The Watchers

by Jon Steele

  ‘His last message to us was that he’d make a dead drop at Lausanne Cathedral. That was twenty years ago.’

  ‘He knew the bad guys were after him. He went underground.’

  ‘Twenty years’ worth of deep, Mr Harper. Not once coming in from the cold for regenerative stasis, not once making contact with a partisan. The weight of his form must have crushed down on his being with excruciating pain. It was a rather remarkable feat that he found the strength to complete his mission. We had hoped you might bring him in, but Komarovsky and his half-breeds got to him first.’

  Harper inhaled from the fag. The Inspector was right, a dose of radiance was swell for clearing the cobwebs. He looked down to the shredded papers at his feet. Yuriev’s eyes were still staring at him. Christ, Harper thought. There’s only a handful of our kind left in this place. Battle buddies from the time the cries of men reached the heavens, on a mission to save paradise from the bad guys. You were his last chance, and you let him down.

  ‘I should’ve been bloody faster off the mark, I might’ve saved him.’

  ‘Those are the phantoms of your form speaking, Mr Harper. I suggest you ignore them.’

  ‘He dropped that formula in my lap. If I’d been even half awake I would’ve known it was the enemy’s breeding formula, not some bloody performance-enhancing drug. He was begging me to recognize who he was … what he was.’

  ‘Mr Harper, if you remember, Yuriev didn’t drop the formula in your lap, I did. In the end the state of Yuriev’s being was all but lost, he could no longer separate his being from his human form. And every human partisan in Europe was trying to save him, that is their job, isn’t it? Fight with us, save us if they can. And they have, through the ages. But the sad fact is Yuriev was already dead but for the beating of his heart. Indeed, he had become what men call a paranoid schizophrenic.’

  ‘All the more reason to save him.’

  ‘Yes, well, in our line of work the same orders stand when it comes to saving anyone, or anything. It’s not our job. Our job is the mission. Are we clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now, time is not on our side. Are you feeling reasonably up to speed?’

  ‘Monsieur Gabriel seems to have done the trick. And you did have me watching History Channel 24/7 for, what was it, six months? Clever the whole telly thing, communications embedded in the pictures.’

  ‘It’s proven somewhat more effective than the deciphering of nursery rhymes. Shall we begin the briefing and mission profile?’

  Harper took another hit off his smoke. Radiance seeping deeper, the tumblers in his brain spinning again, another safe cracking open and a rush of light to the brain. Ab uno disce omnes …

  ‘Go ahead.’

  The Inspector took a sizeable draw from his own smoke.

  ‘In the late 1950s, a half-breed rose to prominence as a member of the Soviet Politburo, ending up as the Minister of Public Construction. His primary work was the management of urban prisons and slave labour camps in Siberia. However, we learned of a plan within his ministry codenamed Firelight. The plan involved the rebuilding of Christ the Saviour Cathedral along the Moscow River just outside the Kremlin walls. It was to be an exact replica of the original, built on the very same site.’

  Harper’s mind flashed through Great Cathedrals of the World on History Channel. Built in the late nineteenth century to commemorate Mother Russia’s victory over Napoleon. One of the largest cathedrals in the world till Comrade Stalin blew it to hell in 1931.

  ‘Bit odd in the mother ship of the Communist state, particularly as the Commies destroyed it.’

  ‘Precisely the thing that caught our attention. Obviously, the cathedral couldn’t be built under Communism, so the enemy had to bide its time until they could engineer the proper political climate. That time came with the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 and a new enemy cell emerged posing as a group of Russian businessmen.’

  ‘Enter Komarovsky.’

  ‘Indeed. He and his half-breeds flourished in the corrupt climate of the new Russia through a series of shell companies. He managed to gain control of the assets of the state-owned construction company outright. He then secured the contract for the excavations of the new cathedral. We activated Yuriev and, using his status as former hero of the Soviet Union, he secured a job as a labourer when the project broke ground. The excavation of the site went slowly and was often delayed due to mysterious equipment malfunctions.’

  Harper drew from his smoke.

  ‘Let me guess, they were searching for something in the original cathedral foundations.’

  ‘A bit deeper than that. A tunnel, hand-cut, two and a half kilometres deep, leading to a cave deep beneath the Moscow River. It was in the cave Yuriev found the object he carried to Lausanne.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘Couldn’t or won’t?’

  ‘Same thing in the end, isn’t it?’

  ‘Fine, but the foundations of Christ the Saviour were built in 1839. The locals didn’t have the technology to dig a tunnel like that till the twentieth century. When was it built?’

  ‘Well spotted, Mr Harper. It was dug long before the dawn of man, long before our kind were sent here.’

  ‘How long before?’

  ‘Yuriev ran carbon-dating tests. It was built in the Miocene epoch, seven million years ago.’

  Harper waited for the Inspector to spill with the rest. When he didn’t, Harper’s mind sorted through another episode of History Channel, The Dawn of Man.

  ‘The time of Homo ergaster. Humanoids became bipeds, learned to control fire and file stones into hand axes. Christ, they must have found the reason man evolved—’

  ‘At this point, I give you an official caution, Mr Harper. You are not to speculate on what the enemy may have found. Your mission is quite specific.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me what it is.’

  ‘In truth, we don’t even know what it is. We only know Yuriev got it before the enemy and he sacrificed the eternity of his being to keep it from them.’

  ‘So where is this thing, whatever it is, Yuriev lifted from Moscow?’

  ‘You’re not cleared to know that information, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Not cleared to know what it is or where it is. So how do I bloody find it?’

  ‘You don’t find it. You were never meant to find it.’

  ‘Then what the hell am I doing here?’

  ‘You’re a warrior, Mr Harper, a killer. You know what you’re here to do. Leave the finding to us.’

  Harper looked at the killing knife in his hand. Something didn’t feel right. Phantoms of his form rising maybe. He forced them down.

  ‘Where’re Komarovsky and his half-breeds now?’

  ‘Waiting for you to make the next move.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Komarovsky and his half-breeds are well aware of what you are, as well as the next phase of your mission.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since I told them, the day you arrived in Lausanne.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Komarovsky’s half-breeds in Moscow have been trying to decipher our SX traffic since Yuriev went underground. Upon your arrival in Lausanne we let slip the codes embedded in the BBC signals, giving the enemy the impression they had secured a back door into our communications. Happily, they took the bait.’

  Harper tapped his cigarette, watched the ashes tumble to the floor again, not liking the sound of things already.

  ‘What exactly did they read in your SX traffic?’

  ‘That you met secretly with Yuriev before he was slaughtered, that he told you where he’d hidden the object in Lausanne Cathedral and that you now have it in your possession. That message was transmitted two days ago. Within the last hour I’ve let it slip you’re bringing the object to our Paris cell, tonight.’

  ‘Now I truly don’t get it.’

  ‘You’ll leave this room with your overni
ght bag and make your way to LP’s Bar. Take the scenic route, make sure you’re noticed. At LP’s, have more than a few drinks, chat with your bartender friend, Stephan. Tell him you’re off to London for a break, allow yourself to be overheard. Then allow yourself to be followed to Gare Simplon, where, very plainly and drunkenly, you board the midnight TGV to Paris.’

  ‘I still don’t get it.’

  ‘You’re not meant to get anything, Mr Harper. You’re meant to follow orders and leave for Paris tonight.’

  ‘Komarovsky’s killers won’t buy it, they’ll know my leaving Lausanne is a bluff no matter what you sent in your bloody SX traffic.’

  ‘Precisely. They’ll assume we’re trying to draw them from the cathedral and never see the real reason you’re going to Paris.’

  ‘Track down and slaughter the mole in the Paris operation.’

  ‘With extreme prejudice, Mr Harper.’

  Harper took a final draw of the Inspector’s fine North African tobacco. It felt like a last puff before the firing squad got the order to fire.

  ‘There’s a problem, Inspector. Two problems.’

  ‘Yes. Miss Taylor and the boy in the cathedral, you mean.’

  ‘You knew all along?’

  ‘As did the enemy.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That’s the way the counter-intelligence game’s played. Bluff, bluff, double bluff and hope you don’t come up with the short stick. The enemy has been watching you, and noted your behaviour.’

  ‘Courtesy of your SX traffic?’

  ‘Of course. Your apparent abandoning of Miss Taylor and the boy in the cathedral will cause the enemy a measure of doubt. Throw them on the back foot.’

  ‘I promised I’d come back to the cathedral tonight. The lad and Miss Taylor, they’ll be waiting for me.’

  ‘Nothing we can do about that, I’m afraid. Mission timeline has already begun.’

  ‘I promised I’d help them.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I promised I’d come back.’

  ‘You realize such a thing is a direct violation of the rules of engagement with locals.’

  ‘I didn’t at the time, but it’s done. I can’t just leave them.’

  ‘Again, those are the phantoms of your form, you mustn’t let them interfere with your mission.’

  ‘You’re asking me to abandon two innocent souls.’

  ‘I’m not asking, I’m telling you to abandon them and get on the midnight train to Paris.’

  ‘This isn’t right.’

  ‘We don’t live in a place of right or wrong, we follow orders.’

  Harper jumped from the bed.

  ‘No, what’s not right is you not telling me something.’

  ‘I tell you everything you need to know. If I say jump, you ask how high on the way up.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Control yourself, Mr Harper, anger can lead to free will. I’m ordering you to limit cognitive functions to the confines of your mission. Is that clear?’

  ‘What’s clear is whatever Yuriev hid in the cathedral is still there, isn’t it? You let that bit of info slip on your bloody SX traffic, along with where it is, didn’t you? My orders are a diversion, the real mission is here. You want to capture an enemy chief in human form, let Officer Jannsen at him with her enhanced interrogation techniques. Moving Miss Taylor and the lad from the belfry would show your hand so you’re willing to sacrifice their souls.’

  ‘You have your orders, Mr Harper.’

  ‘There’s something about the two of them, something you’re not telling me. I mean the lad knows how to read shadows, he sees things. His own mother told him an angel was coming to the cathedral … Christ, none of this is an accident. You brought them both to Lausanne. You’re using the two of them as double agents and they don’t even know it. You can’t do this, damn it, they’ll be slaughtered.’

  The Inspector drilled deep into Harper’s eyes.

  ‘“Cura nihil aliud nisi ut valeas”!’

  Something snapped to attention in Harper’s brain, overpowering the phantom of a dead man named Jay Harper.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The Inspector adjusted his silk scarf, closed his cashmere coat.

  ‘Mister Harper … Some of them, the sensitive ones like the boy, the woman for that matter, they affect us. In some ways, it’s the greatest weight of our eternity, knowing we can never cross the line to their world even though we hide in their forms, mimicking their lives. Show me one of our kind who can draw a picture or write a piece of music, a line of poetry. We can’t. We can only stand in the shadows and watch them with wonder. And yes, too many of them are lost to us, I know.’

  ‘Lost is a polite way of expressing it, isn’t it? Human souls ripped from bodies, fed to the devourers.’

  ‘It happens when the enemy hides in the form of men.’

  Harper held his hand before his eyes, studying it again.

  ‘And what do you call this?’

  ‘We didn’t start this war, Mr Harper, and we have no choice but to fight. We are here to save what is left of paradise. Do you read me?’

  No choice, no bloody choice.

  ‘Understood, will comply.’

  The Inspector stepped closer to Harper.

  ‘I shouldn’t tell you this, but as it’s been such a rough go for you … perhaps this will make it easier for you. The boy in the cathedral. The fact is he is listed, his life is nearly finished.’

  Like a kill shot to the head.

  Not even hearing the crack.

  ‘When?’

  ‘That sort of thing is way above my pay grade. But from what I gather it’s to be soon.’

  ‘And Miss Taylor?’

  ‘The woman isn’t listed as such but … well, you know what they did to her.’

  ‘And you won’t let Komarovsky take her alive.’

  ‘It’s for the best. You know what they do to their women when they’re finished with them. What was done to Simone Badeaux was an easy death in comparison.’ The Inspector took a step towards Harper. ‘And as we’re on the topic, I need not remind you of the rules regarding locals who’ve been listed.’

  ‘No contact, no interference that would affect the time and manner of their death.’

  ‘Quite. Now get a move on, the clock’s ticking.’

  Harper stuffed the killing knife in his belt, picked up the gun and ammo clips from the bed. He looked at them.

  ‘You know, I saw a newspaper the other day, read some new words for the slaughter of the innocent. They call it collateral damage.’

  ‘Go easy with those thoughts, Mr Harper.’

  ‘Go easy?’

  ‘Whatever it’s called these days, you know this isn’t the first time you’ve had to turn and walk away.’

  ‘Will they receive comfort, will their souls make it to another life?’

  ‘We’ll do all we can, of course. But you know how it is, mission success comes first.’

  The Inspector stepped to the door and pulled it open. Mutt and Jeff filled the passageway like two immovable and immortal things. Harper looked through the shattered balcony windows, saw rain falling hard in the dark night, felt words rise within him from an unremembered place. ‘“Blessed are the dead ….”’

  The Inspector turned back.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘“Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon”. Who wrote those words?’

  ‘Edward Thomas, a poet and soldier of the Great War, Artists’ Rifles Regiment.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Killed in action on the Western Front, Easter Monday, nineteen seventeen. His name is listed at Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey.’

  ‘Right, I remember him.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I took his human form, the last mission, didn’t I? I gave him comfort, helped carry him to his grave at Agny, and then I snatched his body for regenerative stasis.’

  ‘As I said,
go easy, Mr Harper. You’ve only just been awakened.’

  ‘I remember him, Inspector. I remember everything about him, I remember every last one of them.’

  ‘Then remember this: they are not us and we are not them. Now, get a move on. Give us a good show.’

  thirty-four

  Rochat watched the cigarette bounce on Monsieur Dufaux’s lower lip as he spoke.

  ‘You want desserts with your two plats du jour?’

  ‘Oui, monsieur, two.’

  ‘Two, you say.’

  ‘Oui.’

  Monsieur Dufaux shook his head slowly, pulled the cloth from his apron, pounded non-existent crumbs from a table. He rearranged the place settings.

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘How many years have you been coming to my café for supper?’

  ‘Since I was an apprentice at the cathedral.’

  ‘And every time, you order the plat du jour with tap water to drink. Once in a blue moon you take a Rivella. Never an espresso and never, never a dessert. No, I don’t like it one bit.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘First, you stop coming to the café for your supper, then there’s all this takeaway business, always for two. And now, you want dessert.’

  ‘Monsieur Booty is with me in the tower.’

  ‘And since when do cats eat tarte aux pommes for dessert, uh? Or maybe you want to tell me it’s for that snowman of yours? I don’t know, Marc, it sounds very strange to me. We Lausannois aren’t comfortable with strange. We like our little corner of the world to operate with dull regularity. All of us in the café agree, you need to come clean about your little secret in the belfry.’

  Rochat looked about the room, saw the university professor and his wife with their books, Madame Budry and the first of her many glasses of vin blanc, the Algerian street cleaners with their espresso and cigarettes, even a table of Japanese tourists struggling with fondue forks. All were staring at him, hanging on to Monsieur Dufaux’s last remark.

  ‘My secret, monsieur?’

  ‘Yes, that illegal angel of yours hiding in the cathedral. We were just discussing it before you arrived. Come on, let’s have it.’

  Rochat was so flummoxed with all the patrons staring at him and waiting for a reply, there was only one thing to say.