by Martha Carr
“A secure location is a state of mind,” said Olga, walking quickly in front of them, shining the flashlight. She stepped easily over a puddle of brackish water and gave a kick to a rat as it ran across her path.
“A place where the people around don’t pry into each other’s lives, other than a cordial greeting when necessary. A Merry Christmas. Someplace where there are enough sensors like cameras or motion detectors, to keep an eye on the surroundings.”
Olga clearly understood human beings and was never impressed. Most people saw her as quirky and customers thought her attitude was part of the club atmosphere. On nights when she bothered to open the bar there was usually a line. At one time she had even sold t-shirts, confirming for herself the poor taste of others while turning a nice profit.
In its earlier life, the building had served as a speakeasy for nearby poor immigrants during prohibition and served bootleg gin that was rumored to be mixed with industrial alcohol. Plenty of stories abounded about the people who died or went blind from spending what little money they had at the bar.
The place had been raided more than once by federal agents trying to shut it down but the owners were prepared and nothing was ever found, including the owners who got out just ahead of the raid each time.
That was George Clemente’s favorite feature.
It still had the necessary hidden passageways to buildings across the street or to old subway tunnels that weren’t connected to current passageways and were long forgotten by the city. It suited his purposes just fine. Besides, Olga was always happy to assist in an underground cause that might contribute to a little anarchy.
Different options for escape routes were a necessity that George had learned over time more than once. Ones that aren’t obvious went a long way toward making it easier to focus on the bigger pictures. The right attitude on everyone’s part would also go a long way toward winning this time. George was convinced of this.
He had experienced enough failures of carefully laid out plans that should have worked, had even almost worked, to know that when all hell is breaking loose there has to be a way to get out so he could fight on another day. His insistence on looking for a building with connections to potential passages had saved his life more than once, and this time was no exception.
Sasha’s Bar was also a favorite of the lower East Side literati and hosted a variety of readings that were more performance art in two small rooms that passed for expansive real estate in New York City. The entire bar was painted a deep, blood red, with an old Soviet flag above the bar, and was only open when the old woman felt like it. Weeks could go by when she didn’t. Patrons were convinced the vodka tasted better at Sasha’s.
Charlie Foyle was left to wait inside the back room, just off the main bar, with the other rogue Watchers, feeling the mood grow tenser as the hours passed. Finally there was a call that the guest had arrived safely and they were on the road. The handoff had been made and no, no one had seen them. All was going according to plan.
“Charlie, you’re with me,” said George, motioning with a permanently bent finger that had been broken one too many times. Charlie got up without looking around, hearing Alphonso let out an agitated sigh. He’s going to be a problem, thought Charlie, making a note to himself.
He had been unable to leave the location since they had arrived that morning and couldn’t signal any of the counter-surveillance that would be moving through all of the boroughs. He wanted to let them know they had relocated to the East Village. He let it go for now. Better to wait till he knew who was kidnapped and could send a more complete message.
Charlie followed George down the narrow, steep stairs common in the old Irish slums and down the hallway toward the back, as George opened up a door to the side alley where the tall dumpsters were located. Charlie could smell the rank mixture of trash and human feces even in the cold New York air. Someone was using the dumpster as a bathroom, he thought.
Two men stood in the doorway holding a large duffel bag between them, careful not to let it touch the ground or bang against the walls. They pushed past Charlie without a sound and proceeded up the stairs to the bar. They seemed to easily know the way and Charlie surmised this was a practiced move. He followed them up the stairs as George locked the door, dead bolting it from the inside.
They kept moving till they were in the back room of the bar, letting the duffel bag down gently. “Get out,” the man in front said, looking at all of the other occupants of the room with a cold, even stare.
Charlie turned on his heel and was about to go sit by the bar when George stopped him. “Not you. You go back in the room. The rest of you wait out here. Not a sound,” he said, as he pushed Charlie toward the back room.
“Take him out,” said George, pointing at the bag. “How long till he’s awake?”
“Another hour,” said one of the men who had carried in the oversized bag. “The first crew said he awoke after the first dose on time, as expected.”
“Get him out and set him up in the chair,” said George, pointing at the overstuffed chair covered in a crushed red velvet that had seen better days.
Charlie moved to where he could see around George as the zipper was slowly pulled back, willing himself not to react, no matter who or what he saw. The bag moved slightly and an elbow emerged. Whoever was inside was waking up and starting to make small, gurgling noises.
One of the men reached in, hooking their hands under his armpits and pulling the guest almost to his feet in one clean motion. Charlie felt a tremor pass quickly through his entire body making his phone shift in his pocket, as he tried to flex every muscle to keep himself standing.
A zwanzig was being pulled out of the duffel bag.
Norman Weiskopf hung limply in the Watcher’s arms, his eyes fluttering open and shut. Charlie took a step back into the shadows.
He couldn’t be sure that Norman wouldn’t recognize him and say something in his half-drugged state.
“Charlie, help get him seated,” said George, a little annoyed, huffing as he turned around to Charlie.
Charlie thought he saw a look of triumph for just a moment come across George’s face that reminded him of a child who got exactly what they dreamed of for Christmas but didn’t dare say it too loudly.
He went behind the chair and reached out as the Watcher dragged Norman backwards. Charlie put out his arms further till he could catch Charlie and set him down, straightening him up each time he started to flop too far over onto one side.
George stepped closer, bending down till his face was level with Norman’s. He gently batted Norman’s face with the back of his hand. “Mr. Weiskopf, Mr. Weiskopf, open your eyes. We have much to discuss.”
Norman opened his eyes and even from where Charlie stood, just behind him and out of Norman’s immediate sight line, he could still see his sudden reaction to his new surroundings. His body lurched forward as the other Watcher swung out an arm, throwing him back into the chair, hard.
He tried to jerk around to see who was standing behind him but Charlie grabbed him at the shoulders and pressed him back, pinching hard to discourage him from trying twice.
Norman suddenly started gulping for air, making a loud hiccupping noise that quickly turned into a bark.
“What the hell is he doing?” asked George, a look of worry and anger coming across his face. This was not something they practiced.
“He’s having a reaction to the ketamine. It should pass,” said one of the Watchers.
The barking grew more insistent as Norman looked like he was about to panic, holding his throat trying to get a deep breath. A loud gulp escaped his throat and he gripped one side of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white at the tips as he leaned over and threw up the contents of the lunch he had with Father Donald, just earlier that day.
It made it all seem even more surreal.
George looked up at the Watcher again who seemed unconcerned.
“All normal,” the man said, a little bored. “He s
hould feel better now.”
“Where am I? What’s going on?” asked Norman, resting his head against the back of the chair. He looked up at George in the dim light. “I know you,” he said, sounding like it was also a question.
“You do indeed. We’ve never been formally introduced. I’m George Clemente.”
Norman’s breathing became shallow and Charlie could see his chest rising and falling too quickly. He knew Norman was fighting back from having a panic attack. A normal reaction.
“What the hell is going on?” said Norman, trying to shout but the last words came out as more of a high-pitched squeak.
George pulled up a wooden folding chair opposite Norman and settled into it, more landing than sitting down, resting his heavy body.
“For the foreseeable future, you are our guest,” said George, smiling, as he ran his hand through his greasy hair, pushing it back into place. “I have a goal, Mr. Weiskopf, and despite certain setbacks I intend to reach that goal. You are going to help me get there.”
Finally, Charlie saw Norman take in a deep, even breath and hold it for a moment. He was starting to get his wits about him and was taking a moment before responding. He was no longer reacting. It was a good sign.
“Tell me about your goals, Mr. Clemente,” said Norman. He was still breathing too hard but it was better.
George sat back in his chair, looking around him, opening his arms. “It’s really what’s best for everyone,” said George. “To end all of this. All of this fighting, all of this death and most people walking around don’t even have a clue what’s behind all of it. We feed them a story like they’re small children,” he said, patting an imaginary child on the head. “Make up a bogeyman terrorist one moment, and the next cheer them all on to go and vote on election day. None of it adds up to much of anything. You and I both know that.”
“So, how do you end all of it?” asked Norman, taking on a more even demeanor. It was the practiced skill of a lawyer and the son of a zwanzig who had lost most of his family only one generation past. Charlie recognized that Norman was engaging him in conversation, letting him talk, listening for clues that could help him escape and if he was lucky enough to do that, tell others about the plans.
Charlie knew this was George’s weakest point. He was so convinced of the eventual success it didn’t bother him to share at least the final outcome that seemed inevitable to him. The details of the day-to-day operations he parsed out bit by bit, but he had to have at least a little moment of triumph.
“You win the hearts and minds,” said George, smiling till a gold crown showed out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t you see?” he asked. “Or at least poison them.”
Norman seemed to be grasping at some concept. “I would never…” he stammered. “You couldn’t think I would…”
“No, no, not you Mr. Weiskopf,” said George, shaking his head, his smile still spread across his face. “After all, who would listen to you? You are merely a zwanzig, no? Oh yes, I found out a little while ago. It took a little painful interrogation of the right people but finally, the pieces all came together.”
Charlie wondered if he had lost another friend, as he tried to move further away from Norman, delaying when he would be seen and his safety would hang in that fragile moment.
“One side might care, the Circle might listen but they would rightfully believe that you were coerced and wish you well but in the back of their minds they would already be mourning you. No, not you, Mr. Weiskopf. You would be what they call, bad public relations.”
“I don’t get it. Why take me? Did you mean to take someone else? Father Donald?”
George let out a low, rumbling laugh. “I have had more than enough of the false piousness of the Episcopal deities in human form. Your Father Donald is a mere annoyance. I am after a much better spokesperson who will speak for me.” He sat back, enjoying the moment for a little longer. He opened up his arms again, looking up at Charlie, smiling, as if they were in this together as part of a grand secret.
“Your lovely wife, Wallis Jones. This is why you are needed, Mr. Weiskopf and why just your presence is all that is needed. Fortunately, you are an exception to the rule these days. A happy man in a happy marriage with a strong family. Your wife will want to keep things that way and can finally be persuaded to play along. You will see and in short order we will have you home. Maybe even before Christmas. No, that would not be your holiday, though, would it, zwanzig?”
Chapter 9
George sent Charlie and one of the Watchers out to pick up dinner. They couldn’t risk having someone deliver a larger than normal order to the bar, even if it was unlikely anyone would put the pieces together and come up with the safe house.
Charlie took the opportunity to pull out the blue sweater he’d been saving for the necessary moment. To the casual observer it looked like nothing out of the ordinary. After all, it was a common crewneck sweater from LL Bean. It looked like something his mother must have bought him.
Everything about the choice gave away a clue to the team watching for any signs of Charlie or George Clemente, or even Norman Weiskopf. All of the signals had been set up long ago just in case of something like this were to happen. An abduction of someone important or a plan to blow up something public.
That would be the very moment that George Clemente’s usual paranoia would cause him to clamp down on security making a standard dead drop with any kind of written message impossible without risking the life of the operative. Charlie’s life.
He made sure he got out of the car first, so he could wait for a few moments as the Watcher who accompanied him, slowly unfolded himself from the car. Charlie couldn’t be sure when someone would see him, but he knew they were out there, looking for a moving dead drop. The sweater told them Manhattan and the blue said it was the lower East side near Houston Street and the East River. LL Bean said it was a commercial building still open for business. He knew that calling Sasha’s an open business in the traditional sense was a stretch but it was the best he could do.
The type of sweater told the Circle that Norman was still alive and at least in reasonably good condition. The lack of any kind of hat, even on the cold, blustery day signaled there were more than four guards watching Norman, all armed, which was to be expected.
“Man, your ears are turning red,” said the Watcher, smiling, adjusting the ear muffs clamped around the back of his head. “Sucks to be you,” he said, passing Charlie as they walked into the restaurant to pick up the order. They varied the restaurants and neighborhoods where they got food, making sure they were never establishing a pattern.
“Dammit!” said Charlie, making a point of spilling something down the front of the sweater. He put the bags of food down on the floor of the backseat and grabbed the small white napkins out of one of the bags, wiping off the slimy gravy in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Fuck!” he said, loud enough to startle the nearby woman walking her dog. The gravy easily leaked through the napkins, coating his hands. He went back inside for more napkins, waving off assistance and came back outside, still wiping his sweater. He threw the damp, folded up napkins back into one of the bags and got in the front seat, glowering at no one in particular.
“Dude, not your day,” said the Watcher, as he pulled out into traffic. The whole thing gave him another minute out in public and made it easier to stay quiet on the ride home. When he got back he went upstairs to the third floor and one of the spare bedrooms that had been commandeered for the Watchers who were taking shifts sleeping on an old double bed or on a blow up mattress on the floor by the radiator.
He quickly peeled off the sweater, stuffing it into the bottom of his duffel bag and changed into a similar sweater, different color. It was necessary to not create the idea of the one outlier he had worn for only a short time, creating the absence of a more typical pattern.
Charlie was always aware that things could go wrong.
He came back out into the smaller of the two main
rooms and passed in front of Norman who seemed to be feeling better. Charlie wanted to give Norman the chance to get a good look at him and process there was a friendly in his midst without so many people around to take note.
There was only one Watcher in the room with Norman, and the man was bent over a Styrofoam box, wolfing down his lunch. Everyone else was in the larger room where there were more chairs and tables. George Clemente sat at a table by himself near the window, occasionally looking through the iron bars down at the street, absently taking the occasional bite.
“Charlie! Charlie, come in here,” shouted George.
Charlie hesitated, giving Norman a moment to look up at the new guard. He glanced at the other Watcher and saw that his head was still down, and looked back up at Charlie. He leaned back, just out of view of anyone sitting in the other room and kept his gaze on Charlie. He had recognized him.
The Watcher lifted his head as Charlie finished putting on the clean sweater. “You better get in there,” said the Watcher. “I know that tone,” he said quietly, going back to his eating. He looked relieved to be a room away from George.
“Come here, look out there. Not too close to the window. Can you see the street?” asked George, doing his typical large gestures, waving Charlie over to his side of the window.
“You see that woman walking down the street? She looks like she’s just getting off to work and it’s what, lunch time? Who’s around this neighborhood dressed like that this time of day?” He looked at Charlie like he expected a good reason.
“Someone having an affair, going in on their day off, meeting someone for lunch,” said Charlie trying to rattle off as many reasons as he could think of to try and ease George Clemente’s mind. He didn’t want him to move locations.