The Night Watch

by Julian Dinsell

  “Very well, I’ll bring us up to speed on events in America and then we can get to work.”

  Everyone made ready with laptops or notebooks. Thornhill went carefully through the chronology of events.

  “I went to Washington for a high-level meeting, to warn and to trade information. There are two interpretations that can be put on the outcome. The first is that I was simply not believed. The second is that I was believed, and for whatever reason the news was too hot to handle. The follow-up meeting scheduled for the next day was both delayed and downgraded, which is why Lloyd-Emlyn is sitting in some Washington ante-room rather than being with us here this morning.”

  McKenzie raised his silver fountain pen and Thornhill paused to let him speak.

  “A question, something I need to be quite sure about – you got the dead cat bounce?”

  “Not my choice of phrase, but an accurate analogy,” Thornhill replied.

  McKenzie was still not wholly convinced. “You dropped this number on them and they did nothing. That’s astonishing. How can they not respond to a warning of a threat on this scale? It’s quite incredible.”

  “Credibility is exactly the point,” Thornhill said. “Of course, they may have written the whole thing off as some kind of crackpot paranoia. But I’m minded to believe that, for some key players at that meeting, the news I presented them with was not news at all. The question is why? And of even greater importance, to whom do they report?”

  “What leads you to that conclusion?” Darzi asked.

  “Two things. The first is that I sought advice from an old and very well-connected friend. He was willing to advise on anything and anybody, but when November’s name was introduced into the conversation he closed up like a New England clam.”

  “A slender basis for such large suspicions?” Darzi queried.

  “I said there were two factors in my judgement,” Thornhill said with a hint of rebuke at Darzi’s premature interruption. “The second is much more serious. In Washington I was surprised to meet Arnold Morgenstern. He is, or I should say was, a US inter-service liaison officer based in London.”

  “Was?” McKenzie asked.

  “I’m coming to that,” Thornhill continued in a level monotone. Long experience had demonstrated that when briefing or debriefing, emotion could camouflage crucial detail. It was essential that each listener should have an unobstructed view of the landscape. “Previously, in London, Morgenstern had been sticking to me closely. It was much closer attention than usual and it became evident that he knew we were on to something important; he wanted to know what it was. He framed his concerns in terms of friendship. Of course, that was his job and I distrusted him because of it. He became very excited and at first was merely an irritation. Then there was a leak to the Cabinet Committee and just as I was receiving the wrath of Lady Lathkill, a code red message from Bermuda arrived. For those of you who were not with us during this incident, it was a rocket-propelled grenade attack on the hotel where we were holding our source. One of our colleagues was killed and we had to mount an emergency operation to extricate the source and the remaining members of the team to the UK. At that time I believed Morgenstern might have been complicit in both events, a judgement I have since come to regret.”

  Tension in the room rose. Everyone knew something critically important was coming and nobody wanted to be the person who delayed its arrival.

  It was Thornhill who seemed in need of a pause. “Would somebody enquire whether the kitchen could be persuaded to let us have some tea, Darjeeling preferably?”

  Morag and Darcy simultaneously reached for the phone. Morag got there first.

  The tea was ordered and Thornhill continued. “Just after the Washington meeting, Morgenstern turned up out of the blue. He was in an extraordinarily emotional state. On grounds of my personal safety, he pleaded with me to return to London immediately. At the same time, I got news of Murphy being found in a back alley in Manhattan. So I needed to leave with all dispatch. Not unnaturally he thought I was taking his advice to return home.” Thornhill couldn’t remember exactly when he had decided not to mention Petersen; it had simply been a conviction that grew stronger as the briefing continued. “In Manhattan, my attention was taken up by the problem of Murphy, who had by now absconded from the Tribeca police precinct. Then, via CNN, I discovered that Morgenstern had been shot twice in the head. By muggers, the report said.”

  “Could it have been coincidence?” McKenzie asked.

  “I wouldn’t believe it was coincidence if he was struck by lightning with the entire Supreme Court as witnesses. The truth is that I totally misjudged him,” Thornhill said fiercely. “A lifetime of trading in deceit ill-prepares you for the occasional encounter with honesty. I now believe that he was what he said he was, an ally. Events strongly indicate that he took serious risks in trying to warn us and it cost him his life.”

  “You can’t be certain of that,” Darzi said.

  “No, in this business there’s nothing that you can be certain of. Nevertheless, I am totally convinced.”

  “What about Murphy?” Morag asked.

  “One thing at a time,” Thornhill said.

  “That’s just the problem, isn’t it?” Hicks spoke for the first time. “We can’t deal with this one thing at a time, it’s all of a piece.”

  “Let’s get a grip,” McKenzie said. “We need to assess the threat and define our options.”

  “That is why you are all here,” Thornhill said.

  McKenzie ignored the interruption. “We know that November plans to attend the summit in Geneva. The Council for a New America has no official status but somehow he’s managed to get a formal invitation. In the light of everything else, that shouldn’t surprise us. Then he promised to make some epoch-making announcement at what he called a ‘People’s Summit’ at Madison Square Garden twenty-four hours later. At his first appearance he offered a hundred billion dollars. He’s going to need something spectacular to top that,” McKenzie concluded.

  “So on that timetable, he must be planning to pull some kind of stunt in Geneva.” Hicks was someone who needed things to be spelt out.

  “Does anyone dissent from that hypothesis?” Thornhill asked.

  “The evidence allows no other conclusion,” McKenzie said.

  There was a general murmur of approval. Thornhill was relieved that time was not to be wasted by conflicting speculations.

  “So we have agreement on motive, opportunity and timing. The question is, exactly what is he trying to achieve and how?”

  “Do you believe he’s mad?” Hicks pointed the question in Darzi’s direction.

  “That is not a scientific term. In my view there is no satisfactory definition of madness,” Darzi said primly.

  McKenzie interrupted. “The point is, what is he aiming to do and how do we stop him doing it?”

  Darzi continued. “The first half of McKenzie’s question is easier to address than the second. Consider the man – he needs a stage, a stage for his ideas, his ego and his ambitions. We know that because, since childhood, he’s constructed a succession of them. The most recent was Madison Square Garden. Now Geneva, it’s the biggest so far – all the world’s leaders in one place at the same time. Not just diplomats and bureaucrats like the UN, but presidents and prime ministers. He’s over-reached himself; how can he possibly dominate a cast like that?”

  “A comforting analysis,” McKenzie said. “But what if the conclusion you draw from it is wrong? Look at it like a map. There are two roads leading to Geneva. One starts at Madison Square Garden with the emergence of November as a new kind of radical political figure with a spectacular offer: ‘Power to the People’ and a hundred billion dollars for them to spend. Too good to be true? You bet it is, because the other road begins in Warsaw with the development of a new kind of psychochemical weapon. Just the kind of toy a rich psycho might want to play with. But our man is very rich and very psycho, which leads to the question: what if he has no intention
of playing on that stage as Professor Darzi postulates? What if wants to destroy the entire theatre?”

  “Would anybody else like to develop that line of thought?” Thornhill asked.

  “The timings support that analysis,” Darcy said. “When the Summit is announced, activity suddenly quickens and serious mistakes are made.”

  Hicks interrupted. “So far we’re just finding different ways of coming to the same conclusion. However many ifs and buts we want to insert, we all believe the same thing. November is going to try and use this stuff. Let’s just concentrate on our options for stopping him.”

  “What do you perceive them to be?” Thornhill asked.

  Hicks grabbed the opportunity to take the floor. “Go to the top. Speak to Downing Street and the White House.”

  “What do you imagine I was trying to achieve in Washington?” Thornhill asked coldly. “And Downing Street? As of this morning, nobody will speak to us.”

  “The central pressure is time,” McKenzie said. “We have less than seventy-two hours to devise a strategy. That eliminates a leak to the press, or planting disinformation, the kinds of things that, in the past, have been effective in getting conspirators fighting among themselves. Even if we had the time, that line of attack would be impractical because we don’t know who the conspirators are.”

  “You need to give us something else,” Thornhill said.

  Hicks made another suggestion. “Strike at his finances, his ability to deliver his promise of a hundred billion dollars.”

  Thornhill was anxious to move the discussion out of analysis and into action. “That’s too diffuse a target; the money, if it really exists, will be buried in hundreds of financial institutions, right around the globe. A strike against that kind of capital base would be a strike against the global economy. It’s just not feasible.”

  McKenzie spoke. “We’re forgetting something – it’s not just the money, it’s the technology. We know that’s been moved out of Warsaw. But where’s it gone? My guess is the domes out in the desert. ‘Hide in plain sight’ is a well-proven strategy.”

  Darcy had not spoken for some time; now his frustration boiled over. “So what do you propose? We call the State Department and suggest they send the United States Air Force to bomb this techno-Disneyland. Or would you rather we ask them if we can send the RAF?”

  McKenzie spoke with slow deliberation. “Then, Sir Jack, I must present you with the only workable strategy within the timescale. We strike at him personally.”

  “You mean kill him?” Darzi said.

  “I would regard it as a counter-attack. He’s already hit us, now we hit him,” McKenzie said.

  Darzi persisted. “But he would be dead at the end of this process?”

  “Yes, I would very much hope so,” McKenzie said.

  “Thank you, Mr McKenzie, I just wanted to be certain of what we’re talking about,” Darzi said.

  Everyone turned to Thornhill, and his thoughts turned to the automatic in his briefcase.

  “I’m not going to ask anybody to do that,” he said.

  “Then what is our plan?” McKenzie asked.

  It was Hicks who responded. “We’ve spent a lot of time considering the man and his methods. But in Geneva we’re up against the deployment of a technical system capable of selectively delivering a chemical agent. Find the delivery system and disable it. That’s our answer.”

  “But we have no idea how such a system might work,” McKenzie protested.

  “Then we need to find out, fast,” Hicks said. “Sir Jack, I’d like to go to Geneva immediately. I’m aware that the Swiss and everyone else involved will have been doing inspections and threat assessments for months, but we know what to look for and they don’t.”

  “That’s the best idea yet,” Thornhill said. “Darcy, I’d like you to go with him.”

  Without further discussion, the two of them moved towards the door.

  “With respect, Sir Jack, that looks like an act of desperation,” Darzi said.

  “Sometimes appearances are not deceptive,” Thornhill replied.

  “A strange moment for irony, Sir Jack,” Darzi said. “So far every battle you have fought, you’ve lost.”

  From the doorway, Darcy heard Darzi’s remark. It made him angry. “Remember our history, Professor; Britain has a tradition of losing every battle but the last one.”

  “Except in America. There we lost the last one as well,” Darzi said.

  Thornhill got up to leave.

  “I believe we have achieved all we can in this session; we need to move on.”

  The others in the room began to engage in animated conversation.

  “Keep talking, keep thinking and keep in touch through my office.”

  Morag followed him to the landing. “I must speak to you about Murphy,” she said.

  “Morag, I appreciate your personal concern for a colleague, but surely you must see that we can’t afford to divert from the critical issues when we’re under this kind of time pressure.”

  “It’s much more than a personal concern,” she replied.

  “Morag, we’ve both read the psychiatrist’s report,” Thornhill said sharply.

  “That’s the point – it’s not about psychiatry but cryptography. I believe he’s trying to send us a message,” Morag said. “Remember what the police sergeant told you about the numbers? Whatever has happened inside Murphy’s head means he can’t communicate directly; he has to go through some kind of random access process. He knew the number he wanted to spell out but had to hide it among many others. The same goes for the words.”

  Thornhill guided Morag to the chairs by the picture window.

  “Go on.”

  “Fire,” Morag said.

  “Tell me more,” Thornhill said.

  “That’s what he’s telling us.”

  “How?”

  Morag read from her notes. “St George and the Dragon; dragons breathe fire. Rock and Roll. Who was the first Rock star?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Thornhill was in strange territory.

  “Jerry Lee Lewis. And the song that made him famous? ‘Great Balls of Fire’. Elijah, in the Bible, was taken up into heaven in a chariot of fire.”

  Thornhill thought aloud. “Lakehurst, New Jersey. That’s where the Hindenburg – the airship the Nazis were so proud of – went down in flames.”

  “It all fits,” Morag said.

  “The wilderness, the Children of Israel followed a pillar of fire,” Thornhill added.

  Morag concluded the list. “James Baldwin, he was a Sixties black activist. His best-known book was The Fire Next Time.”

  Thornhill sat silently for some time. “You’re right.”

  “I hesitate to say this, but I also believe we’re being sent a second message.”

  “A second message? From whom?”

  “Calvin November.”

  “How so?”

  “By returning Murphy to us in this state he’s playing games. It’s an act of contempt. He’s showing what he can do to any of us.”

  “Oh God,” Thornhill said quietly to himself.

  “I think we should take Wolski to Geneva,” Morag said.

  Chapter 27 - The Hog’s Back

  “How long have I got?” Darcy asked as the Jaguar swung into the gravelled drive of the ivy-covered Jacobean House that sat on the Hog’s Back, a ridge above Guildford on the Downs of Surrey.

  “You can talk to her for as long as it takes me to persuade Wolski to come to Geneva. Not a moment longer.”

  “I understand,” Darcy replied.

  Mrs Rankin, the housekeeper, appeared in the doorway as they got out of the car.

  “Good morning, Sir Jack.”

  “Good morning. How is the Professor?”

  “Quiet, sir, very quiet.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In the library, sir.”

  “And how is the lady? Is she comfortable?” Thornhill asked.

  “Physically, yes,�
�� she replied.

  “Where is she?” Darcy asked sharply.

  “In the Wordsworth room.”

  “Thank you,” Darcy said as he swiftly climbed the stairs.

  “Fifteen minutes, no more,” Thornhill shouted after him.

  Anya sat erect by the fire and Darcy was reminded of the pain and magic of Warsaw.

  “You broke your promise,” she said, without turning to see who had entered the room.

  “How did you know it was me?” he asked.

  “Liars have a special kind of footstep.”

  “I kept my promise to you,” he said gently.

  “But you broke your promise to us. Jakob is dead.”

  “I did what I could.”

  “Yes, you did,” she said, slowly turning from the fire.

  They stared at each other for what seemed a long time and slowly Darcy thought he saw the ghost of a smile.

  *

  Wolski was hunched over a table of books set against a wall of lancet windows.

  “What are you reading?” Thornhill asked.

  “H. G. Wells, The War of the Worlds.”

  Thornhill was surprised. “I had thought it might be some weightier work.”

  “Local colour. Did you know that Wells has the Martians landing here, on the Hog’s Back?”

  “I seem to remember something of the kind,” Thornhill said.

  “Thirty years later, the other Welles, Orson Welles, stole them and put them down in New Jersey and scared the nation to death, quite literally in a few cases; that’s how he made his name.”

  “You know why I’m here,” Thornhill said.

  “I know how the Martians meet their end,” Wolski replied enigmatically. “Superior technology defeated by microbes.”

  Thornhill changed tack. “How are they looking after you?”

  “A beautiful house, good food, an intelligent library; the finest prison a criminal could ask for. But I am not a criminal.”

  “Others are; it’s safer for you here.”

  “Time,” Wolski said for no apparent reason.

  “Time? What do you mean?”

  “I brought you the precious gift of time. Have you used it wisely?”