The Night Watch

by Julian Dinsell

  Wolski had found a place under a giant chestnut tree that broke the force of the rain. With Anya’s umbrella, he felt effectively disguised as someone caught in a shower while crossing the park. He had always found rain a stimulant to thought; there was something about it that protected the mind from intrusion. Looking across the empty park and down the hill towards the port, he thought how like a sea battle before the days of radio the whole game was; trying to predict an opponent’s movements by analysing his behaviour and so come upon him unawares.

  Soon the rain stopped and, as so often close to the North Sea coast, bright sunshine and a cool wind followed.

  He went to one of the park benches and tried to wipe away the water with the palm of his hand. He sat down and took out his copy of Die Welt. As he pretended to read, the dampness of the wooden seat soaked into his clothes and he began to shiver.

  For an hour and a half Roland turned away angry customers, but this was not a part of town where he was likely to be reported to the taxi administration. The door of the Blau Paradis opened and a tall, heavily built man looked up and down the street as if to hail a cab. This was not something Roland wanted to happen. He turned away to avoid eye contact and lifted the can of lager to demonstrate that he was off duty. It was at that moment he caught sight of Thornhill in the doorway.

  He dropped the can on the floor and started the engine. The beer soaked into the carpet as the cab surged forward. The big man was pleased to have succeeded in getting a cab for his boss.

  As he drew alongside, Roland heard Thornhill turn down the offer, choosing instead to walk. Now it was the big man’s turn to avoid eye contact. Not wanting to pay for hailing the cab, he went inside and slammed the steel door shut behind him. Roland kept the cab moving until he came to a phone. He called the number and became alarmed when there was not an immediate answer. Wolski had heard the phone ring and tried to move quickly, but was stiff with cold and was slowed by a sharp pain in his left leg. When he picked up the phone Roland’s excitement was immediately obvious.

  “He’s walking up the hill towards The Alster.”

  “Which side of the road?”

  “The right.”

  Wolski was annoyed at the imprecision of the answer.

  “His right walking up the hill, or mine looking down towards him?”

  “His right.”

  Wolski felt a moment of triumph, and with unusual discourtesy put the phone down without offering Roland any thanks. He opened the phone directory and laid the picture of Thornhill on it. To the outsider he would appear to be looking for a number.

  Unless Thornhill was not heading towards the centre of the city, he would pass by the spot where Wolski stood. He looked around. The place was too exposed for a contact. An alternative began to form in his mind. He stared at the poor-quality image, looking up occasionally until Thornhill came into view – a distant yet unmistakable figure, tall with an assertive stride. Wolski was a man renewed. The pain was suddenly gone.

  He hurried up the hill in the direction he believed Thornhill would take, glancing back to ensure he was not mistaken. When he approached Thornhill he wanted to be part of a crowd. That way he would stand a better chance of seeming to be part of a team, with supporters close at hand, rather than appearing to be an elderly crank in the park. At St Michaelis Kirche he climbed the steps and stood behind a pillar. A small stream of people was coming up the steps for the afternoon organ recital. Wolski looked over the arrivals as if waiting for a friend. Thornhill came into view about a hundred metres away.

  Then two things happened simultaneously; a change in Thornhill’s stride when he saw the posters announcing the recital and Wolski’s memory of the Bach Circle where the picture with the viola players had been taken. In a decisive moment of intuition, he was totally certain of Thornhill’s decision and he stepped quickly into the church.

  *

  Thornhill had been listening to Wolski’s story for what seemed like hours. He noticed that the wind had dropped, the tide had ebbed and the sound of the sea was more distant. In the pause in the conversation he had to suppress a smile at the picture of himself as an incipient egomaniac. The strategy had worked, but his voice betrayed nothing.

  “So that’s how you did it,” Thornhill said.

  “Yes; like most successful tricks it was simpler than it looked,” Wolski replied.

  “I’m not interested in tricks, however successful or simple. Time is running out,” Thornhill snapped.

  “Trickery and simplicity, what other weapons are there for the weak to use against the strong?” Wolski asked.

  “Let’s avoid the philosophy. I need to know what happened next,” Thornhill said.

  “I went to a sports shop.”

  Wolski recalled that after the meeting with Thornhill, he hurried across the city centre to Lindeman’s, a travel goods shop, where he bought a cheap nylon holdall. Ten minutes later, he was handing over Golkov’s letter of credit at the Industrial Bank of Switzerland. He was shown into an oak-panelled back room. There, without comment or emotion, fifty thousand dollars were neatly packed in the nylon bag.

  “A taxi perhaps?” was the only question asked when the transaction was complete.

  At the Europäischer Hof, Wolski made a clumsy joke with the hall porter as he collected his key; anything to be remembered. He made for the stairs, but the man at the desk called him back.

  “For you,” he said, waving a postcard.

  As he put out his hand to take it, Wolski knew what it would show – the Night Watch. The card carried a Hamburg postmark with the previous day’s date.

  Immediately questions flooded in on him. Was he being watched? Had anybody observed the meeting with Thornhill? He was surprised that he no longer felt intimidated, only angry. Action had somehow made him stronger. There was a single typed line on the back: ‘Thinking of you’. He crumpled the card and threw it into the ashtray next to the stairs.

  As he climbed to the second floor, it struck him that Golkov had miscalculated. The renewed threat had not worked. Its effect was opposite to that which it was intended to have. It was not a big mistake, but reassuring further evidence of the enemy’s fallibility. Wolski sat on the bed for a few moments, enjoying his small victory. Suddenly he felt hungry, called room service and ordered the crab soup for which the hotel was famous. He added rye bread and Swiss cheese to the order and put the phone down. It rang almost at once. It was Altman.

  “Room 209,” Wolski said.

  “I have a better idea,” Altman replied.

  The thought of food forgotten, Wolski headed for the lobby. On a sudden impulse, he paused at the ashtray near the foot of the stairs, picked out the crumpled postcard and slid it into his pocket.

  For someone engaged in a clandestine trade, Altman was surprisingly conspicuous. He was tall, grey haired and dressed in a long black-leather overcoat. He made no attempt to introduce himself and turned towards the door.

  Wolski, carrying the nylon bag, followed him outside. He had expected a large Mercedes, but not one with its three-pointed star and door handles plated in gold.

  “They think I run a whorehouse in St Pauli,” Altman said when he saw Wolski’s reaction.

  “Who does?” Wolski said, feeling flustered.

  “Everyone; it’s the perfect disguise.”

  They drove in silence for a while.

  “Ostentation is easier than discretion. Wasn’t that what St Augustine said?”

  “No, it was not,” said Wolski curtly.

  The car was soon out of the city centre traffic, heading for the Mexico Ring and its clusters of glass and steel buildings.

  “Dead.” Altman spoke with such force that Wolski was startled.

  Altman was like a taxi driver who felt the need to strike up a conversation with a silent fare.

  “No life in it, this place.” He settled into a monologue. “Berlin, that was the place. There, everyone was alive. There were deals to be had on every street corner, but that�
��s all over now, so here I am, an economic refugee.”

  Wolski was indignant. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

  “Why not?” said Altman. “You look like someone who feels sorry enough for himself.” Wolski was stung into silence and Altman’s one-man debate continued. “Perhaps I should go East and get a piece of the nuclear surplus trade.”

  “What do you mean?” Wolski asked anxiously.

  “I mean, turn some of those rusty nuclear spears into golden ploughshares.”

  Wolski resisted the impulse to ask more, and they rode on in silence. The car approached a steep ramp beneath an office block and they plunged into the darkness of an underground car park.

  “Welcome to the dealing floor,” Altman said.

  *

  At Okecie Airport in Warsaw, Sedkov, Petrovitch’s assistant, was waiting. He was unshaven, red-eyed and not inclined to conversation. With a curt nod at the silent officials, he led Wolski straight through customs and immigration. Even though an examination of his bags could prove dangerous, Wolski resented the unquestioned power that Sedkov represented and the arrogance with which it was exercised.

  “Working late?” Wolski asked in the Polski Fiat as they drove to the Institute.

  “Night and day. The large mammal tests have been brought forward to December.”

  Wolski wanted to know more. “What large mammals? What do you mean?”

  “Look, Professor, I was sent to fetch you, not to brief you,” Sedkov said. Then, with the same look of insolence that he had shown in the customs hall, he added, “My guess is that Golkov wanted you out of the way for a few days.”

  Instantly they both recognised that he had said more than he should and they continued the rest of the sixteen kilometres into the city without further conversation. The endless ranks of grey buildings rolled by and Wolski again began to feel afraid.

  At the Institute, he went directly to Golkov’s office. As he turned to close the door, Golkov spoke.

  “Leave it open,” he said.

  “Everything went as planned,” Wolski noted with a hint of pride.

  Golkov looked haggard. It was the first time Wolski had seen him ill at ease.

  “Things have changed while you have been away. We are leaving out the intermediate tests and going directly to final trials.”

  “Why? When?” Wolski was full of questions.

  “December.”

  “You can’t possibly do that.” Wolski was appalled.

  Golkov ignored the remark. “Do you have the software?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Wolski, lifting the nylon bag onto the table. It was heavy with manuals and computer discs.

  “Valentina!” Golkov shouted for an assistant, who appeared in the doorway.

  She was a young woman, uncertain of herself, and she looked worried. Golkov indicated the bag with an impatient gesture.

  “Take this to Petrovitch and tell him to lock it in the safe.”

  “Tell me what’s happening,” Wolski demanded. “I must have access to that material.”

  “You’ll do as you are told,” snapped Golkov, “just like everyone else.”

  He stood up, and as he did so Wolski recognised one of the mood changes that he had come to expect. It was foreshadowed by his strange smile, the aggression was gone and he once more spoke as if appealing to reason.

  “You and I, we’ve been given an international stage on which to perform our debut. We shall play to the entire world. We will achieve something that nobody anywhere will ever forget,” he said with rising enthusiasm.

  “I will have nothing to do with it,” Wolski snapped.

  “You will,” Golkov insisted. “Indeed you have returned exactly at the time I intended. It would have been tiresome to have had you here earlier; certain preparations have been necessary.”

  “What’s been going on? What are you doing?” Wolski’s panic was uncontained. “I must be told.”

  Without replying, Golkov left the room. Wolski’s sense of accomplishment at having deceived Golkov collapsed in on itself.

  He had no more resistance, no more hope. Golkov was once again omnipotent, and Wolski began a final retreat into the work he despised but which was his only refuge.

  Chapter 13 - The Experiment

  Time was a lost dimension. Wolski allowed himself no space away from the exacting confines of work. His mind paced the walls of a narrow cell that was formed by calculation, formulae, extrapolation and speculation. Mental confinement was a defence against realities too disturbing to contemplate. In the small hours of one especially dark morning he carefully considered the possibility of sabotage. Yet as dawn broke, he knew he dared not do it. Not for fear of discovery and reprisal, which he believed certain; rather it was the knowledge that science was the only thing he had to hold onto. If he let go of that, he would fall into the abyss of madness.

  *

  What he later was to remember as the worst day of his life, started with a surprise. It was snowing. The springtime conversations with Jakob beside the Vistula seemed at once like yesterday, and a lifetime ago. He went down to the courtyard and stood amid the falling snow.

  “Thank you.”

  Wolski turned at the sound of a now familiar voice. It was Golkov. He was with Petrovitch, a dozen of the lab staff and a number of uniformed guards. They seemed completely oblivious to the falling snow.

  “All your hard work has kept us on schedule.” Golkov’s gloating was expressed as patronising gratitude. “I admire such devotion, which is why you’ve been left alone. I gave orders that you were not to be disturbed.”

  Wolski’s despair was total. Even his escape into work belonged not to him, but to Golkov. Both knew that nothing in Wolski’s life was his own and Golkov savoured the moment.

  “This is your day, Professor, it is your achievement that we are about to witness,” Golkov continued, with contempt thinly disguised as respect.

  Wolski stood speechless, trying to let the falling flakes of snow fill his mind. He began to shiver, but it wasn’t the snow; he felt ice in his soul.

  “What do you mean?” His mouth was dry and he swallowed hard.

  “The large mammal tests,” Golkov said flatly.

  “No,” Wolski said firmly. He managed only the one word before Golkov’s anger broke on him.

  “I’ve had enough of your petty indignation.” Golkov spat the words at Wolski. Turning to the guards, he shouted, “Take Professor Wolski to the gymnasium gallery and keep him there.”

  The guards’ large peasant hands clamped onto Wolski’s thin wrists like steel.

  “So it has come to this,” he said, looking at his captives’ hands.

  “Yes,” said Golkov, “it has come to this.”

  “Why?”

  “I want you there, I want you committed. You helped create this, now you’re going to see the results.”

  “There’s months more work to be done. Do you have any idea what you are doing?” Wolski demanded.

  “That’s what tests are for, to find out.”

  Wolski struggled to find expression and was conscious of how feeble his words sounded. “This is outrageous.”

  Golkov’s anger flared up again. “Your sense of moral superiority disgusts me. In the end you obeyed instructions just like me, like the rest of us. All you’ve done is make a fuss about it. That doesn’t make you different from any of us. Just more self-righteous.” He shouted at the guards, “Take him away.”

  The gymnasium had been a gift from the Soviets, a showplace of Communist investment in young athletic talent. The glass-fronted gallery was soundproofed for use by radio commentators, talent scouts and favoured guests.

  As Wolski was led through the door, Petrovitch was giving last-minute instructions to the lab technicians who were hastily putting black duct tape around the edges of the windows. Golkov arrived with the rest of the team.

  “Shall we begin?” Petrovitch asked.

  Golkov spoke from the shadows at the b
ack of the gallery. “Are both the holding area and gymnasium sealed?”

  “Yes,” Petrovitch replied.

  “Proceed,” Golkov snapped.

  The video, audio and data recorders were switched on.

  “Large mammal skin absorption tests, stage one. Dosage Alpha,” Petrovitch said for the benefit of the tapes.

  Later, Wolski could not understand why he did not foresee what was about to happen, why he closed his mind to what ‘large mammals’ might be.

  When the college basketball teams came through the players’ doorway the shock made him leap to his feet.

  “No!” he screamed in horror.

  The guards slammed him back onto the bench, knocking him breathless.

  As the teams lined up to play, Petrovitch continued speaking in the same steady tone. “The computer model predicts mild agitation thirty seconds after release.”

  Wolski tried to bury his face in his hands, but he could not manage even that small comfort, as the guards’ grip prevented him from moving his arms. Petrovitch zeroed the timer.

  “Geneva, here we come,” Golkov murmured.

  Play began, and the large picture window filled Wolski’s vision; there was nowhere he could hide his eyes.

  He heard Petrovitch’s voice. “The clock is zeroed and release will begin at ten seconds.”

  It happened very quickly. Within a minute the game collapsed into a heap of figures clawing and tearing at each other.

  Long buried childhood memories leapt to life; there were hundreds of maimed bodies on the streets of the city during the war, but he had seen nothing like this. Faces and eyes bled, hands gouged and teeth sank into bare flesh. Yet from where Wolski sat, it all happened in silence. The soundproofing of the gallery amplified the obscenity of what was happening on the floor below, transforming horrific reality into silent fantasy. Wolski’s view became mercifully obscured as the watchers pressed eagerly towards the glass. He alone remained seated, pinned between the guards.