Nightwatch created by Jeff Williams
The Metro car was at maximum capacity, all the seats taken and
the overflow passengers holding on to straps dangling from the ceiling. While the
"I'm sorry if he has a plane to catch," Simon remembered saying at the time, a memory that came to him even as he tried to ignore the substantial rear end hovering too close to his face for comfort, "but I've spent too many hours in too many cramped spaces to want to do so without at least being paid for it." Stephanie had merely turned on a local radio station, and reports of massive slowdowns on both 295 and 395 had simply reinforced her point.
"Van Dorn Extension," a voice announced over the PA as the subway train slowed rapidly. Even before the cars had stopped, Dr. Litchfield, dressed in a set of exquisitely tailored khaki clothes, had jumped from his seat. Stephanie caught sight of the harried look on his face then turned away long enough to allow a few chuckles to escape before quickly suppressing the rest.
When the doors opened, Stephanie didn't walk as much as she surfed the human wave that poured through, and then she was settled gently onto the platform. Simon emerged a few seconds later, and then he dove into the crowd to retrieve his hat, which was mounted on the point of a folded umbrella.
"This really isn't your element, is it?" she asked with a grin as Simon finished fluffing out the creases in his brim.
"Contrary
to what you're thinking," he said, "I've got nothing but the deepest
admiration for the Metro. I mean, I
understand better than you the difficulties involved in building tunnels under
a river. But," he waved in
various directions towards the crowd and towards the subway train, which was
rapidly receding into the tunnel, "
"Come on," Stephanie said, taking the Nightwatch civil engineer’s arm and leading him towards the escalator to the surface. "Tom's waiting, and time's wasting away." With one last look at the crowded station, Simon stepped onto the moving steps and ascended to the surface.
****
The L'Enfant Building stood on a corner near the Metro station. While the faux marble exterior and the fancy name--taken from the architect who designed Washington, DC--were designed to evoke a certain sense of majesty and grace, the dingy appearance of the three-story structure confirmed that it was not occupied by one of the higher-end clients of Arlington. While psychological counseling was certainly a noble and needed service, Arlington Counseling Group would never be mistaken for a high-profit venture, and the landlord didn't waste more money than was needed to keep the facility within the bounds of local code.
Indeed, when Simon and Stephanie entered the building, they were greeted by a pale green carpet that was at least four years passed its reasonable life. Ignoring the decor, they walked towards the elevators and entered the first one that arrived. As the car rose past the second floor, it was temporarily filled with the sound of screaming.
"Some of Dr. Janov's disciples," Simon said with a wink. Stephanie returned the wink and then shook her head.
"You're lucky you're not married," she said. "That wink would have had your butt in a sling."
"Occupational hazard," Litchfield said just as the doors opened to the third floor. "It's why I'm not currently seeking employment in that field." They emerged onto a floor that was, if not opulent, at least pleasant. Sky blue walls and dark blue carpeting greeted them, and all of this was complimented by soft lighting and polished wooden furniture, and framed prints of Monet's dreamy landscapes and Van Guilder's famed four-color studies adorned the walls. At least the counselor’s fixed this floor, Simon thought.
Almost as soon as the elevator doors closed, a large figure emerged from one of the offices. Even in strong lighting, he would have been imposing, possessing both the height and the girth of one well familiar with weight-rooms. In the reduced lighting of the floor, however, he was indescribably menacing. Simon's face, however, lit up into a smile.
"Tom," he said joyfully, "it's good to see you again, my friend!" The two of them shook hands heartily, and as Tom stepped into the light; his light blue eyes betrayed the man's friendliness. "You do realize that you're one of the few who could coax me onto the Metro this time of day."
"With the help of a kick in the rear from Stephanie, I suppose," he said, nudging Simon in the ribs and then walking past to embrace Stephanie in what quite literally looked like a bear hug.
"What's
it been," she said, "three month's since
"About that long," he said warmly. "I'm sorry," he said, looking at both of them. "I keep meaning to invite both of you for a drink some evening. But, between the practice and…and other things, I just haven't had much time." Simon held up his hands and shook his head.
"There's nothing to apologize about," he said. "I really haven't been home much. Business is booming for me these days, too, I'm sorry to say. I actually just got back from..."
"Look, Simon," Tom interrupted. "I really want to catch up with the both of you,” his gaze went from Simon to Stephanie and back again, “but I asked you here on business.”
"That's what Stephanie said," Simon muttered. He was annoyed, but puzzled. Tom wasn’t given to cutting other people off. "She couldn't give me any details."
"Only that you thought this might be something, um, Nightwatch might be interested in," Stephanie added. Tom nodded.
"Come on to my office," he said. "I've got something to tell both of you. Something, well…a little hard to swallow." He led the way into a small wood-paneled office. Inside was a desk and computer along with a gold and green colored desk lamp and a small selection of books. A smaller wooden table sat next to the desk, and on it was an older-model push-button intercom. Tom sat down in a somewhat worn leather rolling chair and motioned for the others to sit down on two smaller chairs. "Simon," he said, " have you ever heard of Sergei Illeyvich?"
Simon shook his head. "No, the name's not familiar. Should it be?"
Tom sighed and leaned back in his chair, which creaked under the strain. “What are they teaching them in school these days?” he asked with a wry grin. “I think it should be familiar," he said, "but then not everyone enjoys poetry. Even poetry by Nobel laureates."
"I've heard of him," Stephanie said. "One of my instructors in college had us calibrate our voice synthesizers with 'Basilica Dream.' I actually bought a copy of Under the Weight of Arctic Snow though I never actually read it."
"Just as well," Tom said as he leaned forward to straighten out his nameplate on his desk. 'Tom Weldon, Senior Counselor' gleamed in the yellow light of the desk lamp. "Arctic Snow's good, but it'll never top Gibson's All-Night Deli. I'm not afraid to tell you I've started more than one hopefully romantic evening reciting a few lines from 'Her Majesty Dreams of Evening Song.'"
"So," Litchfield said, "I take it he's very good, and very Russian from the sound of his name."
"Actually,"
Tom continued, "he's claimed by both
"Where exactly is this leading?" Simon said politely but with enough overtones of slight irritation to get the conversation moving. Tom looked down at his desk and lightly tapped the wood with his right hand. Stephanie suddenly stood up.
"Listen,"
she said, "before you get too involved, I need to make a couple of phone
calls. I just remembered I forgot to
tell Stetson to finish his project before the
"There's a phone just down the hall to the left," Tom said. "Dial 6 to get the outside line."
"Thanks," she said as she left. "Back in a couple of minutes."
"Okay." Tom glanced at Simon. “Do you want to wait for her?”
“No,” Simon said, not quite discourteously.
“Alright. Here's why I asked you to come. A few weeks ago, I saw a small blurb in the Post
that Sergei Illeyvich had been hospitalized in
"Hospitalized?" Simon asked. "What was it? Heart attack? Stroke?" Tom shook his head.
"Nervous
breakdown," he said. "He's in
the psych ward of
"I take it you found something noteworthy?" Simon said. Tom nodded and again leaned back in his chair.
"Sergei Illeyvich was hospitalized after suffering a psychotic episode," Tom said. "He stood in a public square and proclaimed that a beast was loose in the countryside, a creature that could tear the fabric of every human life apart. He eventually drew a knife and threatened to kill himself unless he was taken seriously."
"Alright," Litchfield said as he shrugged his shoulders. "A poet goes off the deep end in public. Nothing seems all that unusual. How much vodka and water had he had before he started howling at the moon?" Tom raised his hand.
"Just
hear me out," he said. "It
gets more interesting. In the days
before the incident in the square, he'd been trying desperately to arrange a
meeting with officials from the Internal Security Policy Council in
"Warning them about the beast," Simon added.
"Yes," Tom said, "but, I don't think Sergei's crazy, or at least I don't think this breakdown wasn't precipitated by something extraordinary. According to my sources, Sergei Illeyvich's father had worked for the Soviets, specifically in nonconventional weapons." Simon, who to the discerning eye had seemed on the verge of drifting off, suddenly perked up.
"Nonconventional weapons," he said, leaning forward in his chair. "This sounds disturbingly familiar."
"Sergei," Tom said, "was trying to warn the authorities about something related to his father's work." Simon took off his hat and ran a hand through his silver-gray hair.
"Do your sources know what this weapon was?" he asked. "Bio-warfare agents? Neutron radiation?"
"Apathy," Tom said in a deep, serious voice. "According Sergei, the weapon is unchecked apathy." Simon's expression fell.
"Tom," he said after an uncomfortably long pause, "you've called me here to tell me about a half-crazed poet trying to warn the world that apathy is coming?"
"I
know what it sounds like," Tom said, leaning forward so that his eyes
shown in the lamplight. "If I'd
never seen the things I've seen with you, like...like in
Simon sighed and shook his head. "I don't buy it,"
he said. "It's ludicrous." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on
the desk. "I mean, even granting - which I don't - that you could somehow
induce apathy in people, how is that different from what we have in the world
now? Did you see the statistics for voter turnout in the last election?"
Tom shook his head. "You're not really thinking this through," he
said. "I did some research. Stephanie is setting it up for me. Call her in
here, would you?"
Simon sighed and shook his head sadly. "I should have smelled a set-up. Stetson's a royal pain in the ass. I couldn't figure out why she'd be doing him any favors." Tom pointed to the intercom on a small table.
Simon
pressed a button. The call buzzer rang for several long seconds, then
Stephanie's voice came through the speaker, tinny and unreal.
"Yeah?"
"Stephanie, it's Simon. Could you go ahead and bring the presentation
you're doing for him?"
There was a pause. "The presentation?"
"Yes. He said you were setting it up for him."
"Oh, right. That one. Well, I didn't quite get around to finishing
it."
"How long will it be?" Tom asked.
"Well, I didn't quite get around to starting it," Stephanie's voice
said. "It didn't seem that important, really."
Simon grinned wryly at Tom. "Nice," he said. "I get it. Thank
you Stephanie."
"Right," Stephanie said crisply.
Simon broke the connection. "Very cute," he said.
Tom shook his head. "You still aren't seeing it," he said. "Not
really. You see this as one big joke, as some crazy man crying out for
attention in his old age, but imagine if everyone here felt like that. Imagine
if the maintenance crew at the hanger really didn't care if their job got done
at all, much less if it got done well or not. Imagine if the doctor in the
emergency room simply didn't care whether her patients lived or died." Tom
leaned forward. Simon was startled by the passion in his voice. "Imagine
if you didn't care what happened to anyone anywhere in the world. What would
this world be like if everything that Nightwatch has ever done remained undone
just because we simply couldn't be bothered? Don't you get it, Simon? What
could one dedicated serial killer do if no one in law enforcement cared whether
the crimes were solved or not? What could a terrorist organization do to us if
our people didn't care whether they were stopped or not? If we don't accept
that this is a real threat and act on it, we're screwed."
Simon shook his head and stared intently at Tom. "So what do you want me to do?"
"From what I know of Nightwatch," Tom said, "they don't have a hotline for this sort of thing." Simon grinned and stared at yellowing stain on the ceiling.
"You
want me to use the...the more unorthodox channels to report this." Simon stood up, lifting a small metal
medallion from the desk. "I'm
leaving in three days for
Tom stood up and stared down into Simon's eyes. "Please," he said, "as a personal favor to me. If I'm wrong, then I'm wrong. From what you've said this Callow person isn't going to treat you any differently than he already does." Before Simon could react, Tom grabbed the medallion, polished it on his shirt, and then placed it back onto the desk.
Simon shook his head and laughed. "Okay," he said. "I'll go back tonight. He should be there; bats are always more active at night." Tom reached over the desk and shook Simon's hand.
"Thanks," Tom said heartily. "I really appreciate this." He turned around and picked up a suitcase. "Listen, I hate to beg and run, but..."
"Yeah," Simon said, "Stephanie mentioned that you had a flight to catch at National. Vacation? Conference?"
"Business," Tom said. An uncomfortable pause hung in the air while Simon waited for clarification that never came. "I'll be back in less than forty-eight hours, though," Tom finally said. "I want to know what happened."
"I'll
probably be looking at crop circles in
****
Two days later, Simon found himself staring at a retouched picture of Britney Spears on the cover of Entertainment Weekly. While he had as much of an interest in entertainment as anyone else, the sheer volume of printed treacle in the Popular Culture section of the Nightwatch Institute’s library was oppressive. Despite himself, he reached out and picked up a bound volume of the previous year’s Rolling Stones and began flipping through the music ratings.
“Difficult to keep up when you can literally be anywhere at any time,” Callow said as he strolled into the area and placed a number of items on a table. “How many classic movies have you missed?”
“As many as you,” Litchfield said without missing a beat. “Anyway, that’s what DigiRent’s for.” Litchfield replaced the volume on the shelf and strode confidently to the table, or at least as confidently as he could given his low expectations for the meeting. While Simon would never be truly intimidated by Callow, the man still had an uncomfortable measure of control over his life.
“Have a seat,” Callow said, pushing the closest chair out with his foot. Simon sat and placed his left hand on the table’s surface. Callow’s laptop computer made various low beeps and whirs as it warmed up.
“So,
Dr. Litchfield,” Callow said without ever taking his eyes from the screen, “how
well do you know Mr. Weldon?” Here
it goes, Simon thought, the martinet gets to screw a subordinate. Visions of various icy or desert wastes ran
through his head. What’ll it be?
“We’ve worked together on occasion,” Simon said confidently. “He’s been extremely helpful during previous,” he looked around for anyone else, “during previous operations. As you know.”
“Ah
yes, I’d forgotten,” Callow said disingenuously. “Nightwatch spent a great deal of time covering Mr. Weldon’s
considerable tracks in
“We wouldn’t have had as much trouble if you’d bothered to tell us about the Phantom!” Simon hissed. “If Tom hadn’t been there, I’m damn sure we wouldn’t be talking now!” Callow smiled, and Simon kicked himself inwardly for falling into the Lower Echelon’s functionary’s trap. Callow had been trying to get a rise out of him and had succeeded marvelously.
“Still,” Callow said, “how much do you know about him? About his motivations? About any agendas he might have.”
“Enough,” Litchfield muttered. “Besides,” he added, gesturing at the computer, “don’t tell me you don’t have our whole history together there. If we could get on with this…”
“Certainly,”
Callow said as he chuckled lightly to himself.
“We checked Mr. Weldon’s preposterous story. Checked our contacts in
“How much?”
“Enough, at least, for us to need more information.”
“Really,” Simon stammered. Callow nodded, and he slid a legal envelope over to Dr. Litchfield. “And what are these?” he asked as he started opening it.
“Press credentials for you and whoever you deem necessary,” Callow said. “You’re now a reporter for Ars Poetica magazine, coming to write an article on the great Sergei Illeyvich. According to the psychiatric ward’s staff, he’s actually in fairly good spirits for the most part, as long as you avoid certain subjects.”
“Subjects which I’m going to bring up,” Simon added. “That could be difficult, especially if he becomes agitated.”
“He
knows you’re coming,” Callow added. “He
thinks you’re CIA undercover, which suits him perfectly well. Nikita Egorov, who works for us as a
translator, popped in this morning to talk with him and to secure permission
for the interview. Fortunately, he normally works in the
“How efficient,” Simon said. “You moved quickly on this one. A little too quickly.” Callow sat back in his chair.
“Have you ever heard of a village named Taralma?”
“It doesn’t ring a bell,” Litchfield said. “Sounds Eastern European.”
“
“Sounds like a perfect place if you have something to hide,” Litchfield added. Callow nodded.
“So perfect, that something happened there, something remarkable, and yet it’s barely been reported at all. Several weeks ago, a small fire broke out at a stockyard. There’s nothing unusual about that. Nothing unusual except that no one did anything about it. No one at all. It burned, it spread. Business to business, house to house. A couple, in fact, were spotted in their living room doing nothing while their house burned down around them. When the first response came, it was over an hour after the blaze started, and over 70% of the village had been destroyed.”
Simon
ran his hands through his hair.
“Nothing at all. Sounds like a
very apathetic response.
“It does,” Callow said.
“And the Baikonur’s there as well,” Simon added. Callow nodded.
“Between Illeyvich’s claims and this little piece of news, well, it seems prudent to check this out.” Simon looked again in the envelope.
“I’d better put a team together then,” he said. “Is Nightbird One an option?”
“To
“Lucky me,” he said. “And this man, Egorov?”
“At
your disposal,” Callow said. “At least
in
“I’d
better get everything together,” he said, “and probably stop by Mel’s office
for some ‘just in case’ items. You’ll
notify
“The flight plan’s being filed now,” Callow said as he stood up. “Talk to Illeyvich. Get as much of the story as you can, and then take whatever actions you deem necessary, using the normal precautions of course. And, as always, remember that if you or any of your team are caught or killed…”
“Very funny,” Simon said as he was walking away. Suddenly, he stopped and looked back. “That was actually funny. You must be practicing in front of the mirror during those long, lonely nights.”
“Have a nice day, Dr. Litchfield,” Callow said cheerlessly. He looked down again at his computer, tracing his finger over the Taralma report.
****
Melvin Squibb, Nightwatch's Senior Inventory Control Manager, examined the flat, plasma screen monitor. Exactly as programmed, Nightwatch's inventory control system was compiling a quarterly report on equipment, hardware, software, and sensitive documentation within the main buildings of the institute's campus. His brown eyes lit up as every computer reported in, as every RFID tag reported its current disposition, as, in short, everything that was supposed to be there (officially at least) presented itself on Squibb's spreadsheet. Without taking more than a small amount of attention from the screen, he slid over in his plush rolling chair to another computer so that he could answer a requisition from a field unit. Several times he brushed back his paisley tie.
"Got
to buy another clip," he said to himself.
His perfectly manicured fingers finished typing in the appropriate
codes, and a warehouse in
"You're too impressed with all this, you know," Simon muttered from the door, and Melvin jumped slightly.
"Give me a break, Dr. Litchfield," he said as he smiled despite himself. "Molinski won't stop sending you jackasses out, and Dr. MacMillian wanted these damn reports yesterday evening. Multitasking...yeppers...multitasking's the only way to go."
"I'm sorry that those of us in the field are such a burden," Dr. Litchfield said jokingly. "Speaking of burdens...I need to talk to you about a Form 71X request." Squibb, who had been absently running his hand through his thick bob of gray-brown hair, suddenly experienced a complete change in demeanor.
"Form 71X," he said as he stood up, "yes indeedy. Well," he said as he walked across the room to close his office door, "let's just preserve the confidentiality of that client government, shall we?" Melvin had spoken just loudly enough for his voice to drift into the hall.
"
"On the Nightbird?" Squibb asked. Simon nodded. "Well, at least those goodies are covered. You have a translator?"
"For verbal communications, yes." Simon sat down in one of the plush faux-leather chairs in front of Melvin's desk. "If we have to interface with any electronics, no. We're going to be somewhat handicapped anyway since Ms. Keel is stuck here helping with your great inventory scavenger hunt."
Squibb nodded. “That’s your fault, of course.”
Simon’s eyebrows lifted. “I beg your pardon?”
“If you could manage to do your tasks without actually using up any inventory, then we wouldn’t have to keep track of it all, would we?”
Simon laughed. Melvin’s innocent-innocent voice had been perfect.
From beneath his desk, Squibb pulled up what appeared to be a standard leather briefcase. However, as he opened it, a compact wireless computer mounted within came to life.
"Let's see what we've got in the ole cupboard," Melvin said as his fingers slid over the keys. "'kay, we've got a translation matrix card in and...aah, yes...a wireless software patch system too."
"For the cell phone?" Simon asked, and Melvin nodded. "That matrix handle Russian?" Litchfield said. "I'd hate pulling information from a Russian computer using Maltese." Squibb tapped a few keys.
“Let’s just have a looksee…Russian, most of the regional
Slavic languages, Romanian, Armenian…this’ll get you a cup of coffee pretty
much anywhere in
"I'll take that," Simon murmured. "If that TASER's in, I wouldn't mind having it as well. Also, I'm supposed to be working for Ars Poetica magazine."
Melvin tapped the keys. "Let's see, two PDAs with as much official looking information as possible about Ars Poetica magazine. Callow have that info in the usual place?"
"Should," Simon affirmed.
"Anything else I can do for you?" Melvin queried. Simon laughed.
"Good question," he said. "I really don't know what I'm heading for. This could even turn into the mother of all wild-goose chases."
"Alrighty then," Melvin said with a smile. "If that's the case, would ya mind if I sent along a little care package?"
"Depends on what the package is," Simon uttered with great suspicion.
"It's a bio-signature masking system," Melvin said as he pulled the information up on the computer. "'This state-of-the-art personal protection system adds additional levels of personal security to field operatives. The system works through the application of...’"
"Edited highlights, please," Simon said as he held up both hands. "I don't need the damn sales brochure."
"Well, in the trials at least, this little American dream successfully blocked 90% of the user's biological and infrared signatures, plus, video cameras look at you but only see a blank space" Melvin said. "But, you know the way things are with prototypes. Everything needs to be tested under field conditions. If you don't mind taking it along..."
"Okay, Mr. Squibb," Simon said with some amusement. "Just for you, I'll take the little bugger along and give you a full report when we get back." The doctor stood up. “As far as you know, Nightbird One has all of the standard packages?”
“Yessiree,” Melvin said cheerfully. He patted the plasma screen. “Boys in
“Good. Right. Excellent. Well, wish me luck.” As he walked for the door, he turned around with a mischievous smile on his face. “I take it you don’t actually want 71X filled out and submitted in triplicate?”
“Not on your damn ass!” Melvin said as he packed away the suitcase and returned his attention to the inventory. “I got enough flotsam and jetsam floatin’ through here as it is. Besides, this isn’t a paper trail I want to keep, if you catch my meaning.”
“Right,” the doctor said as he opened the door. “I’ll get that fax to Addis Ababba by the morning. Thanks for your help.” Melvin waived his hand and then quickly moved to answer another far-flung request.
Once in the hall, Simon reached for his cell phone, turned on a device to secure the signal, and then speed-dialed a number. After a brief pause, during which he performed a quick mental inventory on an attractive brunette as she walked by, he finally spoke.
“Tom! You are home! Good. I can’t say much right now, but start packing, and pack lightly.” Simon nodded. “Yeah…yeah…usual precautions, just like last time. I’ll pick you up when it’s time to leave.”
****
Nightbird One, Nightwatch’s modified Canadair Regional Jet,
descended into Pulkovo II International Airport during a rainstorm and then
immediately taxied to the part of the facility normally reserved for diplomatic
traffic. Arrangements worked out in
advance with the Russian government allowed Nightwatch staff to transit through
the airport with little in the way of the usual customs issues. In truth, the discounts provided by
Nightwatch for economic consulting with the Russian Federation as well as the
cache the institute was able to lend when Russia dealt with its former and
often unstable republics were worth the blind eye cast by customs. Once Simon and Tom cleared the terminal,
they were immediately met by a new model, deep blue Lada driven by Nikita
Egorov, a translator for the
"Aren't we going a little low-tech?" Simon asked as he got into the car. He waited while Tom tried his best to squeeze into the back.
"AvtoVAZ is much better than it used to be,"
Egorov replied in a voice that was only lightly accented. The Russian was a lanky man of medium height
and was beginning to bald though his sandy blond hair, after being
strategically combed forward, hid this to the casual observer. "Nightwatch had enough faith in the
Lada to buy three of them for the
"Quid pro quo, and you know it," Litchfield
said. "
"But AvtoVAZ is much better than it used to be," Egorov said after a pause. "Renault is better, but there you go." Simon pulled out a pen and small notebook.
"So," Litchfield said, "you're the one who made the arrangements. Who does Sergei Illeyvich think we are?"
"CIA, as planned," Egorov said. "I was told to tell him you're a couple of spooks. That seemed to make him feel a little better, like someone was taking him seriously." Simon nodded.
"And our names?"
"Mike Green and Terry Wilcox," Egorov said. "If you don't like them, don't blame me. That was what I was told to say. Can I speak candidly?" Simon smiled as he wrote down the names. "I've never met Callow. I've never even heard his voice. But he sounds like a total prick."
"That's one way of putting it," Simon said with a grim laugh. "Imagine sitting face to face with him." Simon put the notebook back into his pocket.
"Mr. Egorov," Tom said from the backseat as he arranged himself to move closer.
"Nick," Egorov said. "Egorov's too formal. And Nikita always sounds like a James Bond villain when spoken by Westerners."
"Nick, then," Tom said with a professional smile. "You've met Mr. Illeyvich. What can you tell me about him?" Egorov suddenly moved from one lane of traffic to another, passing a UPS delivery van.
"Sad man, very sad man," Egorov said. "Pleasant enough, but you can see the hollowness in his eyes. You ever met someone who came back from a war zone?" Tom nodded sadly, and Simon scrolled through the options on a PDA he pulled from another pocket.
"Too many times," Tom said. "Too many times."
"When I was young," Egorov continued, "a
friend of mine went to
"Tell me," Tom continued, "personal impression. Did Illeyvich seem psychotic too you?"
"There's a poem I read once, an English poem,"
Egorov said. "'The world is too
much with me, late and soon,' something like that." Simon pulled up the information on Ars
Poetica one more time. "If
anything, he's too aware, the world’s too much with him. Or at least that's how it seemed to me, but
what hell do I know, eh?" With
that, the car pulled onto the road leading to
****
Upon reaching the hospital, the three of them gathered their materials and entered the building. They found the entrance to the psychiatric ward with very little difficulty--it was the one sitting immediately in front of a strong, metal-screened door. Nick spoke to the nurse, who appeared to Simon to be quite disdainful of the three of them.
"She says that Sergei is a gentle soul," Nick spoke. "He's a very sick man, and she doesn't want us to upset him." The nurse, a woman of stern demeanor and even sterner black-colored eyes, crossed her arms and let loose a stream of additional words. "If she had been on duty yesterday," Nick continued, "she would never have let us even speak with the doctor."
Simon moved and stood between Nick and the nurse. "I promise you," he said, "we will treat Mr. Illeyvich with only the utmost care and respect. He is one of the finest living poets, and Ars Poetica would be remiss if it didn't help support Mr. Illeyvich in his time of need." The nurse's expression remained the same as Nick translated. "Let us talk to him in his hour of need, remind him through our interview that he is still revered by thousands of individuals, people who wish him only the best. Billy Collins just yesterday urged us to pass on his deepest wishes for a speedy recovery, and Louise Glűck was practically in tears when she told us to convey on her best wishes." The nurse tightened her arms. "Surely a woman of your obvious intelligence and understanding, not to mention beauty, can see we mean him no harm." Simon generated his most charming smile.
Nick repeated the words in Russian. The nurse looked to the floor and shook her head. She turned to the guard at the ward's entrance and spoke to him, and he pressed a button on an intercom. Then, she spoke to Litchfield.
"You men think you can charm anyone with your silly words," Nick repeated. "If it wasn't for the permission forms from Dr. Yakolev, I wouldn't let you use the lavatory on the way out. Anyway...anyway..." Nick paused, but before he could continue, the guard motioned for them to go through the now open door. As the three of them entered, they were met by another guard on the other side of a steel antechamber. He opened an identical door, let them through, and then began escorting them to Sergei.
"Anyway, what?" Simon questioned. Nick laughed, and the laughter was repeated in a more sinister form by an unseen patient.
"I was only trying to figure out the right English words. The most accurate translation would be, 'Anyway, you're not man enough to handle me.'"
Simon arched his eyebrow. "Really." He broke into a wide smile. "How intriguing!" The guard took them past several locked metal doors before knocking on a wooden door. As it opened, a nurse looked first at the guard and then at the three newcomers. The guard spoke and the nurse nodded her head. She walked out of view, but her voice could be heard speaking to someone. A moment later she returned and motioned for everyone to enter.
It was immediately apparent that Sergei Illeyvich was not an ordinary patient. While his room was somewhat bare, it seemed substantially larger than a normal hospital room, and the bed, while still made with the usual hospital corners, seemed fluffier and more comfortable than standard fare thanks in part to extra blankets and to a green-checked quilt. Tom was somewhat alarmed until he noticed a complete absence of overhanging areas from which to lower a homemade noose. On a table nearby were several get-well cards in multiple languages, and a plate of pirogues sat waiting to be eaten. Sergei, dressed in pale blue dressing gown, was staring out the window at the rainy courtyard, and then he turned to see who had entered.
It was something of a shock for Tom to compare the reality to the pictures on the books on his shelves. Without the help of a professional photographer, Sergei Illeyvich looked withered and worn. His eyes were sunken deeply into his skull though they burned with a fierce light. His skin was pale and papery looking. When he saw the trio enter his room, he looked up and smiled very slightly.
Simon turned to Nick. "Can you ask them," he said pointing to the nurse and guard while reaching for the digital recorder with his other hand, "if we can have a little time alone with Mr. Illeyvich? I know we're not in an informal setting, but it'd be great if we could do this in the most relaxed manner possible."
Egorov turned and spoke with them. They, in turn, talked with each other, and finally the nurse spoke to Sergei, who nodded his head.
"Call us if..." the nurse started to say to Simon before she found herself at a loss for English words. Simon smiled reassuringly and nodded his head.
"Da!" Simon said reassuringly as he smiled. "Yes! No problem." The nurse returned the smile, and then she and the guard left the room. Finally, Egorov turned to address Sergei directly.
“Dobriy den,” Nick said, smiling politely.
“Good afternoon,” Sergei said as he sat down. His voice was very quiet and somehow smoother than Simon had expected. His English was excellent, flavored with a slight accent.
“We are…” Simon began, but Sergei interrupted him.
“The gentlemen from Ars Poetica?”
There was a slight pause before the name of the magazine, and Sergei’s smile had a slightly mocking quality to it that made Simon shake his head ruefully.
“Please, sit down.”
There were two chairs in the room other than the one that Sergei was using. Simon and Nick took those while Tom perched on the bed.
“You will,” Sergei continued, “understand that I have spent much of my life dealing with the security apparatus in one form or another. I have learned to recognize its variations and faces in its many guises. You are not from Ars Poetica.”
It was a flat and unassailable statement of fact.
Simon shook his head again. “Can we speak freely here?”
“Of course.” Sergei’s smile seemed genuine, but sadness underlay his every gesture. “I am a harmless old lunatic. No one bothers to keep an eye on me except to see that I do not kill myself because of the coming terror.” The faint note of mocking was back in his voice, but it had a gentleness to it that was oddly comforting.
“Sergei,” Tom said. The old man looked at him. “My name is…Terry. It’s an honor to meet you.”
“A fan?” Sergei asked.
“For many years,” Tom said with a smile.
Sergei sighed. “Those were different days.” There was a pause. “I am pleased that you have enjoyed my writing. I wish…” He shook his head. “Those were different days.”
“Are you working on anything now?”
Sergei blinked at him. “You are not from Ars Poetica,” he said again.
“No,” Tom agreed. “We aren’t. But I’m still a fan. I’ve read everything you’ve ever published.”
“You will forgive me,” Sergei said, “if I say that you do not look like someone who would read poetry.”
Tom laughed. “I get that a lot,” he said, flexing his shoulders. “But poetry is about what is below the surface at least as much as what is on the surface, isn’t it?”
“Touché,” Sergei said with a touch a genuine humor, though it still didn’t touch his eyes.
“Are you working on anything now?”
Sergei sighed. “No,” he said. “Not now. Not again.” He looked at Tom. “It takes a certain…fire to goad me into writing. That fire is gone. The life is gone. Not even a spark remains. I can’t write anymore.” He smiled sadly. “It doesn’t happen to us all, but it has happened to me.” He sighed. “But I do not think that you have come all this way to ask about my poetry. You came to ask me about the beast.”
“Yes. What can you tell us?”
“That it will rip the fabric of existence to shreds. That it will drag its claws through every human life and suck the marrow out of us all. That it will leaves us all as dry and withered as I am now.”
Sergei’s voice was rising slightly, and Tom stirred uneasily on his perch. His eyes were fixed on the old man’s face, and something that he was seeing was worrying him.
“I don’t expect you to believe me,” Sergei said.
“We’re here,” Tom interjected quietly.
Sergei blinked at him. “So you are,” he said.
“But we need something more than hyperbole,” Simon said. “We need some concrete information.”
“Concrete?” Sergei said. “Concrete?! What about Taralma? You know about Taralma? You know what happened there?”
“Yes,” Simon said.
“People sat in their homes, heedlessly, while they burned to death because they couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it? Have you thought about that with your concrete? Have you considered the thought of parents who couldn’t be bothered to walk into the back room and save their own infant son from the most hideous death imaginable? Is that concrete enough for you?”
“Sergei,” Tom said quietly.
“Oh, he wants concrete!” The old man rose to his feet and moved toward Simon. “What will it take for you, then? Will you need the surgeon to stand idly by while his patient hemorrhages? Perhaps you’ll need to find yourself not caring whether you live or die when the simplest of efforts would save your own life!” Sergei’s voice had risen steadily, and now he was starting to shout. “Is that what you need with your concrete? Would that convince you?”
The old man threw his arms into the air, whirled around once, started at Nick and then began to pour forth a volatile torrent of Russian. Nick stared at him, wide eyes. Simon braced himself against his chair. Sergei was clearly out of control, the words gushing out of him in an acid stream. His face was turning crimson and his arms were waving wildly around.
Tom rose quickly and approached the old man.
“Sergei,” he said, gently but insistently. “Seryozha.”
“Tom,” Simon said.
“Lock the door, Simon,” Tom said, not taking his eyes off of Sergei. “If they find him like this, they’ll probably kick us out.”
“All right.”
“Sergei,” Tom said, and then he began to speak easily in Russian.
Simon, on his way to the door, froze and looked back. Then he looked at Nick, who was listening, open-mouthed. Simon shook himself awake and then moved toward the door.
Tom kept up a steady stream of Russian as Sergei moved agitatedly around the room, waving his arms. He wasn’t shouting anymore although he was still talking rapidly and loudly.
Simon, after locking the door, moved toward Nick.
“He is speaking Russian?” he asked.
“Perfectly,” Nick said. “Did you know he could do that?”
“Not a clue,” Simon said. “What’s he saying?”
“He’s talking to him calmly, trying to distract him from what is agitating him. He has been saying some soothing things, but now he is talking about poetry. He is discussing meter and rhythm. Who is Tchelinko?”
Simon shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Neither do I. He…no…she is apparently a poetry critic?”
Gradually, as Tom talked, Sergei began to grow calmer. Suddenly, a moment came when Sergei froze and stared at Tom.
“What’s he saying now?” Simon asked.
“He is reciting part of a poem,” Nick said. “It is called 'Black Pearls.'” He cocked his head to one side, and then he began to recite:
"I am a poor man on a ship of fools
a ship in mud sailing a greasy circle.
But even on this doomed little tramp,
I have hope. Yes, I have hope,
for I have seen the march of time,
seen little steps and little faces covered
in licorice and lime, smiling at the sun.
Even black pearls were once grains of sand,
so shall our children change us
to black jewels of the land."
Sergei hung on Tom's words, the poet’s own words, and as Tom neared the end of the piece, the psychologist switched from Russian to English.
Sergei spoke dreamily. "You know me well. That one has never been published."
"Blogs," Tom said gently. "You spoke in
"'Black Pearls,'" he said. "A good germ. I always meant to come back to it, to make it a proper thing. But now..."
"Now," Tom said, "you can do something, something to help us understand the beast. Maybe then you'll feel that fire again pushing you to write." Sergei looked up, tears welling in the corners of his eyes.
"If only I could believe again," he said softly. "You are CIA? You will believe me?" Simon, finally recovered from the outburst and from Tom's sudden display of linguistic skill, moved closer.
"Tell us," he said. "Help us understand what we're fighting. Without you, we'll never understand what happened in Taralma." Sergei lifted a bony finger and wiped the tears away.
"It all started seven years ago," he said quietly and slowly, "when word came that my father, Piotr, was being eaten away by cancer." Tom and Simon quickly took their seats and moved closer. Simon switched on the digital recorder. "Piotr was in terrible pain, more terrible than I could understand. In dying, you see, you enter a journey that allows few companions. It is a lonely time."
"Piotr used to work for the Soviets," Simon added, "helping design weapons. He told you something, didn't he?” Sergei looked at Simon.
"Yes," Sergei said. "What you say is true. He was a stern man, a rigid brute for much of his life." Sergei's hands began moving more and more as he spoke. "One had to be in those days. The bureaus were very unforgiving of failure. One of my father's friends went to work one day only to never be seen again, to never even be acknowledged. I thought for years he'd defected, or had been killed for failure on the job." Sergei looked at Tom. "I was wrong, young man, so very wrong." Sergei stood up and walked with difficulty towards an old porcelain sink in the back of the room.
"Go on, Sergei," Tom said. "What did Piotr tell you?" Sergei splashed his face with cold water, and then he stood over the basin as droplets fell from his face. His lower lip was quivering.
"The man's name, my father's friend," Sergei continued, "was Kovalenko. He was the first." Sergei's eyes widened, and as he turned his head, strays drops of water flew off. "He was the first victim of the beast...of the monster...the monster my papa helped create."
The poet sat again on the bed and folded his arms on his lap. Simon sat and moved as close as he could while Tom stood, his back against the wall, in front of Sergei. Nick sat in the other chair but stayed back some distance.
"Piotr Illeyvich worked, so I thought, with Tupolev Design Bureau, doing something or other with bombers. I remember that he was always fascinated by the contra-rotating propellers on the big one, the one you call the Bear I think. When I was a teenager, however, I heard him speaking in the living room of our apartment. Comrade Kovalenko was there." His scratched his throat. "I wonder if I could have a glass of water." Nick jumped up and moved to the sink.
"What were they talking about?" Simon asked.
"It took me a few minutes, a few minutes bought by the obliviousness grown men sometimes show towards children, to understand they weren't talking about aeroplanes." Nick handed him the glass of water. "Weapons. They spoke of weapons. Fiercesome devices of fire and..." Sergei drank nearly all of the water in one long gulp. "They spoke of yields, of flashpoints, all of the nasty things war brings. Papa and Kovalenko were taking a great risk talking about these things. Even then I knew our phones were under surveillance, that our apartment was sometimes watched."
"Was the apartment ever bugged?" Tom asked.
"Not to my knowledge, and not to my father's. We spoke of this late in his life, after the
"They spoke of weapons," Simon continued. "I know that would have been interesting enough, but they must have spoken of something else too, something that caused you to remember the conversation." Sergei closed his eyes and shook his head.
"It was something they didn't say that stuck with me, that came flashing back into my mind when Papa spoke from his deathbed." Sergei continued, "Comrade Kovalenko said one word, and my papa, who was never fazed by anything, suddenly turned white as a ghost and begged--practically begged--for him to speak no more."
"And the word was?" prompted Tom.
Sergei opened his mouth, but the sounds seemed to take a long time to organize themselves before they finally came out in a voice little more than a whisper. "Alconost," he breathed.
"The myth-bird?" Nick asked almost in spite of himself. "The Siren of Sorrow?"
"Sorrow," Sergei said, "or joy, a patron of the sciences...too many things in Russian mythology to catalog. But I don't think that was what Papa was talking about. According to legend, those who hear Alconost's song forget everything, leave everything, follow the sound of her voice and of her religious recitations. Forget everything. You see? No more cares...nothing concrete...descent into ephemeral abstraction..." Sergei's eyes were starting to flutter. "Alconost!"
"Seryozha," Tom said quietly, "stay with us. You said you talked with your father before he died. Is that what he told you about? Alconost?" Sergei closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He opened his eyes again and stared at Tom. Sergei began speaking again, but his words were in Russian.
"Translate, Nick," Tom said as he kneeled in front of Sergei. "I think he's using me to maintain concentration." Nick moved forward, and tried to catch up.
"My son," Nick said, "you must go to the Patriarch. Beg him, beg him, if you ever loved your father, to let me in. To put in a good word, to tell Him I'm so sorry for the evil I've done." Nick licked his lips while Sergei paused. "Simon, I think these are his father's words."
"That's what I was thinking, too," Simon repeated. He looked to see that his recorder was still running, and then Sergei started speaking again.
"Papa, I know what you were doing," Nick said. "You worked in service of your homeland. God does not brand such people with the mark of Cain." Nick sat on his knees. "Sergei, you don't understand. Kovalenko. I'm responsible...I unhooked the leash, I let it loose upon him. Let what loose, Papa? The beast, Apathy, Alconost! Papa, that word, I remember..." Sergei stood up, and Tom stood up with him, moving closer and touching the old man's shoulders. Sergei's breathing was slow and rhythmic. Tom spoke in Russian.
"I remember Alconost, Papa," Nick said, translating Tom. "Comrade Kovalenko spoke it that time in the apartment." Sergei's lips started to move, but it was a second before his voice caught wind.
"Poor Kovalenko," Sergei was saying as Nick
repeated the words, "I told him to run, but he didn't care. He couldn't care! The beast had him in its claws!
I tried to rein it in, I pulled hard to put it back in the cage, but
there was nothing left of Kovalenko, nothing to send home. I damned his wife and children to
"But Papa," Tom said, this time in English, "what happened to Alconost? To Apathy?"
"We put it back in its cage, my son, slammed shut the gate," Sergei said in English as well. "May it be damned! But I fear it lives, Sergei. My god, I fear it still lives!" Sergei slowly slipped to the bed, and Tom laid him down, covering him with one of the quilts.
"We'll let him rest for a minute," Tom said firmly, "and then we'll have to leave. He wasn't just mimicking, Piotr. He was Piotr. That memory is starting to subsume him, and it will if he doesn't rest."
"Do you have enough to go by?" Nick asked Simon. Simon stopped the recorder.
"I don't know," he said. He looked up at Tom. "How medicated do you think Piotr was?"
"Probably quite a bit," Tom said as he stared down at Sergei. "Enough that he may not have been able to speak clearly. At least I hope so. Otherwise, the Soviets were literally engineering some sort of apathy beast." Simon stood up.
"Whatever it was, Kovalenko got in the way and paid the price for it," Simon said. "Tom?"
"Don't even think it," he said, anticipating Simon's question. "I'm going to wake him in a second, but I'll be damned if I'll let you ask any more questions. He can't handle it." Simon nodded. Pressing a button on the recorder, he ejected the digital cassette, placed it in one of his coat pockets, and replaced the cassette with another one. Lifting the recorder, he pressed 'play.'
"My first garret, if you will," Sergei's voice said, "was near the Sunshine Motel on the Bowery. The place was littered with the refuse of the world, but in those wandering souls were so many kernels of golden truth." Simon stopped the cassette.
"On the flight over," Simon spoke, "I made a tape from several of Sergei's older interviews. Just in case anyone wanted to hear a sample. Okay Tom, wake him up." Tom nodded.
"Sergei," he said quietly. "Seryozha, it's To...Terry. We have to go. The interview went well. Remember, the interview went well."
"Only if Ars Poetica has gone into intelligence gathering," he said in a weak but mocking voice. Suddenly, he bolted upright, and Tom reached down to settle him. "Mr. Green," he said to Simon. "My apartment. There is a loose floorboard, and a shoebox. A small notebook from Sharper Image. A small notebook...do you understand?"
"We understand," Tom said soothingly. "Go ahead. Go back to sleep. Lord knows you deserve the rest." With that, Sergei Illeyvich fell back onto the pillow and was asleep before Tom switched off the light, and the three of them walked into the hallway and called for the guard.