The Watchmen

by John Altman

  He was nearing the southern flank of the park. He heard the rumble of eighteen-wheelers, the squeal of air brakes. At least one man was behind him, shouting. The helicopter was back, blades pounding.

  He dodged left, through a group of tourists. Then, suddenly, he broke out onto Fifty-ninth Street. Across the way, before the row of premier hotels, was more blue—a phalanx of police, no doubt notified by radio of his imminent appearance.

  Behind him: more police. Above, the circling helicopter.

  Another wave of tourists broke, offering a few precious moments of cover. He looked around desperately. This southern end of the park was thronged with pedestrians, hot dog carts, caricaturists. A line of old-fashioned horse-drawn carriages waited to provide couples with romantic turns through the trees. Soon enough the pursuit would spill into this crowd. He could not hide here for long.

  If he could change his appearance, he might have a chance. But drawing up the hood on his tunic only would attract more attention. And there was no time to reach into his bag, to apply a proper disguise.

  He moved from reflex, his body ahead of his mind.

  He stepped toward the first horse-drawn carriage in the queue, flicking a fresh blade into his hand. He reached for the nearest woman passing in the crowd—a pretty redhead of about his age, wearing a belly shirt and cut-off blue jeans, with a scattering of freckles across a pale nose. Not even a remote resemblance to Rana.

  He put one hand around her wrist; her eyes widened. He moved closer, shielding the blade from view as he pressed it against her ribs. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said into her ear.

  Around them, pedestrians streamed past in a bustling flow. Where were the cops? Almost here.

  “Don’t scream,” he said. “Stay calm. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Then he was ushering her into the back of the carriage. At first she refused to move. The knife poked into her side, hard enough to break the skin. She moaned. He lifted her forward and she half climbed, half fell into the seat below the canopy. Two bouquets of flowers mounted on the carriage roof shivered in a gust of wind.

  He turned to face the driver, who was turning himself at the sudden weight, and found a smile. “Once around the park,” he said.

  The driver grinned back. “Beautiful day for it,” he answered, and shook the reins in his hand as the assassin settled into the wagon beside the young woman.

  The horse began to clip-clop forward on the pavement.

  The woman had gone deathly pale. A small pink tongue came out to brush across her lips. “Please,” she said. “Please don’t hurt me. I’m pregnant. I’m two months—”

  He angled the blade up into the chest cavity, finding the heart. Her mouth made a sound like a popping bubble.

  He let go of the blade and took her face in both of his hands. Then leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers, keeping the back of his head facing the park.

  He could hear feet pounding. Police—looking for a single man on foot, wearing black. Not looking for a couple on a romantic carriage ride through Central Park, a couple so in love they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

  Blood was refluxing up the woman’s gullet, gushing from her nose. He gagged, but didn’t lean away. The blood warmly coated his mouth and chin.

  Five seconds passed. They kept clip-clopping north. He forced himself to hold still.

  The lower half of his face grew wet and tacky. He pulled his head back a few inches, and chanced a glance out of the carriage.

  Still more police—spilling down from inside the park, weapons drawn.

  He kissed the dead woman again.

  When the kiss broke, he risked another glance out of the carriage. For the moment, the coast was clear. The police were behind him, in the place he had been moments before.

  He pushed the redhead away. She fell back into the seat, ichor streaming onto her chest.

  He slipped silently out of the carriage, wiping a sleeve across his face, vanishing into the trees.

  12

  The Hypodermic needle penetrated the cork smoothly. Slowly, Louis Finney depressed the plunger; a cocktail of Nembutal, Thorazine, and Seconal moved from syringe to wine.

  He withdrew the needle with care, then searched for evidence of tampering. There was none. Ali Zattout would not know that the wine had been doctored until it was too late. The Thorazine would produce lethargy and sleepiness. This would be balanced by the Nembutal, which fostered anxiety and confusion. The Seconal would smooth off the edges, blending the effects. Even as Zattout came to suspect that he had been drugged, he would have a hard time knowing for sure—and if all went well, he would have a hard time caring.

  Then he would be at a marked disadvantage. Finney would explore the regression associated with dogs. He would press hard on the matter of sleeper cells, about which he knew Zattout had been less than honest. And he would send a clear message: lack of cooperation resulted not in rewards but in refined tactics. There was no percentage to be gained by continuing to hold out, for the prisoner was entirely at their mercy.

  He sniffed, wiped a hand across his nose, then carried the bottle and a glass of cut crystal down the shadowy staircase.

  “In my hamula,” Zattout said, “a man with your beard wouldn’t last a day.”

  He was sitting on the edge of his cot with the glass of wine—still untouched—held in both hands. His eyes were cloudy; a small fleck of saliva glistened near one corner of his mouth. He raised the glass, then lowered it without drinking.

  “The neighborhood children would hunt you down and shave it off. Then they’d press their feet in your face. A man shouldn’t wear a beard like that, they would think. And so you would be punished, and insulted.”

  Finney managed not to reach self-consciously for his beard. “I’m glad I don’t live in your hamula.”

  “So thin and gray. Hardly a beard at all.”

  “Cultural differences,” Finney said.

  Again, Zattout raised the glass. Again he lowered it.

  “If you could see what I see,” he said. “When I’m alone at night—my grandmother comes to visit. She tells me how ashamed she is. How I’ve been disavowed by my family. Is McDonald’s such a horror? That’s what they fear more than anything, you know. Chicken McNuggets. Insanity.”

  Finney made no comment.

  “I’m the shohet, she tells me. And she’s right. I have no problem with McDonald’s. Would I be here if I did?”

  He shook his head, two quick shakes like a dog coming out of a lake. The next part of Zattout’s conversation occurred internally. His brow furrowed; one tapered finger compulsively traced the rim of the glass in his hand. His eyes closed. For thirty seconds they stayed that way, as he swayed gently back and forth on the cot.

  At last he blinked, and looked at Finney with unexpected keenness. He raised the glass; Finney’s eyes followed it. He lowered it; Finney’s eyes followed. He raised it again. Lowered it.

  Then he barked a sour little laugh, and held the glass forward. “You drink it.”

  Finney didn’t move.

  “Go on,” Zattout said. “Humor me.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “It’s drugged.”

  “You saw me take out the cork with your own eyes.”

  “Then you drink it.”

  He kept holding the glass forward.

  Finney reached for it. He took a small sip and tried to hand it back.

  “Drink deep, Doctor. Life is too short to deny yourself such pleasures.”

  “I appreciate the offer. But what I’d really like to do is return to—”

  “Until you drink, I’m not saying another word.”

  Finney sighed. He took another, larger sip.

  “All right,” he said. “Now. I’d like to get back to the subject of shipping operations in the Black Sea. There seems to be some confusion about communications. Are the ships in active contact with al Qaeda? If not, how are they made aware of changes in protocol?”


  Zattout’s eyes were frostily calculating; he didn’t answer.

  “Did you hear me? I want to know how the ships stay in touch with al Qaeda. What arrangements have been made in advance, and how changes are communicated.”

  No answer.

  “Perhaps it’s not the best day,” Finney said. “You don’t seem in a mood to cooperate. Perhaps some time to yourself …”

  “Finish the wine.”

  “What will that prove?”

  “Everything.”

  Finney hesitated.

  Then he raised the glass.

  Backing down now would shift the power position in their dynamic, perhaps irrevocably. Zattout would have won his bluff; the pretense of mutual trust would be lost. But if he could convince Zattout by example to quaff his own glass, they would be on equal footing.

  No, not quite equal. For Finney would have the advantage of knowing what to expect from the doctored wine. He would concentrate, then cut the interview short and escape without losing face.

  “If I drink it,” he said, “you’ll be satisfied?”

  “Completely.”

  “Then you’ll join me in a glass?”

  Zattout nodded.

  Finney felt a bit reckless. It would be all right, he thought. Zattout would follow his lead. The session would be salvaged. But if the man refused to drink …

  … why did he feel so reckless? Could it be the effects of the drugs, even after only two sips? Impossible.

  He drained half the glass.

  “There,” he said.

  “Finish it.”

  “I can’t. As I said, I don’t drink. But why don’t you …?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “It’s excellent. I recommend it highly.”

  “Not right now. Thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.” It would not do to show desperation. Finney set the glass aside. “Shipping operations in the Black Sea. What lines of communication are used?”

  “I’ve explained this already. Have you not been paying attention?”

  “I’ve been paying perfect attention. But I require clarification on this point.”

  “Or what?” Dark mirth danced in Zattout’s eyes. “I’ll be locked in a cell and drugged?”

  “You know what the repercussions might be. Transferral to Diego Garcia. No more walks outside, no more wine.”

  “Did you have a bad night, Doctor? You seem on edge.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with me. Answer the question, please.”

  “If I do—what reward might I expect?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to go outside again?”

  “I’m looking farther than that.” The leg started to jump; Zattout pressed both hands on his knee, stilling it. “When this is all done—what can I expect?”

  “That’s not for me to decide. Have a drink.” Finney reached for the bottle. The bottle was not just where he expected it to be; it was an inch farther to the right.

  He got his hand around the neck, then deliberately refilled the glass. When he offered it, Zattout shook his head. Finney held it tightly, being careful not to spill.

  “Let’s talk about dogs,” he said. He needed to regain the offensive. But his mouth seemed filled with flannel; before continuing, he swallowed. “Do you remember any incident that might explain your fear?”

  “I have no fear of dogs.”

  “You may not even be conscious of it. But I believe there is a part of you into which this fear has been sublimated. I suspect a trauma …”

  A grin slanted Zattout’s face. “Do you feel all right, Doctor?”

  “Fine.” Finney could feel himself squinting, as the bare bulb in the ceiling burned his eyes. “Drink the wine.”

  “I don’t think so. It doesn’t seem to have agreed with you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The words were not as clearly articulated as he would have liked. He wanted to return to the line of questioning, to regain the upper hand—but suddenly he could not remember the line of questioning.

  “Should I expect to spend the rest of my life in detention centers, Doctor? Or will my responsibilities be discharged, at some point?”

  Finney’s vision had turned blurry; a warmth had risen inside him. “I’d expect the latter,” he managed. As he spoke, he consulted his notes. He kept squinting, trying to make out the word there. Yemen. He would press Zattout on the connection between—

  “But you will never be convinced that I’ve given full cooperation. There always will be doubt in your mind. I do not believe that I will ever enjoy freedom again.”

  “You’ve got to trust me.”

  “After you just tried to drug me?”

  The Seconal headed off Finney’s alarm, spreading it thin. Yes, this was bad. But he felt so comfortable, floating away on wings of forgetfulness … how could one be too concerned?

  “Who do you report to? Who will decide my fate?”

  Finney shook his head. “My … superiors.”

  “I’d like to speak with these superiors. Can that be arranged?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “I see right through you,” Zattout said crisply. “You don’t sleep very well at night—do you, Doctor?”

  Finney couldn’t answer. Now his head felt filled with sunshine, bright and blinding. He closed his notebook and put it under his arm.

  “Bring a message to your superiors for me. Tell them I won’t waste any more time speaking with a fool. If they want to talk to me, they can come do it themselves.”

  He stood up and moved past Finney, to address the one-way mirror directly.

  “Do you hear me?” he asked his reflection. “Send me someone who knows what’s going on—or finish this. No more games.”

  Finney gained his feet unsteadily, picked up the bottle.

  “Go sleep it off,” Zattout told him scornfully. “And don’t come back here, Doctor. Send me someone with real authority.” Then to the mirror: “That’s two. Who’s next?”

  Finney staggered past him. He opened the door, slipped out, and then dropped both bottle and glass. As they exploded on the floor—pow POW—he leaned against the door, closing it.

  Zattout continued to face the mirror. Hawthorne was looking at Finney with an expression disconcertingly close to Zattout’s—derision.

  He sat facing the limestone fireplace in the living room, head in hands.

  Presently he became conscious of a soft whirring sound. Inside his head, he thought. The drugs were buzzing around in there. Or was it the cold? He wanted to lie down on the couch, to fall asleep right here.

  No. The whirring came from the mantel above the fireplace. He focused blearily on a pair of candlesticks. The candlesticks were humming. Cameras, he understood suddenly. You may notice that the house is wired, Arthur Noble had said. He had mentioned one-way mirrors and hidden microphones. But he had neglected to mention hidden cameras.

  Or was it only his imagination?

  James Hawthorne stepped into the room. He said nothing; but Finney could feel his opinion without needing it spelled out. You don’t have what it takes, Hawthorne was saying—without ever opening his mouth.

  Finney forced himself to concentrate. He drew curtains in his mind, blocking off the sunshine. “We’re going to refine our focus,” he said.

  Hawthorne waited.

  “A change from coercive methods to behavioral conditioning. If necessary, depatterning.”

  Hawthorne nodded.

  “Twenty-four hours without food or water,” Finney said. “Then a meal with thirty cc staph enterotoxin. Let’s see him avoid drugs when his only other choice is starvation.”

  “Staph enterotoxin?”

  “To produce nausea. He’ll throw the food right back up. But the toxin will remain in his bloodstream for six hours. He’ll suffer.”

  Hawthorne nodded again.

  “We’ll interrupt his sleep. Break down his defenses. He’ll come to understand who’s in charge. And if he does
n’t, we’ll wipe him clean. Then we’ll see what’s in his mind, with his cooperation or without.”

  “Whatever you recommend, Doctor.”

  Finney felt that there was something else to be said. But he couldn’t get his mind around it. He rubbed at his temples. “I’d like to lie down for a few minutes,” he mumbled.

  Hawthorne nodded once more, and vanished from the doorway. Finney tried to get himself off the couch, to climb the stairs to his bedroom. But he couldn’t make his legs move. Instead he lowered himself onto the cushions, drawing into the fetal position. As he drifted away, he heard the whirring again, subtle but steady, both within his head and without.

  He was not a large man.

  Studying his face in the mirror above the filthy sink, he considered this fact.

  His most striking characteristic, like it or not, was his diminutive stature; the rest of his features tended toward indistinctiveness. People tended to project their own suppositions onto a face like his. One observer might describe him as handsome, another as epicene, even gamine. He might be considered Caucasian or Hispanic or Asian or Middle Eastern. His age could be guessed at anywhere between twenty-five and forty.

  But everyone considered him short.

  A sound came from behind him—a rattling doorknob. “Open up,” said a male voice.

  “One minute,” he said.

  “It’s a public freaking bathroom,” the voice said.

  If it had been that public of a bathroom, the assassin thought, there would not have been a lock on the door. He returned his attention to the mirror.

  He was short, and slight. So the best disguise would address these traits. Lifts for his shoes; multiple layers of clothing. He should become a large man, a bulky one.

  Except all he had to work with were the tools within his bag. The disguise kit there could change his features, but not his build.

  He considered himself for another few moments, and then went to work.

  He would play an older man, tending toward puffiness. He opened the kit and lined its contents on the rim of the sink: a mixing dish, a mirror, brushes, scissors, cotton swabs, tweezers, spirit gum, all contained in a case no larger than a videocassette.

  He used a stippling technique to design a foundation that suggested pockmarks. A 6mm sable brush applied the foundation, emphasizing the roundness of his cheeks and the swelling below his eyes. He washed the brush and then applied red-tinted shadows, using horizontal lines to lend maximum width to his bone structure. When he had finished, the face looking back at him was no longer that of a clean-featured young man. It was a round-faced fellow on his way into late middle-age … but an unfinished one, a halfway-real person.