The Night Watch

by Julian Dinsell

  Sleaze it might be, thought Murphy, but it was very professionally managed sleaze.

  Murphy completed his tour of the room and turned to Goldman.

  “A lot of paper,” he said.

  “Habit of a lifetime. When I started, there were no computers. Besides, paper speaks to you like no computer screen ever can,” Goldman replied.

  “So you found this old guy, the doctor; what happened next?”

  “Doc Stevenson?” Goldman replied. “Yeah, a remarkable old man, in his nineties but sharp as a tack. He died only a couple of months back. He was my way into November’s early years. It seems that the young man made such an impression that the old doc tracked his progress for decades afterwards. He didn’t go over the top – it was no kind of fan club, the old boy was too sensible for that kind of thing. It was more of a hobby, like some people watch birds or collect butterflies.”

  “So what kind of caterpillar was November back then?” Murphy asked.

  “A very special kind of loner. He lived in a world where he saw other people as one-dimensional, like cut-out scenery in a one-man play. He didn’t seem to understand that this was cruel to anybody who cared about him, though there were precious few of those.”

  “A lot of guys like that wind up in the slammer or go to the chair,” Murphy said.

  “No!” Goldman threw up a hand in protest. “You’ve got him wrong. November is different.”

  “What do you mean?” Murphy asked.

  Goldman took a while to reply and the noises of Manhattan filled the empty space between them.

  “He was different because he was not driven by anger and frustration like so many kids who knock over a corner liquor store, but…” He hesitated again. “Look, this is not easy to explain; it’s the chapter in the book I am rewriting now.” He gestured towards the word processor on the overloaded desk across the room.

  “Why’s it so difficult?” Murphy asked, and was surprised when Goldman seemed embarrassed about the answer.

  “Because I can’t make it sound real,” he said, as if confessing to some shameful failing. “Anything I write sounds like I’m describing Napoleon, or worse, someone who thinks he’s Napoleon; like some common or garden loony. But this guy is certainly no loony, or if he is a head case, he’s a very special kind.” Murphy was careful to let Goldman keep talking. “This is how I see it. Behind everything he did, and probably still does, is a sense of merely being a transient, passing through on his way to a place in history that had somehow already been allotted to him. That’s why he was never interested in people, only in progress – progress along the road to what he kept talking about as greatness. You see what I mean about making it sound real?” Murphy let Goldman struggle on. “Here’s an example,” Goldman said, leafing through a printout from a file on the desk. “He won a scholarship to Harvard. People were prepared to tolerate him because of his brilliance and because he was a local. Here’s a cutting.”

  He handed Murphy a column-length article from a local newspaper. It read: LONELY SCHOLAR WINS IVY LEAGUE PLACE.

  “Now that was big news in a small town,” Goldman said. “A grand send-off was planned. His father stayed sober all day, and his mother hired the fire house and announced a party for the whole street.”

  Goldman went to the computer and read a draft chapter off the screen.

  “It was her chance to emerge from lifelong self-effacement, her shelter from a deep fear of public humiliation. At last, she had a chance to win without the fear of losing.” He turned to Murphy. “But it didn’t work out that way.”

  “What went wrong?” Murphy asked.

  “The little bastard didn’t show up, that’s what went wrong. His father, for the first time in his life, did something useful. He tracked him down at the Greyhound depot.” Goldman read from the screen again: “‘What do I tell your mother?’ the father pleaded. ‘Tell her I’ve moved on.’”

  “Then what happened?”

  Goldman continued. “The father didn’t go back to the fire house but into the bar across the street and drank himself stupid. Alice, humiliated in front of the entire town, went home and cried all night. In the morning, she wrote a long, carefully worded letter to Doc Stevenson and took it to the mailbox on Main Street. Then she returned to the house, went upstairs and took all the sleeping pills in the bottle on the bedside table.” Goldman turned away from the screen. “Calvin November didn’t even come to his mother’s funeral.”

  Murphy sat and wondered. What could all this have to do with the events in Warsaw and the frightened old man he had been sent to meet on a dark, bitterly cold street by the Hudson?

  Goldman was a natural storyteller and seemed no longer to notice Murphy. “November put Grant’s ten million dollars to spectacularly good effect. Of course, he didn’t get the money all at once. It was a kind of capital development fund.” Goldman took a folder from the long rank of shelving behind him. “Here; there’s all kinds of stuff about it in Scientific American and Nature.”

  He handed Murphy the file. It contained page after page of cuttings, some from learned journals and others from the popular press: ‘Rearranging the Building Blocks of Life’, one said. Others reported: ‘Bugs Eat Garbage – Produce Fuel’; ‘Is Crop Spraying Obsolete?’; ‘New Disease-Free Grain’.

  Murphy was impressed. “Looks like a good start.”

  “It got better, for November that is. The recession in Reagan’s time hit Grant’s manufacturing industries hard.”

  “And then?” Murphy asked.

  “By that time old man Grant was himself in bad shape. He had one heart attack and then another. He died just as the troubles were at their worst. According to the will and various trusts, Grant Jnr took over. But he couldn’t hack it. Grant Industries needed cash in a hurry, and when November raised the money to buy out the bioengineering interests of the company, for a fraction of their true worth, his offer was accepted. Nobody outside the outfit knows how November got the money to do it, but that wouldn’t have been too difficult for someone like him.”

  “Still, it must have been a lot of money,” Murphy said.

  “Not a problem. You’ve got to remember, back then Vietnam was a painful memory and the Cold War was a bloody mess. In those days, there was more than one superpower. And both sides were sending their teams of proxies into action all over the world. There was desperation to hit the Soviets everywhere from Angola to outer space. Everyone worked on the basis that ‘my enemy’s enemy is my friend’. That’s how Bin Laden got his start – trained by the CIA. The same kind of thing was going on all over the world. Civil, or should I say very uncivil, wars were being fought between clients of East and West right across Africa. Arms were secretly and illegally sold to our sworn enemy Iran to raise funds for a conflict by proxy in Central America. Here at home, the fog of war was thick over Washington. I expect you’ll recall the bizarre scandals of the CIA and all the others. And on top of all that, here in the ‘Home of the Brave and Land of the Free’, we were building an illegal drug business bigger than the space programme and Medicare put together. With so much money and power out of control, who knows what kind of people November might have met. Then, as now, everyone had their own angle: money, power, ideology, megalomania or even do-goodery. Everything was out of whack.”

  As a bit player in the game, Murphy understood exactly what Goldman was saying. “So however it was done, November found a way to create his own Imperium,” Murphy said.

  “A good word that, Imperium. I’ll use it,” Goldman said, writing it down.

  “You’re welcome,” Murphy said.

  Goldman read from the screen again. “Those working for him were noted for being fanatical in their loyalty, as if to some mystical higher purpose.”

  “So what happened next?”

  “His new backers made a lot of money,” Goldman replied. “Plant genetics, medicines, any set of molecules capable of being taken apart and rebuilt. November was interested. Here’s what he said in on
e of his very few TV appearances: ‘My recreation is re-creation.’ The interviewer thought he was joking.”

  “Some guy,” Murphy said, just to keep the conversation moving.

  Chapter 18 - The United States of Paradox

  “Thanks, Gene, I owe you,” Murphy said as he slid the New York Press Association credential into his wallet.

  Lunch at the 21 Club in Mid-Town Manhattan was convivial. Gene Stanton and Murphy had a long-standing trail of mutual favours behind them. For Murphy, 21 was a favourite meeting place. He always enjoyed the atmosphere; the oak panelling, leather furniture and sporting prints were strangely English for such a completely American institution.

  “One of these times you’ll get me busted,” Stanton said from behind the menu.

  “One of these times I’ll get you a Pulitzer,” Murphy replied.

  “There are no Pulitzers for freelancers.” Stanton let his eyes wander around the room crowded with the rich, the fashionable and those who had ambitions to be either or both. “We’re just the beaters, we drive the game onto the guns. You need a by-line to get to hang the trophies on the living room wall.” The conversation drifted into ritual pleasantries. “How’s Mary?”

  “Fine, she’s still has dreams of open spaces wider than Central Park.”

  “And Tad, how’s he doing?”

  “Great, Hunter’s been good for him.”

  “You still flying?”

  “Only just. I’ve still got half-shares in a Cessna over at Morristown. We let the flying club use it. That covers a lot of the expense, but I need to book some time soon. I’ve got to fly six hours before Labour Day or I lose my licence.”

  Murphy put the lunchtime edition of the New York Times on the table between them. The lead story was about a rally at Madison Square Garden. The headline read: World Waits For November.

  “Why are you interested in this guy?” Stanton asked, as if protecting personal property.

  “We think he may have interesting ideas.”

  “Interesting, like dangerous?”

  “Interesting, like you’ll be the first to know if any of it becomes publishable,” Murphy said, running his index finger under the slogan on the masthead of the paper: All the news that’s fit to print.

  “We have a deal?” Stanton wanted to be sure.

  “We have a deal. Tell me what you’ve got.”

  The waiter arrived – an unwelcome interruption.

  They both ordered as if on autopilot. Stanton continued speaking as soon as he judged that they would not be overheard.

  “It’s no news that he’s one of the world’s richest men; exactly how rich nobody knows. And maybe he’s one of the smartest too.”

  “Rich I understand, but smart? That doesn’t always go with the territory. Some guys who’ve made billions wouldn’t know how to catch a bus,” Murphy replied.

  “Everyone will be doing big features on the back of the rally,” Stanton said.

  “So you’ve been digging?” Murphy asked.

  “This stays between us, right?” Stanton hesitated. “Strictly background. Okay?”

  “We both know the rules,” Murphy said.

  “Okay. I wish I had been digging. It’s like trying to drive a spade into concrete. Everything’s tied up in those weird domes down in the Nevada Desert,” Stanton said.

  “Tell me about them,” Murphy said.

  “November founded an outfit called Celastacom, to ‘probe and prove the future’, and housed it in two vast domes out in the desert. He must have a couple of thousand people working out there. Strange sort of a place, very public yet very secret.”

  Murphy was disappointed. “Come on, Gene, you can do better than that. They’re just some kind of Eco Disneyland. Bus tours, school trips, student study groups, the whole nine yards.”

  Stanton replied sharply, “That’s what National Geographic might think and Joe Public certainly does, but nobody really knows what’s going on down there. Step off the tourist trail and the place is as tight as a duck’s ass.”

  The food arrived but neither of them seemed to notice.

  “So you have this irony; here’s a guy with a massive profile in the public consciousness but when you look into it, he has no real profile at all. He just sits out there in the desert under his glass domes, when he could be walking with kings and presidents; maybe he thinks they’re beneath him.”

  “How much have you been able to find out?” Murphy asked.

  “About the past? Not much. There are no spin-doctors, no PR stunts. Despite that, or maybe because of it, media people like me are gagging for every crumb we can get.”

  “Is that genius or an accident?” Murphy asked.

  “Who knows? Perhaps both. I’m more interested in the future than in the past.”

  “Why’s that?” Murphy asked.

  “Something that stuck in my mind. It was in one of the very few public speeches he’s ever made; a commencement address at Harvard. I guess he must have been flattered by his Alma Mater asking him to return to the fold.”

  “So what did he say?”

  “Well, along with all the usual onwards and upwards stuff you get at that kind of event, he said this.” Stanton pulled a notebook from an inner pocket. “‘Choose your time, choose your place. Choose well, for he who rules the moment rules the hour.’”

  “A slogan,” Murphy said dismissively.

  “No, more of a mantra. Look at the strategy. He’s succeeded by putting himself in the right place at the right time,” Stanton said.

  Murphy was unimpressed. “Come on, Gene, you could say that about anyone with mega-bucks – Howard Hughes, Bill Gates, any of them.”

  “And you might be right,” Stanton replied, “but this is different, there’s a pattern. Time and again he’s chosen to back gateway technologies and through them gained a dominant position. But that’s only the half of it. His other killer skill is in timing.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying remember the mantra, ‘he who rules the moment rules the hour’,” Stanton said.

  “Go on.” Murphy sensed that there was something important to come.

  “Here’s the strangest thing. The people closest to him, the few we’ve been able to speak to, they’re devoted to him. They’re total believers. That place in the desert is the nearest thing to a mediaeval university there’s been for the last six hundred years.”

  “Mediaeval university!” Murphy laughed. “He’s really got to you, hasn’t he?”

  “I mean it,” Stanton said insistently, “and I’ll tell you why. Do you know why there are Bachelor’s degrees? Because once upon a time that’s exactly what a graduate was, a bachelor married to science or art. To marry a woman, a bachelor needed permission from the university, and that was rarely given.”

  Murphy’s cynicism rose in ratio to Stanton’s enthusiasm. “Gene, you’ll give hype a bad name.”

  “Don’t underestimate what’s going on down there, that’s all,” Stanton said, as if he wanted to close the conversation.

  They began to address the tepid prawn pasta in front of them.

  Murphy chose his moment. “So what’s with this laser show at the Garden? Is he going to announce some new techno-breakthrough?” he asked.

  “Maybe, but my guess is not.”

  “Not? Why not?”

  “My guess is it’s something political.”

  “Political? That’s horseshit; he’s not a loser. He’s not going to get into a fight he can’t win,” Murphy said dismissively.

  “Maybe he’s got a new idea,” Stanton said.

  “There are no new ideas. Even with an ego his size, he’s got to know it’s a closed game. He’s got no power base, no organisation and no workers. No deal,” Murphy said.

  “Of course that’s true, but it’s also traditional thinking. See it the way he sees it for a moment,” Stanton said.

  “How can you see it as he sees it?” Murphy asked.

  “Stop a
sking questions and start using your imagination. If he does have a new idea, something truly radical, think about the market opportunity. Think about timing. Look at the mess we’re in. We’re near paralysed by what terrorism has done to us, look at Iraq. The greatest of nations are led by the smallest of men. The economy is going to hell in a handcart and what choice have we got? Right-wing sleaze, or left wing-sleaze. Mindless war or timid inactivity.”

  “It would have to be one hell’uva big idea,” Murphy said.

  “Only big enough to make people believe in it. That’s what worries me,” Stanton replied.

  Murphy tried to lighten the mood. “Even that’s not a new idea. You know what Marx said – not Karl, the other one? ‘The two most important things in politics are sincerity and integrity, and if you can fake them, you’ve got it made.’” He shuddered with laughter at his own joke, but it fell flat.

  Murphy’s frivolity made Stanton’s concern more intense. “Nobody is uncontaminated. Nobody has enough credibility to say the big words without sounding like Coco the Clown reading the Gettysburg Address. People want vision, that’s why everyone’s got so much hope invested in this summit in Geneva that everyone’s talking about.”

  The connection of November with the Summit rang an alarm bell, but Murphy made sure it didn’t show. “Who’s arguing?” he said dismissively. “But you know as well as I do, no amount of money or personal charisma from outside the established parties has ever come close to cracking the system. It’s never been done, the whole world knows that,” he said, trying to provoke Stanton into saying more.

  “But what if this guy knows something we don’t?” Stanton asked.

  “Like?”