion, not a diagnosis, at this stage.”

  Latchford’s professional caution annoyed Thornhill. “Then may we have your opinion, Dr Darzi?”

  “Some of the symptoms he exhibits may be signs of a psychiatric disorder. On the other hand, what sort of condition would you be in if you’d just lived through the sort of hell he’s been describing? Only what you might call a ‘madman’ would be capable of appearing entirely sane. To come to a considered opinion I need time, several days, and expert help.”

  Thornhill did not comment on Darzi’s views. “Morag, what do you think?”

  She understood that coming to her last was a sign of respect, but she also noticed, as the only woman present, that she was alone in being addressed by her first name. Yet she bore no resentment, knowing that Thornhill’s clubbable world simply had no instinct for dealing with the finer points of female emancipation. She spoke in the formidable style for which she had become well known.

  “I note the opposing opinions on the facts set out by Darcy and Murphy and the fact that Dr Darzi cannot yet come to a view. However, with respect, these are expressions of personal judgement, and I will not compound the difficulty by adding my own to them. I am more concerned with the evidence. The facts on the computer are these. We know that Wolski has, or had at one time, a substantial professional reputation. So he is not an unknown crank off the street. He is also clever enough to have got us all here; that in itself should tell us something. Then look at the timing. The project begins at an even pace and then it accelerates. The events in Warsaw, as described by Wolski, follow almost exactly the chronology of the developments that led to the Global Summit being announced. I have more work to do overnight; by the morning I will have a comparative chart of events.” She stopped as abruptly as she began.

  “Please go on,” Thornhill said, tempting her onto ground of which she was less sure.

  This time she hesitated before she spoke. “A hypothesis, not a judgement you understand, which fits these facts is as follows.” She paused, gathering her thoughts, and then began to express them with such precision that the improbable began to seem possible. “A powerful group of interests, or even a powerful individual, sees the recent radical changes in the balance of world power as an opportunity to establish themselves in a position of unique influence. They believe that they have the technological means to do this. Whether they are correct or not, for the purposes of this hypothesis, is not important. A programme of research is set up, drawing on the most advanced science that money can buy. But for their research they need a facility away from the intrusive eyes of the West. That would be easy; dollars are very welcome in Eastern Europe, literally everything is for sale. All goes satisfactorily for them until they see a target of opportunity. The Summit changes their plans. It presents the possibility of coming in with a bang. It’s then that things begin to go wrong.”

  Darcy snapped his notebook shut. “That’s not credible. According to Wolski, they were running around like headless chickens. Nobody had any idea what to do when things took an unexpected turn. People who are supposed to be doing world-class science using the fire sprinklers out of desperation?”

  Morag cut him short. “On the contrary, it’s exactly what you might expect when a highly controlled management system with a distant final authority has an unexpected new element thrust upon it. The events that Wolski described are typical of what happens when such systems break down. Just look at the disaster of Chernobyl.”

  Darcy made no reply, and Morag moved on to the climax of her argument. “The tests, according to Wolski, began by direct injection into small animals and moved, with insufficient further work, to airborne particle tests on humans. These, according to Wolski, had catastrophic results. But what we regard as a disaster may, to them, be a success; the very breakthrough they were trying to achieve.” Nobody responded and she continued. “Keep that in mind, and ask the question of how they intend to use the knowledge they now have.” She hesitated and then allowed herself to do something unusual. She made a guess. “In my estimation, we have only so far seen the crude early abilities of whatever it is that they are developing.”

  “I fear you may have it,” Thornhill said quietly. “And if so, our difficulties are acute. Ahead of the Summit there is simply not time for the sort of prudent analysis which we would normally undertake: a research committee to tell us if any of this is possible, psychological profiles of the sorts of people we are looking for, consultation with the allies and so on.”

  Darcy interrupted, more gently this time. “Do you mean that you do not intend to share our speculations with our allies?”

  “That, for the present at least, is a possibility,” Thornhill said gravely. “Whoever is behind this must have a huge capital base and access to leading-edge technologies in computers, chemistry, biology and genetics. The USA is the only place in the world where sufficient money and science could be mobilised for a coup like this, and any organisation with that sort of power will also have intimate contacts with government and government agencies. So, until we know more, it’s impossible to be sure that our colleagues at Langley and Washington are not compromised.”

  Morag spoke again. “As important as who, is why,” she said. “What’s it all for? The evidence suggests that the Summit is no more than a starting point–”

  Thornhill cut her off in mid-sentence. “True, but first things first, we must identify who these people may be. Until we do that, we are flying blind.” He looked at his watch and then at the exhausted faces around the room. “Let’s sleep on it – meet here for breakfast at six?”

  Everyone nodded and shambled off.

  Thornhill slid the balcony window open to feel the Atlantic breeze. He undressed and crawled between the vivid green sheets. As he fell asleep he could hear the distant clack of Morag’s keyboard.

  Much later – he could not tell how long – he sensed someone in the room. It was Morag. Thornhill sat bolt upright. She stood in the balcony doorway, her hair and long white nightgown flowing in the stiff night air. She stepped into a patch of moonlight by the open door and Thornhill could see a wild, sensual look of triumph in her eyes.

  “It’s November,” she said.

  Chapter 15 - November

  “Give me ten million dollars and I’ll make you rich.” Calvin November made the now famous proposition to Morton B. Grant over dinner at the Grant mansion.

  The Scottish-Baronial cluster of granite towers and battlements stood at Grosse Pointe beside Lake St Clair, a dozen miles and an entire world away from the dereliction of downtown Detroit. Grant was an industrial Emperor of the dynastic kind. Grant Industries was one of the oldest and most powerful conglomerates in the United States. It was a company that the press cautiously referred to as ‘controversial’. Editors were mindful of the destruction of at least two newspapers by Grant’s devastating ability to sue and win.

  By contrast, November’s position was less complex. After working his way through Harvard and having just completed a PhD at MIT, he was flat broke. All evening he had gone unnoticed by the grandees of industrial Detroit. The outrageous remark to Grant silenced the babble of deal making and overtures to seduction that had ebbed and flowed around the long silver-laden candlelit table. There was no suggestion of humour in November’s challenge, but rather one of contempt. Grant was a man with a genial manner, but those who knew him appreciated that this was a thin camouflage for a mind like a rat trap. The social destruction of the young upstart seemed imminent. Like statutory witnesses at an execution, everyone sat still and blank-faced. But Grant was amused, though cautious of an ambush.

  “Son, there are some who’d say I was rich enough already.” Nervous laughter rippled around the table.

  “No, sir,”
November replied, “your grandfather was rich. You may have more money than he did, but you are merely wealthy.”

  “I suppose you intend to tell these good folk what you mean by that.” Grant spoke with cold humour and an expansive gesture that embraced the expectant audience.

  At the other end of the table, Morton Grant Jnr, heir to the Grant fortune, was aghast. November had been his roommate at Harvard and during those years, their unspoken understanding was that money was never discussed. The invitation to dinner at the family home was intended to mark the parting of their ways – Grant Jnr to join the business that he would one day inherit and November to begin the task of climbing the corporate ladder wherever he could best market his skills.

  “Yes, I’ll tell you exactly what I mean,” November said. “You are a steward, a steward of the fortune made by your grandfather. A very successful steward, but a steward nevertheless.”

  Grant’s face hardened, his eyes, which had been measuring the reaction on the faces around the table, now locked onto November.

  “Hector Grant became rich because he created a fortune out of his own genius, and the science of the time. All the things he is famous for – the high-speed insulation of cables, ductile iron for pressure vessels, dye technology for denim – all of them were the result of him seeing further than others. His riches lay in the power of his own imagination; only his money was kept in the bank. A fortune like yours is indestructible; you will always be wealthy, but without imagination you will never be rich.”

  Nobody round the table had ever heard a performance like it. Grant had grown used to celebrity in public and sycophancy in private. But there was something about the absolute self-confidence of November that was magnetic and Grant’s natural indignation was tempered by a powerful curiosity.

  “That’s a romantic idea, son, but the end product of business is money. You see,” he said with mock patience, “Grant Industries earns more on its investments on Wall Street than out of manufacturing. Why go to the trouble and risk of making money out of raw materials when you can make money out of money?”