The Night Watch

by Julian Dinsell

  He urgently wanted a long hot bath and a night’s sleep but knew he had time for neither. His limbs felt leaden and seemed to weigh him down on the bed. It was more than flu.

  Though he would admit it only occasionally to himself, and never to anyone else, depression haunted him with increasing regularity, and it was not something he wanted to have on his file.

  Staring at the cracked plaster ceiling, he knew exactly what the problem was. The world, especially his world, had changed but he had been unable to change with it. This was the same job as ten years ago. Then, it had been important, or at least it had seemed important. Now things were different. The future lay with Arabic speakers. The Cold War was over, and with it the purpose of his working life; the only life he had. There were times when he felt his job was no more relevant to real life than that of toy soldiers changing the guard at Buckingham Palace. Like them, he was acting out a tradition, doing something because it had always been done and nobody had thought of a reason to stop it. Despite the stress and possible danger of the task in hand, he felt no excitement, just a massive weight of boredom. This, he knew, was dangerous. Often the boredom gave way to anger at Thornhill. Yesterday’s hero seemed diminished to the point of pathos and Darcy had serious questions about the judgement of the man of whom he had once been in awe.

  His anger turned upon himself and he dozed off into a fitful sleep, dreaming of himself and Thornhill as two sad figures trying to capture fading shadows as the sun went down.

  He woke with a foul taste in his mouth and rummaged in the bag for the whisky. Drawn to the window by raised voices, he hauled himself off the bed. Two well-dressed young Germans were arguing with the driver of a rusty taxi whose smoky engine popped and spat impatiently as fumes drifted around the ankles of the protagonists. The argument was over the taxi fare but had quickly escalated into an exchange of ethnic abuse. The Germans were bewildered; for them the recent past was as long out of living memory as the barbarities of Attila the Hun. One of them called the concierge to arbitrate. A number of euro notes were handed over and the voices dropped to a normal level; the driver roared off in a cloud of evil-smelling smoke and the Germans grumbled about the hopelessness of doing business with people so stupid.

  Darcy forced himself into the shower and thought again about the various offers he had been made by industrial companies looking for what they called an ‘Eastern European Representative’, in reality, a glorified fixer’s job, opening doors to people of influence for salesmen like the two Germans in the street below. And when things went wrong, to behave like the concierge, papering over contempt and ancient hatreds with as thin a veneer of money as possible.

  Self-pity was a weakness Darcy despised, and as he came out of the shower into the chill of the bedroom he realised he had been indulging himself too long. In an angry mood, he dressed, pulled on the warm anorak and set off for the Institute.

  He knew the city well and chose to take a tram rather than a taxi. Taxi drivers have memories, especially of foreigners. Despite the fast-food establishments and advertising for every kind of consumer product that had replaced the political posters of old, the city was much as he remembered it. For most people there was little to show for the arrival of the free market. In the Communist years, the main shortage was of goods, not money. As soon as anything worthwhile arrived in the shops, crowds with their hoarded cash rushed out to buy. Candles, jam, laxative, shoes, soap, whatever was spasmodically available. Now, under capitalism, their money was almost worthless and while the supply of goods had increased, their ability to buy them had all but disappeared.

  Darcy’s thoughts were interrupted when the tram arrived at the stop before the Institute. Habit once more took over; he got off and walked the remaining five hundred metres. At a distance, the main facade looked as he remembered it. But as he turned the corner to the East Wing he stopped dead. Wolski had vividly described it as being sealed off from the rest of the building, with guards at the entrances – an urban fortress.

  The reality before him was shockingly different. He surveyed the scene meticulously. There were broken windows on the ground floor and graffiti around a half-boarded-up doorway. ‘The Peace Project’, it said. Crude flowers were painted among other slogans: ‘Freedom and Shelter For All’; ‘Peace and Freedom are Every Man’s Right’. Looking for a way in, he walked across the courtyard where Wolski had described trucks secretly delivering state-of-the-art technology.

  He passed through the doorway into the neo-gothic hallway. Broken glass crunched underfoot. On the far side of the hall, a group of youths huddled together under sleeping bags, old blankets and sheets of newspaper. As Darcy approached, he was hit by the distinctive smell of hash, overlaid with the odour of stale beer and unwashed flesh.

  “Are you the iceman?” The voice of one of the teenagers collapsed from a challenge into a giggle.

  Another of them shouted in halting Polish–American – he was not too far gone to recognise Darcy as a foreigner. “You’ve got to have ice, man. Ice to shoot the pigs.”

  Fury hit Darcy; disgust at the insensible teenagers smoking their lives away, anger at being sent on a pointless errand and bitterness at an old fool’s paranoid fantasies that seemed likely to finish the careers of a lot of good people in a terminally bad joke.

  “Who are the pigs?” Darcy couldn’t get sense from any of them. “The pigs, are they the police? How long have you been here?” he snapped.

  “Since forever, man, since they shot the pigs. This place is ours; it was bequeathed to us. You know what that means, man, bequeathed?” He used the word with a sense of awe.

  Darcy wanted answers. “Who bequeathed it to you?”

  “Who else? The swineherds, man, the swineherds.” The explanation seemed to exhaust him. He took another drag on the joint and collapsed into a fit of coughing.

  Had Wolski been on drugs? Darcy wondered. That would be the most obvious explanation for the collection of rantings he brought across the Atlantic. Why hadn’t he been tested? He cursed himself for the serious negligence.

  Wandering through the corridors, he found that many of the rooms were occupied by squatters; some shouted abuse, others were comatose. Shadowy figures cowered away in an instinctive reaction to anyone who might be an official. He came to the gym, the centrepiece of the Wolski horror story. The floor was littered with blankets, newspapers and a few camp beds.

  Everywhere there were empty beer cans and bottles. A few crumpled shapes were sleeping off the effects of alcohol or other drugs. He turned through the splintered doorway and into the corridor. His watch showed that there might still be time to catch the evening flight home and put this madness behind him. To salvage anything that could be recovered from the debacle, it was vital to warn London without delay.

  He pulled out his mobile phone but there was no signal. He needed to get into open space and looked for the back entrance, the one that Wolski had described as his escape route. Turning a corner, his way was blocked by an old woman sitting on the floor. She was dressed in two heavy coats that were held together by safety pins. Her face was filthy, her fingernails broken and crammed with dirt. Darcy slid along the wall to pass with as much distance between them as possible. But she surprised him with a swift lunge, taking hold of his trouser leg. He tried to shake her free.

  “Fascist!” she screamed.

  Unable to pull away, Darcy reluctantly used his hands to uncurl her filthy fingers. He began to run down the corridor towards the exit.

  She shouted after him. “You’re too late, it’s all gone. Serves you right, fascist bastard.”

  He froze and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. With a rising pulse, he cautiously turned back towards the old woman.

  “Gone, what’s all gone?” he asked gently.

  “Gone, gone, gone,” the woman repeated. “The man, the Russians gone … fascist Americans gone. Crazy pigs all gone.”

  *

  An hour later, Darcy was at the bottom of
the steps leading to Jakob’s apartment. He had hurried from the tram stop, but the flu, though pushed to the back of his consciousness, had slowed him down. He steadied himself for a moment and then began the climb. The light was out on Jakob’s landing and he had to strike a match to check the number on the door. He knocked; there was no answer, yet he was sure there was somebody moving about inside. He tried several times more and eventually heard shuffling footsteps in the hall. The door opened slowly to reveal Jakob, but he was not as Wolski had described him. His eyes, reddened by lack of sleep, had a demented look. His spectacles were lopsided and thinning hair fell raggedly across his face. But his appearance made only a secondary impression. It was the large First World War vintage Luger he held in his left hand that was the focus of Darcy’s attention. They looked at each other in silence.

  “Come in,” Jakob said, and Darcy complied, angry at his misjudgement of leaving his own weapon at the hotel. “Sit,” Jakob commanded.

  Darcy was prevented from doing as he was told by the astonishing state of the room. The floor was covered with torn paintings, splintered frames, smashed porcelain and broken sculptures.

  “Sit,” Jakob repeated with shortening patience, and Darcy made his way across the room, treading canvases, splinters of wood and china into the carpet to reach the only chair not covered in debris.

  “Who did this?” asked Darcy in amazement.

  “I did.” Jakob made the two words sound like a monosyllable.

  Darcy asked the obvious question.

  “Why?”

  “You have taken everything I love. All of this means nothing.” It was not an answer that meant anything to Darcy, but with a weapon pointing at him it was not a moment to cause unnecessary antagonism.

  “Why the gun?” Darcy wanted to deal with the most urgent question first.

  “To kill you with.”

  Darcy said nothing.

  Jakob thought again. “Or perhaps to kill me with; you would be my witness. No man’s death should go unnoticed.”

  A knot of fear constricted Darcy’s intestines; he was certain that Jakob was mad and could fire at any moment.

  “Don’t you want to know who I am?” Darcy asked.

  Jakob seemed not to hear and became hysterical.

  “What have you done with her?” he screamed, raising the Luger so that it pointed between Darcy’s eyes.

  Suddenly, Darcy understood. “I am a friend, a friend of Kloptik. Do you have any of his whisky left?” he asked quietly.

  Jakob shuddered as if struck by a great blow. He collapsed onto a wrecked couch, his arm slackened and the gun dropped into his lap.

  Darcy spoke softly. “Tell me what happened, I want to help.”

  “I saw them take her.”

  Darcy waited, but Jakob said nothing more.

  “What? What did you see happen?”

  “In the street. We sometimes take coffee at Café Mozart. I had gone to meet her from her work.” Jakob stopped again.

  Darcy let him make his own pace.

  “The car…” Jakob inserted a digression as if to avoid the heart of the matter. “One of those big black Russian Zils … filthy it was. It used to be an offence in Moscow to drive a dirty car. The police would stop the driver and fine him on the spot. Did you know that?”

  Somehow the irrelevance of the remark did not seem strange. Darcy knew Jakob was finding it intensely painful to get to the point.

  “I did nothing, do you understand that? Nothing,” he said, driving the point home in bitter self-reproach. “I was across the street when they grabbed her. She looked round desperately for someone to help. In our culture individuals don’t kick and scream against those in power. You need to be in a crowd to do that. Then she saw me, our eyes met. She shook her head, telling me not to intervene. But I tried. I tried but I’m old and slow. They’d taken her away before I even got to the kerbside.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “Black leather coats, the kind of cheap leather that looks like cardboard. Russians, they were Russians.”

  “How do you know they were Russians?”

  “I am a Pole. Poles can always recognise Russians.”

  Darcy paced around the room, oblivious to the sound of ceramics splintering beneath his feet.

  “The car, the Zil, you say it was filthy. Why did you notice that especially?”

  Jakob’s mind seemed to be wandering. “It was mud that saved Russia. Everyone thinks it was the winter but they’re wrong.” Jakob was trying not to deal with the issue of what happened to Anya. “It was the liquid mud of October that halted the Germans. They were bogged down long before the winter froze them into place. Otherwise they would have got to Moscow.”

  “Are you saying that the car was covered in mud?”

  “Yes, mud. How often do I have to tell you?”

  Darcy spoke quietly. “I think I may know where they’ve taken her. I’m going to need your help.”

  Jakob sat upright, removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair and straightened his tie.

  “I am ready. Anything I have is yours.”

  “I need a car,” Darcy said. “Not rented, not stolen. And somewhere safe that I can use as a base, somewhere they don’t know about.”

  “Use this place, I have no further need of it,” Jakob said without emotion.

  “You would need to leave. They must think you’ve fled.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “To Ignace. You will know of the Night Watch. He was its most private member. Devoted to his books and engravings. He’ll not even notice I’m there.”

  “How will I find you?”

  Jakob made no reply but left the room, closed the door and picked up the phone in the hall. He spoke rapidly. Darcy couldn’t make out the conversation through the heavy door, but Jakob returned looking satisfied.

  “Look at those apartment blocks on the crest of the hill, the second one on the right. In a moment Ignace will flash his living room light on and off three times. You can identify where he lives.”

  A light appeared and disappeared as Jakob had predicted. Darcy counted the floors. It was on the fifth, to the left of the staircase.

  “Why didn’t I just give you the address or his telephone number, you wonder?”

  Darcy didn’t answer.

  “Because I thought it might bring him bad luck. I sense you carry a great deal of bad luck with you.”

  It was not the kind of conversation in which Darcy wanted to engage.

  “The car, what about the car?”

  “I need to make another call. Do you have money?”

  “I have dollars.”

  “Dollars are better than money,” Jakob said.

  *

  Darcy parked the rusty Lada two blocks from the hotel. The small 4x4 Nirva was more at home on a farm than in the city and he didn’t want anybody to connect him with the vehicle. In the hotel lobby he sought out the sour-faced porter who had met him on his arrival. The memory of a tip in hard currency made him more attentive now. Darcy took a wad of notes from his anorak pocket. He wanted the man to see a large amount of cash. The porter’s greedy eyes lit up as Darcy peeled off a twenty-dollar bill.

  “I’m looking for some entertainment, I’m sure you understand what I mean.”

  The porter was eager to oblige. “I can arrange for entertainment in your room, sir; I’ll make a call.”

  Darcy cut him short. “No, not here, somewhere with a choice of company.”

  “There is, I understand, sir, an excellent place on Miodowa Street, a very select clientele. Shall I call you a cab?”

  “No, just write down the address.”

  Darcy took the piece of paper and handed over the twenty-dollar bill.

  He reckoned that the false trail would win him a couple of hours when the heavies arrived to trace him from the hotel. In his room he recovered his weapon and then scattered everything
else across the floor to create the impression of a rapid search. The more confusion he could leave in his wake the better.

  *

  The feeble headlights of the Lada, and the slush thrown up by trucks on the potholed highway, made spotting any roadside feature almost impossible. He would have missed kilometre post 121 if it had not been for the lights of a large Volvo road tanker whose driver chose that moment to overtake. Darcy pulled over and the Lada crashed and bounced across the deep ruts frozen onto the verge. For an uneasy moment he thought the car might bog down. He engaged the crude four-wheel drive and slowly reversed back towards a track that led away from the road and into the forest. The Lada was on home territory.

  On the track there were tyre marks covered by snow. Nobody had arrived recently. He turned the lights off and waited for his eyes to adjust to the moonlight. After about ten minutes he started the engine and moved forward slowly.

  At the end of about two kilometres of slow advance, he saw light reflected in the upper branches of the birch trees. He drove slowly off the track and into the forest, got out and checked an impulse to lock the door. Locks frozen.

  He had expected to be immersed in the dense snow-deadened silence of the forest and was surprised to hear distant rock music. Moving cautiously through the trees, he came to the crest of a low hill. Below was a rambling dilapidated Dacha in the Russian style. The country home of some long-gone Soviet official, Darcy thought. At the front door there was a Zil limousine caked in mud. It had a heavy covering of snow on the roof and Darcy guessed it had not been moved for a couple of days. He stopped to listen again. The music was coming from the back of the building.

  From a distance it had masked the now unmistakable sound of a slow-running diesel generator. He worked his way round the building. From the kitchen window, an unsteady brownish light spilt onto the snow. Darcy calculated that the generator was past its best. He hid behind a pile of logs and waited to be sure that his presence had not been detected. The brutally cold air made his head ache but he chose not to use the hood of the anorak, as it would cut into his peripheral vision and cost him the critical edge of his hearing. He crawled along the line of the logs until he found a gap that gave a view into the room.