The Watchers

by Mark Andrew Olsen

  Fifteen minutes later, two sharply dressed and utterly transformed Europeans walked out. The husband, who greeted his exiting wife with a grin of barely concealed surprise, was now brown-haired and wearing the shorts and tennis shoes of an American tourist. The wife, her hair still auburn, was also attired American style, wearing a tight T-shirt, clingy skirt, sandals, and a pair of oversized, very dark sunglasses.

  The husband leaned over and appeared to give his wife a lingering kiss on the earlobe as they walked. Instead, he was talking very fast.

  “We’ve got to pull this off perfectly,” he whispered. “London is the most heavily videoed city in the world. Cameras on every corner. They could follow us from this moment all the way to our hotel room. So don’t let your guard down.”

  The pair jumped into a taxi to central London, where they quickly disembarked at Notting Hill Gate and hopped on to one of the city’s famous red double-deckers. Grinning and craning their necks like a couple of ecstatic tourists, they rode on the bus’s upper level for half an hour through the cold and crowded streets, finally getting off at Trafalgar Square. There in a spritz of fine rain they blended into the crush of milling tourists and allowed themselves to be swept, almost invisible amidst the masses, down into the stairway entrance of London’s Underground. They boarded the Bakerloo line and abruptly exited at the next stop north, Piccadilly Circus. They crossed to the opposite direction, boarded again, then exited back at their original station and rode the Northern line up to Leicester Square.

  Here the husband promptly located a branch of the Credit Suisse bank and, with the help of a retinal scan and nary a peep at his identification papers, withdrew the sum of one hundred thousand dollars. Next, he made a hurried visit to the safe-deposit vault, where he removed an American passport and Michigan driver’s license, both in the name of Marcus Bryce, and finally a blank passport form—a document which, by merely possessing it, could mean a punishment of fifteen years in a federal prison.

  The well-traveled couple then hopped another taxi into the heart of West Soho, one of London’s more bohemian quarters. They disappeared through a side door adjoining one of the neighborhood’s largest Internet cafés. Two hours later, and ten thousand dollars poorer, they emerged smiling more broadly than ever.

  They found a bench and leisurely withdrew their purchase for inspection. An ordinary-looking cell phone, but which in fact was an untraceable, prepaid, and unlocked cellular device, with international phone rates already purchased through a coded phone card.

  The husband made his first call, while the lovely woman beside him sat patiently and appeared to indulge in Soho’s world-class people watching. The call was to his apartment. After spending fifteen minutes furiously thumbing the keypad, he hung up.

  “Time to start taking the fight to them,” the husband whispered to his spouse.

  His next number was a classified number secretly assigned to a windowless room in Langley, Virginia.

  FBI SERIAL CRIME UNIT, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  “Task force, special agent in charge,” answered the monotone voice of twenty-five-year bureau veteran Ken Grant.

  “I have a breakthrough clue for you.”

  “Whoa. Let’s start at the beginning. Who are you? What’s your name?”

  “Look. Don’t handle me.”

  “Handle you? And who in the world are you to tell me that?”

  “I’m a black-bag solo operator, veteran of Marines, Airbornes, Delta Force and beyond. Way beyond. So either let me tell you this, or so help me, you’ll go down as the man who dropped the best clue this case ever had.”

  “Sure, buddy. Only one problem. You can tell me you’re James Bond himself, but if you don’t give me cause to classify you higher than the two thousand other whack-jobs who tell me junk like that, this call is over.”

  “How about, I know your withheld fact.”

  “Our what?” asked Grant.

  “Come on. Don’t mess with me. The fact you guys always withhold from the public in order to ferret out bogus leads and confessions.”

  “Oh, and what would that be, sir?”

  “The scythe. Otherwise known as the sickle. They use it to slice their victims’ throats. Sometimes they carve the symbol of it on their bodies. Am I right?”

  “Okay. I’m listening. Where did you get this number? You called direct, right?”

  “I got it from your SAC in Los Angeles. Under a cover identity.”

  “Yeah, and what’s this clue?”

  “I’m going to give you an address in Tribeca. Now, here’s the rub. You’re gonna find a week-old body in there with a bullet through the head. I didn’t commit the crime, and I’ll e-mail you video to prove it before the day’s out. So to reach what’s really important, you may have to shove around a little NYPD blue. I’m sure you feds won’t mind doing that, though. Anyway, you’ll have official permission, because the place is mine. I’m Dylan Hatfield. I’ve already e-mailed you the address.”

  “So what about this great evidence?”

  “The man who committed the murder at my place is operational commander of the underground army that’s been murdering African-American women all these years. You’ll find his prints on my front door keypad and on a side table in the bedroom, the one with the clear glass vase on it.”

  “If all this is true, man,” Grant said in a completely new, serious tone of voice, “you’ve gotta come in and talk to us. You must know a lot more than this.”

  “Believe it or not, I really don’t, or I would tell you. But I am trying to bring these guys down myself, and as soon as I have anything more, I’ll be in touch.”

  “Hey, bud. You want to freelance, be my guest. But remember that obstructing an ongoing federal criminal investigation is a felony.”

  “Do I sound like I’m obstructing to you?” Dylan was angry now. “Listen, you find that print. It’s not to locate the man himself, by the way. He’s dead. In Africa. And I just killed him. But trace his contacts, and you’ll bring down the whole network.”

  “I’ve gotta have—”

  “Go do it, and we’ll talk soon.”

  Click.

  LONDON, SOHO DISTRICT

  The next call from the untraceable cell phone beamed out to Robert Sherman, resident of Pacific Palisades, California, but currently located in Lagos, Nigeria. The gap didn’t matter, because Mr. Sherman’s cellular account located him worldwide.

  Abby spoke to her father for a little over three minutes. She apologized for not having called before, explaining that without a secure telephone, she would have given her position away to the authorities likely monitoring his calls. She revealed to him her safe condition, the fact that her quest was progressing well, and that she would be able to say more soon. Much more.

  She closed with an urgent request. Would he refrain from telling anyone that he had heard from her? In fact, actively work to give the impression he was as frantic as everyone else? Her safety might well depend on it. After extracting a grudging agreement from him, she tearfully expressed her love and hung up.

  She kept the phone in her lap and, for the next thirty minutes, labored to thumb its tiny letters.

  Dear Friends,

  Can’t write much. But please believe that I am totally fine. Great, in fact. I am so sorry for all the worrying reports, but plz know they didn’t come from me. Again, I am not kidnapped, prisoner, or anything. My quest continues. I have discovered much, and soon I will tell all. Please stay posted, and keep praying.

  Love, Abby

  CHAPTER

  _ 53

  After uploading the message to her MyCorner site, Abby stood and followed Dylan to hail another London cab, which they rode to Oxford Street, London’s most famous shopping thoroughfare.

  There, she and Dylan spent the next three hours on the from-scratch re-creation of a traveling American woman’s wardrobe— everything from hats to tropical-weight dresses to underwear, toiletries, and cosmetics. And finally a fine, elegant, but not
too elegant, suitcase.

  They paused for a snack in the tearoom of Selfridges, the city’s second most venerable department store, though much more affordable than Harrods. Their table was virtually encircled by bags; neither one had counted on just how much it would take to replace an entire traveler’s wardrobe.

  “So did you enjoy the shopping?” he asked with a quick glance around the loud, crowded room.

  “Yes and no,” she said with a sigh. “Yeah, after being hunted and deprived for so long, it was fun to shop like that. But another part of me feels completely lost. I take it I was supposed to buy lightweight things, suitable for Ethiopia.”

  “That’s what I assumed,” he said. “Isn’t that what all of Sister Okoye’s clues pointed toward?”

  “Yes. I just feel so directionless. I mean, we have no clue other than the name of the country itself. What do we do? Waltz in and declare to the nation we’re there to find out about some secret, a spiritual lineage we can’t even name?”

  “I don’t know, Abby,” he said pointedly. “You and the sister were always the ones who extolled the virtues of going on faith, stepping out and letting God lead your steps.”

  “I know,” she conceded. “I know. But this is all a bit overwhelming. There’s so very little to go on. Besides,” she added with a small smile, “even the hyperspiritual have their down moments sometimes.”

  He smiled back, remembering at once why he liked this girl so much. “That’s nice to know,” he replied. “ ’Cause I am starting to have my doubts all of a sudden. Somehow it seemed easier, in that foreign jungle with only Sister Okoye to listen to. But now, here in the light of day, so to speak—”

  “Let’s pray,” she interrupted.

  “What?”

  “It’s time to pray.” It was not a request. “Dear God, we need you to break through and keep ordaining our thoughts and steps. This is your journey, not ours. So we ask you boldly and expectantly. Please lead us now. In your holy name, amen.”

  She opened her eyes and looked around her with all the innocent anticipation of a child. Her eyes did not settle on anything.

  “Maybe it’s not supposed to work that way,” Dylan offered. “Maybe we’re supposed to get up and walk around or something.”

  “Or maybe we’re supposed to wait just a second longer.”

  He smiled and barely suppressed a chuckle. For the first time ever, she was starting to sound her age.

  “Look,” she said. Her finger stabbed at a small advertisement in The Times, which lay folded neatly under his elbow. It was a tiny two-line box that read, Ethiopian Cuisine—Soho. Most authentic in London. And a pair of cross-street names.

  “What?” he huffed. “A restaurant? You consider that an answer to prayer?”

  “It’s a direction. And at least it looks like an educational place to have dinner.”

  ETHIOPIA GOURMET, SOHO, LONDON

  The couple rushed in within five minutes of closing time and without a reservation. Neither of those facts fazed the restaurant’s owners, who dealt with culinary explorers, first-timers to Ethiopian cuisine, nearly eighty percent of the time.

  The pair were promptly diverted to the innermost mesab, a small hourglass-shaped table made of woven fibers. When their hostess—a very old, hunchbacked African woman who took several moments to shuffle the ten feet to their table—motioned to the eight-inch-high stools along its edge, the young woman revealed her inexperience by shooting an anxious look at her companion.

  “Forgive my friend,” he said to the elderly woman. “We’ve been sitting on airplane seats all day and still feel a little stiff in the joints.”

  “Oh, you can sit at the bar,” the woman offered.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Abby cut in. “I need the practice. After all, we are traveling to your wonderful country in the next day or so.”

  “So soon back on the airplane?” the hostess said with a questioning grimace. “You two are travelers.”

  “Since we have no idea what to order,” Dylan said, “would you kindly serve us your most common selection? At your discretion?”

  The woman seemed pleased at this request, for she smiled broadly, nodded, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  The couple sat on the stools and looked around for what came next. Their server, a tall, stunning woman with high cheekbones and creamy brown skin, emerged holding a long-spouted copper pitcher in her right hand, a copper basin in her left, and a towel. Bending over to them, she poured warm water over the fingers of their right hands and caught the runoff in the basin beneath. Then, setting it all aside, she did something else they didn’t expect: she plucked the table right from before them and carried it off into the kitchen.

  “Was it something I said?” Abby quipped.

  “You wanted to come here,” Dylan reminded her good-naturedly.

  “And I’m glad I did,” she said, suddenly serious. “I have a good feeling about this place. And about that lady who led us in here.”

  Abby glanced around her and realized that their cluelessness had made them the target of amused looks from the other diners. Soon the server returned holding their table. When she set it back down before them, however, it was covered by a large plastic dome. This the young woman pulled away, revealing what looked like a gray cloth covering the underlying tray.

  “This is your injera,” she offered, pointing at the object.

  “Our tablecloth?” asked Abby.

  The server graciously stifled a laugh. “No. Injera is your bread. Wait, and you will see.”

  Over the next few minutes she brought out four enamel bowls containing various thick stews and sauces, then poured them out on top of their “bread.” Its entire surface was covered with concoctions named, as she announced each one, Chicken Wat, Atakilt, Kitfo, and Yemisir.

  When the whole surface was covered, she knelt beside them. “Actually, injera is more than your bread. It is also your fork and spoon. See?” She tore off a piece two inches square, rolled it up around a lentil stew and, before Abby could react, popped it into her mouth with a deft little flick of the wrist. The mixture, once Abby had recovered from her surprise, proved pleasingly chewy, laden with a blend of exotic and delicious spices.

  “I will come back with Tej,” the server said, rising with a smile.

  She returned bearing two longneck bottles of an amber liquid that turned out to be honey wine.

  “I have to confess,” said Abby after her first taste, “that I had no idea your cuisine was so unique.”

  “It is as old as our culture, which is as old as humanity itself,” the server responded.

  “I have to ask you,” Abby began, earning a stern look of caution from Dylan, and just as quickly ignoring it, “does your culture make any special use of the eye? As a symbol, I mean, an icon?”

  The young woman closed her eyes and grew very still; it occurred to Abby that all of a sudden even her breathing had ceased. At last she opened her eyes again. “I had better let you speak to my grandmother.”

  She left and brought back the elderly hostess, who now regarded them with a peering, intense look. She approached, sank to her knees, and knelt beside Abby.

  “You wanted to know about the eye?” she asked in a near whisper.

  CHAPTER

  _ 54

  “Yes,” replied Abby. “I am very interested in whether the eye is a major symbol in your culture.”

  The woman looked confused for a moment. She pointed with a thumb back over her shoulder. “So, you are not speaking of our wall?”

  “A wall? No. Which wall?”

  “This one.”

  Abby felt a hand grasp hers and pull her gently upward. The woman led her through the other diners to the room’s only smooth wall, shrouded from view by the restaurant’s dim lighting scheme.

  The woman stopped and pointed.

  Abby stared at it, and then her hand flew to her mouth. She turned back to call Dylan, but he was already halfway to her. “Look,” she told h
im softly.

  The elderly woman was now looking into Abby’s eyes with a strange, poignant expression. “You know about this?” she asked.

  Abby nodded, unable to speak.

  “This is more than just a symbol, isn’t it?” asked Dylan. “It refers to a group, does it not?”

  The woman nodded, wide-eyed. “You have been to my country, to ask me such a question.”

  “No, we have not.”

  “You are a follower of Christ, aren’t you,” said Abby in a voice that was more statement than question.

  The woman nodded.

  “I could feel it when I first walked in here,” Abby continued. “My Sight has been dimmed by fatigue, all the travel, the stress, the distractions. But when I came in, I knew it was filled with . . . friends.”

  They returned to their table, too awed to make small talk. This time, the hostess sat down on one of the tiny stools like a dinner guest. In as few words as she could gather, Abby told the woman her story—of her dreams, the attempts on her life, her strange leading to Africa and the signs she had found there. She left out the part about her being an international fugitive.

  As she spoke, her listener closed her eyes, and large, gleaming tears fell across her cheeks. When Abby finished, the old woman took a sharp breath, held Abby’s hand, cradling it between her own, and began to speak.

  “Now here is my story. I grew up in Addis Ababa in a large, fervently Orthodox Christian family. But it was my nanny, an old Coptic woman, who guided me into a walk with Christ. She led me in a prayer where I asked Him to come and forgive me and live inside of me. She taught me the things of faith, how to read Scripture and stay strong in Him.”

  “Then you dreamed of Anna,” Abby interjected, smiling faintly.

  “Yes, of Anna,” she answered. “And do you know what happened to Anna after that event?”

  “I have no idea,” Abby admitted.

  “History has no record of what befell her, but the legend I was told says that she traveled down to Abyssinia with one of the earliest Christian missions and helped start the church in my country. But that is rumor, and not the story I seek to tell you.”