The Watchers by Mark Andrew Olsen

professional. No matter how strongly he shuddered in the mere presence of this creature, he inwardly vowed to maintain his high principles.
    â€œMr. Mladov,” he replied, “we at the United Nations pride ourselves on treating our inmates as persons. As a result, you have heard correctly—we do provide certain humane amenities to those we house. They are intended to foster an atmosphere of respect and concern for basic human rights.”
    The six-foot-four general now smirked at the handcuffs still binding his wrists, and over at the nearly adolescent guard four yards away in the corner. He glanced up and down at the boy’s blue UN uniform. He took note of the Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun held tightly in soft, unblemished hands.
    Three seconds with that gun and I could be out of here, the general told himself. I’d wager the boy doesn’t even know how to flip off the safety .
    Then he began to shake his head almost mournfully as though he could not believe the nonsense he was hearing.
    â€œAnd yes,” the warden continued, “under certain circumstances, that includes medical massages for inmates who suffer from the tensions and ills of incarceration. Therefore, I will grant your request, but just this once. Are we clear on the matter?”
    Mladov smiled coldly at the rising undercurrent of indignation in the bureaucrat’s voice. He nodded just barely enough for the man to notice, but no more.
    â€œFine,” the warden said. He turned to the hallway behind him and frowned at a man standing in a flawless pinstriped suit. “As soon as the inmate is processed into his cell, grant him a medical massage. Rudi is out sick, so you’ll have to call in the reserve man. Sixty minutes, and not a second more.”
    Without meeting Mladov’s eyes another time, the warden turned on his heels and strode away.
    Less than one hour later, Radovan Mladov was not sitting sullenly on a prison bench, as thousands of Croats and Muslims back in Yugoslavia had wistfully imagined. He was stomach down on a padded massage table deep within the Scheveningen prison complex, bare to the waist with his eyes closed in bliss.
    An impassive and impressively fit man in white clothes had awaited his entrance, standing against the wall with his arms crossed behind his back. The armed guard had retreated, locked the door, and taken up station behind a large, thickly glassed window. Then the man had finally moved. He stepped forward and began the session as emotionlessly as a robot programmed for the task.
    Within a few minutes the general had turned his face toward the therapist. Ignoring the young man’s unusually thick shoulders and narrow build, he forced one eye to take in the masseur’s young, inscrutable face. “So, do I get a cigarette after this?” he asked.
    The man had not even rolled his eyes at the comment. Without looking up from his vigorous kneading of the prisoner’s back, he merely said, “You may smoke anytime you like, Herr General.”
    Mladov furrowed his eyebrows at those last two words, not caring for the parting use of German and its obvious implication. The man had even pronounced General with a hard g , just like the Nazi lackeys in those old war movies. Despite his having no German accent whatsoever.
    The Serb decided to overlook the comment and preserve the mood. He moaned softly and soaked in both the bliss of the procedure and the absurdity of this moment. Who would have believed prison life could be so coddled. . . ?
    Then he felt pain spread like a puddle of fire across his back.
    â€œHey!” he said sharply, rising to face the man. “You trying to hurt me? What is happening here?”
    The stranger lowered himself, faced him squarely in the eye, and shook his head without a change in expression. Mladov noted that the man’s eyes radiated a glacial calm. A poise he glimpsed in few men. Back in Zagreb and under different circumstances