The Night Watch

by Julian Dinsell

  Chapter 10 - Cortexean

  In the week that followed, everything changed. Wolski recognised that until meeting Jakob he had unconsciously believed that, despite his acute anxiety, nothing truly terrible could happen in so public a place as an academic institution in the centre of a major city. It was a phrase from the long conversation with Jakob that destroyed such comfort: ‘The Nazi’s prototype concentration camp was in Dachau, a suburb of Munich. It was there that they devised everything that was to follow: medical experiments, gas chambers, everything. But nobody noticed; outside the wire, life went on as normal.’

  Jakob’s insight lay heavily on Wolski as he arrived at his office that Monday morning. More files were waiting for him. He gathered them up and took them to his small bedroom with its now familiar sloping ceiling at the top of the building where he had managed to have a computer terminal installed. He sat for a while with the printouts stacked neatly in front of him. He sensed that they would provide a revelation, but feared to begin. In the street below, a woman from the workers’ flats was pushing a pram that had a buckled wheel. With one hand she attempted to keep it in a straight line, while with the other she tried to control two rebellious children, who both looked under three years old. It was an uneven struggle and the woman was close to the edge of her ability to cope. She stopped and shouted at them.

  When neither took any notice, she lashed out. They both began to cry and she shoved them forward. As the children resentfully moved on, the misshapen wheel collapsed. It was some sort of final straw; the woman crumpled over the pram and started to sob. The children, now alarmed by their mother’s tears, clung to her long shapeless skirt and cried along with her. Wolski felt a surge of envy at the humanity of the little tripod of figures. Eventually, the woman pulled the pram backwards on three wheels towards the graffiti-covered doorway of the flats. The children followed, knuckling the tears from their eyes. Wolski opened the first of the files.

  The title page read:

  CORTEXEAN – Section 1

  A Briefing on the Development of Psychological Control

  Mechanisms for Political and Sociological Purposes.

  The first section was an extract from a US Congressional Committee hearing dated November 1952.

  Report of the Psychological Condition of Prisoners Following

  Internment at Fu Chin Interrogation Centre, North Korea.

  By Major R. T. Doubleday, US Army Medical Corps.

  Wolski scanned the pages.

  The broadcasts and appearances on news film of US military personnel, though obviously under the psychological control of the enemy, or perhaps because of this fact, have had a significant impact on the morale of our forces.

  Investigations into Chinese techniques show that this success was achieved very simply. At no time was any attempt made to influence the psychological state of the main body of the prisoners. In the first days of captivity, the Chinese observed the behaviour of each group of men.

  This allowed them to identify the actual or potential leaders who were then separated from the main group, and subjected to sleep deprivation and disorientation techniques. All but the mentally strongest rapidly became compliant and readily suggestible to the enemy’s viewpoint on a wide range of political and social matters.

  The few who did not go under were subjected to a device that the Chinese claimed never failed. It consisted of a small, brightly lit room, the walls, floor and ceiling of which were made of stainless-steel mirrors. The victim could not at any time look at anything but himself.

  Insanity, either temporary or permanent, often resulted. With the leaders gone, the enemy found it no longer necessary even to mount a guard over the remaining prisoners…

  Wolski stopped reading and closed the file. The idea of a prisoner in a box of mirrors brought on a panic attack. It was of a kind he had experienced several times since Golkov arrived at the Institute but this was much worse than before.

  He tried to analyse what was happening to him. It was more than a physical fear. It was terror at the prospect of his own mental disintegration.

  Desperately he looked down into the street, half hoping to see the woman with her broken pram and crying children, or anything else that would offer an image of humanity to set against the dread that threatened to overwhelm him. But there was nobody there.

  With great effort, he made himself sit quietly until the sharp edge of fear subsided into a dull feeling of nausea. He swallowed hard and began reading again.

  The next items were case histories: experiments with hypnosis, LSD and other mind-control substances by various agencies of the US government and the scandal that followed these secrets becoming public in the 1970s. More up to date was an analysis of the development of Smart drugs and the arguments for and against their use in expanding functional intelligence, learning capacity and memory.

  The page read:

  CORTEXEAN

  2 – Objectives (deleted)

  3 – Formulation (deleted)

  4 – Compounds

  5 – Trials

  6 – Results

  Wolski did not understand why sections of the document had been deleted. He read with increasing speed and growing disbelief. By the end of the afternoon, it became clear that he was faced with a proposition even more alarming than any he had earlier imagined.

  He was looking at a technological blind alley, abandoned during the opening stages of the Cold War. He knew enough to realise that now, computers, genetics and bioengineering could open a catacomb of madness that had been sealed off half a century ago. He closed the files and tried to empty his head. For some reason he could not understand. One of the many stories Clara had told as a child came to mind: ‘You shall be as Gods.’ It was the promise the Serpent made to Eve in the Garden of Eden.

  He felt an urgent need for fresh air, opened the window and breathed deeply. But the room still seemed to bear in upon him. He hurried out onto the landing, down the back stairs, past the guard and into the street. It had begun to rain, but it was some time before he noticed.

  The slow, steady drizzle made him feel cocooned from the stream of umbrella-carrying office workers hurrying home at the end of the day. He wandered far, and it was after dark, in an unfamiliar part of the city, that he finally came to a decision.

  *

  “I cannot continue,” he said in Golkov’s office. A taxi had brought him back to the Institute, cold and shivering.

  “You are soaking wet, Professor.” Golkov stated the obvious in a tone heavy with contempt at Wolski’s emotional condition.

  “I have been thinking–” Wolski began, as if to explain his sodden state.

  “You should be working, not thinking,” Golkov interrupted sharply.

  Wolski would not be diverted. “What you demand is outrageous. I am asked to construct a set of field trials from a series of unknown compounds, unknown because you have deleted the information about their formulation. There are eleven of these compounds, which means that the variable combinations of each run into tens, perhaps hundreds of thousands. The whole thing is preposterous – totally unscientific.”

  Wolski’s anger seemed not to touch Golkov. “And the final section of the data, with what does that deal?”

  Wolski thought for a moment, half hoping that as a non-scientist, Golkov could somehow be misled.

  He hesitated before answering. “The final section? It’s a computer model of the chemistry in the human brain relating to changing mood states.”

  Golkov replied sharply. “So your task is not to blunder in the dark but to identify the compound profiles which match the patterns in the analytical software.”

  “In plain language, to play God with the human mind,” Wolski replied coldly.

  “Now you understand,” Golkov said, as if to a slow-learning child.

  “It’s unscientific, it’s unethical and I won’t do it.”

  “Unscientific?” Golkov was genuinely incredulous. “We stand on the brink of a great
scientific advance. How can you call what we are doing unscientific? And as for being unethical, don’t be pedantic, people have always manipulated the emotions of others: coffee, music, speeches, drugs, sex, alcohol. All we are doing is trying to locate the volume control.”

  “Why?” asked Wolski.

  “That is not a question for you,” Golkov replied. “You are a scientist, not a philosopher and certainly not a politician.”

  “I am a human being; that entitles me to ask.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, of course.” Golkov had a rare ability to transform himself from a tyrant to the voice of unassailable reason. “But why should we argue?” He spoke almost sorrowfully. “Look at the opportunity; we both have serious responsibilities, but in the end I am merely a manager. But you…” He made a gesture like a conductor acknowledging a virtuoso soloist. “You are a creator.”

  The flattery only added to Wolski’s rising nausea.

  Golkov continued in full flood. “And here is the biggest challenge of your career. This is world class, this is fame, this is power; this is a chance to change the future.”

  Wolski hesitated. He was appalled to find, for a fleeting moment, there was a measure of attraction in the proposition. Was it possible to negotiate a way out? No.

  “It is damnation,” Wolski said in a whisper.

  Golkov seemed not to hear. “Think of all this as a meeting of East and West, our methods and their money.” It was the second time Wolski had heard Golkov use the phrase. “It’s a way of making peace, without the need for a war first. An end to destruction,” Golkov added.

  Wolski tried to confront Golkov’s insincerity. “Then why the secrecy, the threats?”

  “The secrecy? That, surely, must be obvious. A vast sum of money, several billions of dollars, has gone into the project. An investment of that scale must be protected.”

  “And the threats?” Wolski asked.

  “Merely a tool of management; as you know, a highly efficient one. Tell me a more effective way of avoiding leaks or delays that we simply cannot afford?”

  The fear and anger that had fuelled Wolski’s revolt had run out. He couldn’t think of a reply and sat looking blankly at Golkov. He was exhausted and Golkov knew it.

  “It is essential for us to be sure of the full support of key people. If you are with us, you have nothing to fear, and we need never talk of such matters again.” He smiled one of his cold smiles that didn’t reach the eyes. “You have a great objective and the resources to achieve it, resources you would have to fight for years to get in one of those self-important places like Stanford, MIT or Oxford. What more do you want?”

  Wolski wasn’t listening. He had a question which had puzzled him from the beginning and again, he sought an answer. “Why here, why this country? Why not Moscow, California, the Third World, anywhere but here?”

  “Freedom,” Golkov said flatly.

  “Freedom!” Wolski was astonished.

  “Yes, of course. Here we are free to do as we please. California is too public for this stage of the work, the Third World too primitive or too unstable. And as for what was the Soviet Union, the facts speak for themselves. Here things are almost perfect, even if the weather is sometimes unkind,” he said, with a sorrowful look at Wolski’s shapeless, waterlogged clothes.

  “We are an independent nation now, you cannot behave as you used to,” Wolski said with indignation.

  “That is exactly the point,” Golkov replied. “When you were part of the Warsaw Pact and COMECON, there were committees, local Soviets and constant interference from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Now, you follow in the footsteps of your first anti-Soviet President – a good man, a Catholic who went to Mass on the way to the office at seven a.m. every day. But what do such presidents rule? Just the top five centimetres of the country,” Golkov said, measuring the space between finger and thumb. “Below that, if you stay out of sight, you can buy what you like. Sometimes we pay in money, that’s the cheapest way. Sometimes in power or ambition, and in other cases, we use the currency of fear – it’s more expensive, but has remarkable purchasing power.” Golkov’s explanation left Wolski with no ready reply. “So you see, it’s a free market now. A set of contracts between buyer and seller. The capitalist system at its simplest, at its purest.”

  Wolski could all too easily see how the pieces fitted together and felt a welcome surge of fury. He tried to hold on to the strength of his anger but it died away. Like a man trapped in a fast-flooding cellar, he felt defeat rising all around him. It was only the realisation that he must not allow Golkov to sense the scale of his victory that made Wolski continue to sound defiant.

  “And what if your calculations are wrong? What if the individual whose cooperation you want to buy refuses to sell?”

  The hard edge returned to Golkov’s voice. “In our experience, that is simply a matter of price. A person making such a decision would be forcing someone else – friends, colleagues and perhaps their families – to pay for such self-indulgence. Most reasonable people would see that as too expensive an option.” He paused for effect, and then walked round the desk to stand over Wolski as he drove the point home. “It really is just a matter of price,” he said. “You are a reasonable man, Professor, and will do what any reasonable person would do; use your influence for good, rather than cause others to make sacrifices on behalf of your conscience.” Golkov smiled again.

  “That is evil.” Wolski’s voice was thick with emotion.

  “It is practical,” Golkov replied. “After all, in this of all countries you should know the result of the cavalry charging the tanks.”

  Wolski looked away so as not to let Golkov see that he was fighting back tears. “I am cold, I need to change, and there is a lot of work to do.”

  Chapter 11 - The Bialystok Road

  Time passed; was it weeks, months or years? Wolski neither knew nor cared. The anaesthetic of work made the pain bearable. In the nation outside, there was chaos as the last traces of the old system faded into oblivion. From crude oil to crude sex, the invisible Barons of the new prosperity fought over monopolies in every kind of human need and want. But none of this intruded upon Wolski’s monastic existence.

  *

  Then, one Sunday night during a violent rainstorm came another turning point. It was sometime between midnight and one in the morning when a battered panel van, with headlights off and wheels spinning, lurched towards a large log-built house, half a kilometre down a cart track off the main road to Bialystok, capital of the former Soviet Republic of Belarus.

  The vehicle’s destination had once been the weekend Dacha of some senior Russian bureaucrat. Now, without its tenants and their access to government funds, it had suffered severely from the ravages of long frozen winters and short blistering summers. At the edge of the vast forest of birch encircling the house, a pair of huge Russian trucks was hidden.

  In the back of the approaching van sat two men, deafened by the cacophony of the rain pounding on the roof. The van driver got out, slipped on the soft earth and fell onto one knee. He swore and made an attempt to wipe the mud off his new American jeans, but quickly realised it was hopeless. The men in the back of the van watched with sullen amusement as the driver struggled through the mud to the nearest of the trucks. He opened the door and climbed in.

  “I’ve got them,” he said to the two silhouetted figures in the cab. “Fifty US dollars a piece.”

  The smaller of the two pulled an envelope from an inside pocket, slit it open and counted out the money.

  “And fifty for me, that’s what we agreed,” the driver added, as if uncertain that the bargain would be kept.

  The man counted out five more ten-dollar bills and said, with a heavy Russian accent, “They are to be there by three, unloaded and away by four thirty and back here by seven. There’s help at the other end to unload. We’re leaving now; wait five minutes, then move.”

  The two Russians climbed out of the truck and picked their way through the
mud to a Zil limousine parked deeper among the trees.

  “So the price of silence remains affordable,” the Russian said as he took the envelope from his coat and divided the remaining dollar bills with his colleague.

  The Zil started reluctantly and drove slowly forward to the centre of the track where the ground was hardest.

  “Silence is all that’s worth buying in this country,” the second man said.

  As the limousine departed, the van driver opened the rear doors and waved a ten-dollar bill at each of the men inside.

  “Out. Ten dollars now and ten more when you get back – if you’re on time. If you’re not, you’ll have the Russians to answer to.”

  The two men got out of the van and traded exposure to the downpour against an opportunity to stretch their stiffened limbs. Like a pair of bad-tempered dogs, they tried to shake off the rain as they plodded and slid across the mud to the trucks. The van driver disappeared into the trees. Moments later he reappeared at the wheel of a four-wheel-drive Audi that disappeared at speed towards the main road.

  “Lucky bastard,” one of the men said.

  The truck engines were warm and started easily. The big heaters, designed for Siberia, began to do their work and both drivers started to relax. The mood did not last long. The rain and unaccustomed traffic had churned the track into a quagmire. The Polish drivers, unfamiliar with the heavy Russian-built vehicles, had difficulty in controlling them.

  As they inched forward, the rain grew heavier and the noise of it on the bare metal roofs of the cabs made their ears ring and drowned out thought. In the lead truck, the driver reached for the vodka bottle inside his jacket. It was a badly timed move, because at the same moment the truck began to slide sideways off the track. The driver cursed and slammed the gear lever into reverse, but the wheels spun and dug deeper into the mud. He tried going forward again, but the wheels continued to spin and soon the truck became completely bogged down. His first thought was to stay in the cab, keep the heater running and wait for daylight. It was fear of their Russian paymasters that drove the drivers out into the rain with fire axes taken from the back of the cab. They spent hours hacking down birch branches to give the wheels grip. Metre by metre the trucks moved forward until they regained firmer ground where the trees began to thin out at the edge of the forest. By the time they got to the Warsaw–Bialystok road, they were cold, wet, angry and hours behind schedule.