The Watchmen

by John Altman

  Inside were four fat envelopes. He pocketed them, closed the safe, and turned.

  Would he ever return to this apartment? It was a question for the future. For now, all that mattered was getting away—far, far away.

  After fetching his suitcase, he returned to the freight elevator. There had been a time when servants would have used this elevator to take away trash and bring up deliveries, so that the resident of the penthouse never was forced to witness the realities of his consumption. Now, however, times had changed. Now the deliverymen and the maids used the front elevator. Only especially cumbersome or embarrassing items were delivered by this back door; the freight elevator almost never was used.

  And yet it wasn’t waiting. Someone had called it away.

  Al Guhrair frowned.

  His thumb moved to the safety of the gun and clicked it off.

  A minute passed. He could hear the gears grinding as the elevator rose. He was beginning to perspire, although the penthouse was carefully climate-controlled.

  The doors opened.

  The elevator was empty.

  He heaved a sigh, picked up the suitcase, and stepped inside.

  The assassin repositioned himself atop the elevator.

  Now gears were ratcheting; they were beginning to descend. Through the cracked-open hatch, he watched his quarry. The man had not yet looked up. He was not as capable as the assassin had assumed. A strike inside the apartment would have sufficed. Yet he had erred on the side of caution, as he had been taught.

  The target was holding a gun—but even so, it would be almost too easy.

  The assassin slipped his fingertips farther beneath the edge of the hatch in the elevator’s ceiling. Then he lifted it, slipping his legs down in the same, fluid motion.

  As he fell, he sharpened his knees, making his body into a dagger. He caught his target on the left side, riding the body down to cushion his own impact.

  He whipped his left forearm around the man’s throat. He pressed his right palm against the man’s skull, just below the left ear, pushing forward. A careful application of pressure separated the skull from the spinal column.

  Death was instantaneous.

  The assassin straightened. His hands moved over the corpse, exploring the pockets. He found the four envelopes and transferred them into his own tunic. Then he stopped the elevator on the third floor, opened the doors, and listened.

  A kitchen: quiet and deserted. To his left, a television was playing. To his right, a polished hallway led to a front door.

  He moved silently, back against the wall, using a cross step. Once he was outside the apartment, he raised a hand and drew back his hood. He tucked it into his collar, then straightened his tunic and headed for the front stairwell.

  When he walked out through the main lobby, he nodded at the doorman. The doorman nodded back and returned his attention to the newspaper in his lap.

  They were entering a small town.

  The main street looked like a slightly updated version of an old-fashioned Saturday Evening Post cover. Finney saw a red-bricked school, a church, a bait-and-tackle shop, a pizzeria, and a store selling glass. None of the buildings was more than two stories tall; the little town evidently enforced strict zoning laws.

  Despite himself, he felt a flicker of disappointment. This bucolic little town was a far cry from the game he remembered—the game he had played with Noble, so many years before. Back then, it had been exotic and exciting: flying overseas on the government’s dime to conduct secret experiments, flashing covert signals at foreign airports to indicate that coasts were clear. Now he wondered if Noble might have made a mistake. Had he driven them to the right place? Perhaps the man’s illness had confused his judgment.…

  “By the way,” Noble said.

  Finney looked over. Noble wore the same felt hat as the day before; his face looked even more pale. A Band-Aid on his throat was spotted with blood.

  “You may notice that the house is wired—one-way mirror, hidden microphones.”

  Finney stiffened.

  “It’s standard procedure for a safe house, of course. There will be no experiments, Louis. You have my word on that.”

  After a moment, Finney relaxed. He turned his head to look out the window again.

  They left the main street in favor of a gravel road that climbed a wooded hill. Modest houses lined the road, as rural and postcard-perfect as the town itself. Noble’s old Mercedes groaned, laboring up the incline. Soon the houses thinned; the land opened. The safe house, Finney thought, was as remote as it could possibly be.

  This was no surprise. According to Noble, the interrogation being conducted in the safe house was of vital importance.

  The subject of the interrogation was a man named Ali Zattout. Two weeks before he had been transferred from Pakistan—where he had been captured in a joint raid by the CIA and Inter-Services Intelligence, the Pakistani equivalent of the agency—to this isolated stretch of farmland in the American Northeast. Zattout merited special treatment, Noble had explained, because he occupied a key position in al Qaeda: a member of the inner circle since the earliest days of al Qaeda’s existence.

  Furthermore, Zattout had proved cooperative. Until now the interrogation had been polite, and the CIA was eager to keep it that way. They had not yet learned anything of special value from Zattout, but hopes still were running high.

  Yet the ease of the interrogation worried them.

  At various times Zattout had lived in England, Germany, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and the United States. He was thoroughly Westernized, and exhibited a fine understanding of various cultures. This made him a perfect candidate for interrogation; no time was wasted on making obvious things understood, and no translators were necessary. Zattout had proven himself a dream candidate in other ways as well. The possible breadth of his information, and his willingness to share it—according to Noble, Zattout regretted what he had done in the name of al Qaeda, and was anxious to make amends—made the man potentially invaluable.

  Which led to suspicions, of course, that Zattout was a double agent, here to lead them down the wrong roads, to waste their time and attention with disinformation.

  Noble’s job—and now Finney’s—would be to play the role of watchman, observing the man during the interrogation and judging his veracity. He would assemble a psychological portrait of Zattout, noting in what direction his eyes pointed when he gave his answers, and whether or not that corresponded with his dominant hand. In general, a man looked away from his strong hand when he was retrieving information—telling the truth. When he was creating information—coming up with a lie—he looked in his direction of strength.

  The watchman would compile a complete behavioral profile, which would be used by the interrogator as the process went on. Should questions be asked at morning or at night? Should they be put aggressively or gently? Would polygraphs be of value, or was Zattout capable of willing himself to believe he told the truth, even as he lied? (Already he had passed two polygraph tests, according to Noble; yet the value of the results was debatable.) Should he be isolated, drugged, threatened? If so, how? If not, what other options might be productive?

  Noble had promised Finney that he would be engaged only with the profiling. He would not be directly involved in interrogation, nor in implementation of his recommended methods. And Finney had agreed. But not witnessing the implementation of his methods, of course, did not remove the burden of responsibility for recommending that implementation.

  Yet they were at war. He had tried to conjure what Lila might have given him, in terms of advice, and those were the words that had occurred to him: We’re at war, Louis.

  He kept looking out the window, even as the frown in his brow deepened. One hand moved to his breast pocket, fishing for his good luck charm—his security blanket, Lila had called it teasingly.

  He found it, brought it out, and turned it over in his hand. The charm was a doubloon: 8 escudos, 128 reales. The date was 1641. The monarch, n
ame printed along the bottom, was Philip IV. The coin felt grimy, coated with a granular layer of dust. It had been a gift from Lila; and despite her teasing, Finney knew she had been pleased by the way he’d taken to it.

  They were turning onto a smaller road. Gravel was replaced by dirt. He caught a glimpse of a black-billed magpie perched on a fallen tree. The black-billed magpie rarely found its way farther east than the Great Lakes. Every once in a while, however, one lost its bearings and ended up in this part of the country. Finney felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the lost little bird. Or was it empathy?

  He saw a log gate crossing the dirt road, a small cabin set on the left. As the car slowed, a uniformed man came from the cabin. He had a pistol in a waist holster, prominently displayed.

  “Seems like old times,” Noble said dryly, as they stopped before the gate. He opened his door and stepped carefully out of the car to be searched.

  Finney returned the doubloon to his pocket, and did the same.

  2

  At five minutes past ten o’clock on the morning of April 14, a dark blue coupe merged onto Interstate 95 just north of the George Washington Bridge.

  For over an hour the coupe held to 95, heading north. Then it turned west. Rambling farms dotted the countryside; every so often a turquoise river wound down from the Catskills. The coupe moved at precisely the speed limit, although the roads were nearly deserted on this late weekday morning.

  The sun climbed, crested, and began to sink. Presently the car passed a small town of low buildings and old-fashioned charm, with a main road featuring a church, a pizzeria, a school with a red brick facade, a bait-and-tackle shop.

  After passing the town, the coupe continued west for nearly half an hour. The countryside opened again, rolling.

  As afternoon shaded toward evening a sign arose: EXIT 24, with icons indicating gas, food, and lodging.

  The door chimed; Sonya Jacobs looked up from the miniature television set on her desk.

  The man who stepped into the lobby of the Sleepy Hollow Motor Inn was very short—five-foot-six at the most, Sonya thought, and that would be generous. He had dark hair cropped short over wide-set black eyes, an aquiline nose, and a heavy, expressionless mouth. An American, she thought, but with a hint of something underneath—perhaps Middle Eastern, or Spanish.

  He approached the desk, and his expressionless mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. Sonya reached out and turned down the volume on the television. The players of the soap opera began to go through their dramas in pantomime. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  His voice was flat and unaccented, giving no clues as to his origins. “I’d like a room,” he said pleasantly.

  “For how long?”

  “One night, and I may extend it?”

  She nodded, and passed a registration form across the desk.

  As the man studied it, she stole more impressions of him. She was struck again by the sublimely exotic cast to his features. His English had been proper but stiff. He began to write in small, precise letters. He wasn’t good-looking in any conventional sense—not at five-foot-six. And yet …

  Sonya cleared her throat.

  “That’s sixty-two dollars for the night. If you decide to register for a week, the rates go down. A week costs three hundred and five.”

  He didn’t look up.

  “Complimentary coffee is served in the lobby each morning from six until ten. Would you like some information about local sights? I’ve got brochures …”

  “I’ll be busy with work,” he said. “But thank you.”

  “I’ll need to see your license. How will you be paying?”

  He produced a Connecticut driver’s license and passed it over, along with the registration form. “Cash,” he said, as she read the name off the license: SIMON CHRISTOPHER.

  Sonya turned to the computer, entered the man’s information, then spun in her chair to face the wall of keys. “Smoking or non-?”

  “Non-smoking. Thank you.”

  “You’re going to drive around to the right and park close to the stairwell. It’s room twenty-two, on the second floor. Local calls are free.…”

  His bill was printing. She tore it loose, then slid it across the desk with his license and key. “That’ll be sixty-seven twelve, with tax.”

  He handed her three twenties and a ten. She made change, then smiled. “Have a good stay.”

  His mouth twitched again, and he went out through the front door.

  She listened to the jangle. She watched, waiting for his car to pass in front of the door. Soon enough she saw it: a small, dark blue coupe.

  She leaned back in her chair, toying with a strand of blond hair.

  A mysterious stranger, she thought. A dark, mysterious stranger.

  And a handsome one, too—in that odd way on which she couldn’t quite put her finger.

  What type of work might it be that would keep him too busy to visit local sights? Perhaps the man was a poet. He seemed intense enough, dark enough. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, she imagined a poet could get a lot of work done.

  Or perhaps he was something else. These days, one couldn’t take anything for granted. A man with indeterminate ancestry, whose English was smooth but stiff—and had there been a current of apprehension beneath his stiffness, even of fear?—why, that man could have been anything at all.

  A terrorist, for example.

  Or perhaps she was simply bored.

  A few moments passed. She stopped twirling her hair around her finger and reached again for the television set. She turned up the volume, and for the time being forgot about the dark, mysterious stranger who had checked into her parents’ motel for a night, at least.

  Beyond the log gate, past a quarter-mile of winding, wooded road, was a second gate: polished metal, with barbed wire curling across the top. The gate interrupted a tall stone wall. Atop the wall were dormant searchlights, flashing like semaphores as they caught the afternoon sun.

  Past the wall was another stretch of road. Finney saw poplar, oak, ash, locust, and hickory. Bridle paths curled off into the forest. They passed occasional cabins, set deep in the heavy shadows. In several of the cabins were hints of motion. They were all guardhouses, Finney realized. Evidently Noble had not overstated the importance of the case.

  Then the Mercedes came out into open land. Here was another guardhouse, winding paths of gravel, occasional patches of brush. There were no longer any trees—nothing that could possibly provide cover for an intruder, except the small scraps of brush. A lone figure caught Finney’s eye. It took him a moment to realize the figure was a scarecrow, propped lopsidedly against a cross, looking sightlessly out across the field.

  The safe house itself was two stories: a large converted farmhouse not unlike Finney’s own. A half dozen cars were parked out front. Noble eased up alongside them, then killed the engine. They left the car and entered a foyer furnished with a windowed Pennsylvania cupboard, a tiger maple hall table, and an antique sideboard. Understated oil paintings on the walls pictured benign nature scenes: lakesides, seashores, hilltops, and valleys. The foyer, Finney noted, could use a dusting.

  “First,” Noble said, “the grand tour.”

  He led Finney through a living room done in maple, a kitchen with stone floors and a huge, aromatic pantry. They passed through a genteel dining room, a small and mostly unfurnished study, a breakfast nook. Noble pointed out a second porch, facing west. Then they were back in the foyer.

  Finney scowled. Something about the layout was not right. They had covered the entire first floor—yet the house seemed smaller, from the inside, than it had from the outside.

  His mind made a sudden and unexpected cross-connection: a memory of standing with his father, looking through a book in the public library. The book had been the big kind, bulky and glossy, too heavy for Finney to lift by himself. His father had carried it from shelf to table with his huge hands. Then he had opened it, and they had explored the contents together.
On the pages were images that played with the eye—fish blending into birds and then back into fish; staircases marching up and down at the same time. In this artist’s world, one could not trust what one thought one saw. In that moment, Finney could almost smell the pipe tobacco on his father’s clothing, could almost hear the sibilant whisper of rain outside. A bucket was set in one corner of the library, catching a slow steady drip from a leak in the ceiling.…

  Noble was climbing a wide staircase, moving slowly and laboriously. Finney followed behind, trying not to rush him.

  The second floor, unlike the first, corresponded with the impression he had gathered from outside. There were a half dozen bedrooms, none quite as clean as they might have been.

  “You’ll be here,” Noble told him, as they stepped into the last and smallest of the bedrooms. “I’ll have your luggage brought up. I hope you find it satisfactory.”

  Finney grunted. The room was small but comfortable, with a canopied bed, a bookshelf, a writing desk, and a private bathroom. The curtained window had a fine view of the sprawling land outside the house. He could see the scarecrow, staring eternally forward.

  “Now,” Noble said. His eyes glinted mischievously, as they had in Finney’s study. He coughed. “The rest of it.”

  They moved into the kitchen’s pantry, into the smell of fruit and vinegar. Noble touched something on the wall and twisted it. The something was a doorknob; and the wall was a door.

  Behind the door was a room. Equipment was piled haphazardly: a polygraph, a Reiter electroshock machine, an assortment of microphones and transformers and tape recorders, sterile syringes in plastic bags. Closed-circuit monitors displayed views of the countryside from each side of the house. Blue-tinted windows were set into the walls at eye level. As he looked at the windows, Finney realized that he was seeing the benign landscapes in transparent reverse. Through the landscapes he could see the study, the living room, the dining room, and the foyer.