In the summer of 1531, Medici soldiers, working for Pope
Clement VII, tortured to death an obscure Swiss monk, Eu-sebius
Eisenreich. What Eisenreich would not reveal was the
location of a simple manuscript.


The Pope never found it.




prologue


wolf point, montana, 1998

The wash of moonlight through the trees shadowed the underbrush
and speckled the arms and legs of the three darting
figures in an eerie glow. In and out of the slats of light they
moved, swiftly, urgently, without a sound. The biting chill of
the night air lashed against the few patches of revealed flesh on
their faces, but they had no time to think of such things. The
road. Get to the road. Taut young bodies, made fit through
hours of training and drills, had learned to shut out the burning
strain that now crept through their limbs. Two weeks of subzero
temperatures had left the wooded floor a hardened mass of
soil and roots, uneasy footing; even so, they were making excellent
time. Another ten minutes and they would be through.

None of the three, however, had fully considered the options
beyond that. They knew only that they would be alone, outside
the compound, far removed from the near-idyllic world they
had inhabited for the past eight years--a place where young
boys and girls had learned to excel, to challenge themselves, all
the while content to be a part of the whole. Insulated and surrounded
by others of "equal promise," reared for a purpose, a
destiny. It was what the old man had taught the children, what
they themselves believed. Memories of lives before Montana-- families, friends, places--had long ago faded. Everything and
everyone they needed had always been here. There had been no
reason to look elsewhere.


I ..


r



2	Jonatnan Raoo


No reason until the three had begun to see beyond the rote
commands, beyond the need to please. Perhaps they had simply
come of age. Young girls grown to women. Whatever the reason,
they had come to understand what the old man expected of
them, what he expected of everyone. And it had confused and
frightened them. No longer willing to accept without question,
they had begun to talk among themselves. They had begun to
raise questions.

"You are not meant to ask," he had said. "You are meant to
do. Is that clear?"

"We don't understand," they had answered.

The punishment had been quick and severe. "A kind reminder,"
he had told them. But it had not been the days without
food, the days shut away and beaten that had caused them to
question the world they had known for so long, nor even the
none-too-subtle hint that they might somehow be expendable
should their concerns ever arise again. It had been his answer:
" You are not meant to ask.... You are meant to do." Autonomy
stripped away in a single phrase. And still they had wondered.
Had that been the message all along? Had that been what
he had trained them to believe? No. They knew there was no
challenge in that, no inducement to excel--only the brutality of
the threat.

And so they had decided to run.

They had left just after midnight. Silent jaunts from separate
cabins had brought the three of them to the gate, the youngest,
at fourteen, with a genius for things electronic; she had taken
care of the trip wires, a simple matter of misdirection to give
them just enough time to slip through the fence and into the
cover of the trees. Nonetheless, there had been a moment of
near panic, a guard appearing not more than twenty yards from
them just as the two thin beams of light disengaged. Each girl
had frozen, facedown in the brilloed grass; but he had moved
on, unaware of the three figures lying within the shadows. Evidently,
their jet black leggings, turtlenecks, and hoods kept
them well hidden.

Now, the first minutes into the woods were passing with rel-
the
overseer	3


ative ease. A few sudden ruts in the soil ripped at their ankles,
branches everywhere tore into the soft flesh of their cheeks, but
they were moving--an undulating column of three bodies dipping
and slashing its way through the onslaught. The intermittent
streaks of light were making the ruts easier to see; they
were making everything easier to see. One guard on the deep
perimeter and they knew they would have little chance of making
it through. They had hoped for pitch-black, or perhaps even
a heavy cloud cover. No such luck. At least the downhill gradient
was helping to propel them along.

Coming into a small clearing, the last of the trio was the first
to hear it. Distant at first, then with greater urgency, the sound
of pursuit. For a moment, she thought it might be an echo, but
the cadence was uneven, the tempo accelerating with each step.
There was no need to tell the others. They had heard it as well.
As one, they quickened their pace, arms and legs less controlled,
knees buckling under the strain. With a sudden burst, beams of
light began to crisscross the trees around them, instinct telling
them to bend low, lead with their heads as they pushed through
the mad swat of limbs that clawed at their faces with even
greater intensity.

"Split," whispered the girl at the front, loudly enough for the
others to hear. They had talked about it weeks ago, had understood
that one of them had to get through, explain what was
going on inside. Their best chance for that would be alone,
apart. One by one, they flared out, no time even to glance back
at one another, no place for such thoughts. The road. Get to the
road. A moment later, the first barrage of gunfire erupted overhead.


A stooped figure stared out into the night sky, hands clasped to
his chest in an attempt to gain a bit of added warmth. The thin
cardigan draped over his ancient shoulders had been the only
piece of clothing at hand when the message had come through.
For some reason, though, he was enjoying the cold, perhaps as
penance for his failure. The young ladies-had compromised the



4	Jonathan RabL


fence, just as he had predicted. The team was closing in; and
yet, he felt only the loss. He had hoped they would have
learned. He had never liked these moments, the few occasions
when fate forced him to hunt down his own. The three boys in
Arizona. The two in Pennsylvania. And now this. Especially at
so crucial a moment. There was no time for such distractions.
But then, what other choice was there? They had been foolish.
They had failed to understand. Or perhaps he had failed to
awaken them to the possibilities.

A voice crackled through the radio clutched in his hand.
"We're closing in on two of them. Do we shoot to kill?"
The old man slowly drew the radio to his mouth. "You are
to stop them. You are to bring them back." The delivery precise,
meticulous, without a trace of emotion. "The method is unimportant."

There must always be a place for sacrifice. The words he had
read so long ago, whose truth he had accepted without question,
once again flooded back. Somehow, though, their certainty
could never explain why it was always the ones with the greatest
gifts, the ones with the greatest promise, who ultimately disappointed.
Fate seemed to be mocking him at every turn.

Several shots rang out, angry streaks through a silent sky. He
waited, eyes fixed on the distant trees, the wide expanse
shrouded in darkness. A moment later, silence. It was finished.
He nodded and turned to the house, aware of the light flicking
on inside the first-floor guest room. He had hoped not to
awaken any of his visitors. He had hoped not to trouble them
with tonight's little episode. No matter. They had always understood.
They had never disappointed. They would understand
again.


the first volley strafed across a tree not more than five feet
from her, the bark ricocheting in all directions, a single piece
glancing off her thigh as she dove to the ground. An instant
later, a second burst rifled past her, the bullets seemingly inches
from her head. Every instinct told her to scream, her throat too

the overseer	5


tight to offer little more than gasps of air, her chest heaving in
abject terror. She wanted to move, but again a wave of bullets
sliced into a nearby tree. The road. Get to the road. She tried to
remind herself that she had been trained for such things, had
spent nights in the freezing cold preparing herself for such moments,
and yet now, with her own life hanging in the balance,
she lay frozen, unable to move, unable to think. The road had
become a hollow refuge amid the frenzy around her.

Another wave erupted, this time accompanied by a muted
shriek off to her left; she turned, and a moment later watched as
a figure staggered out from behind a tree. There, hands held out
at her side, eyes wide, stood the youngest of the trio, a strange
smile etched across her face. She looked dazed, almost peaceful,
swaying ever so slightly with each step. It was impossible
not to stare at her, the moonlight cutting across her torso, her
entire body streaked with blood as she moved up the incline.
She was reaching for a branch to steady herself when a final
hail of bullets drove through her tiny frame, almost lifting her
off the ground before collapsing her into a pile at the base of a
tree. Only her arms, thin reeds draped around the trunk, lent the
image a human quality.

Every flashlight seemed to zero in on the lifeless mass; instantly,
figures appeared higher up on the incline, making their
way down to the kill. For several seconds, the girl who had witnessed
the macabre scene stared at her friend's corpse, unable
to tear herself away. Finally, though, after what seemed an eternity,
she sprang to her feet and clambered through the rapid descent
of trees and underbrush, her fingers digging deep into the
soil to grant herself an added leverage. She could give no
thought to the lights that, almost at once, cascaded all around
her, her only image the vague outline of a border, the road beyond
drawing her closer and closer.

The first of the bullets pierced her upper arm, the momentary
shock blocking out the surge of pain that, seconds later,
drove up through her stomach and ignited her flesh in icy
flame. The next tore into her thigh, jolting her legs out from underneath
her, her torso and head dashed to the rock-hard



. ^


r



6	Jonathan rood


ground, pummeling her body over roots and gnarls until her
chest collided with the trunk of a tree.

And then silence.

She lay perfectly still, aware of the racing activity behind
her, her eyes focused on the strip of road not more than fifteen
feet beyond her. The road. A gleam of light appeared in front of her, her first thought the flashlights from above. With what little
strength she had, she raised herself up and turned toward her
pursuers, expecting to feel the probing glare of their high beams
on her face. Instead, she saw only darkness. For a moment, she
didn't understand; she then turned back. Lights on the rood. Lights from a car. The pain in her leg now pulsed throughout
her left side, but still she forced herself to crawl along the
ground. The grassy embankment lay just beyond the tree line,
only a few feet from her grasp. She looked to her right and saw
the headlights bob up from the distance, the car now no more
than a quarter of a mile from her. She tried to stand, but her leg
would not respond.

The last wave of bullets drove into her back and pinned her
to the embankment. Strangely enough, she did not feel them.
Instead, they seemed to lift the pain from her body, the grass
now warm, inviting, the lights bathing her in a soft caress.
Everything weightless, still.

Numb, save for the sweet taste of blood on her lips.


and there was nothing you could do?" asked the old man.
"The driver pulled over before you could get there? You had no
chance to retrieve the body?"

"None."

"I see." He shifted the pillow under his back and took a
sip of water from the glass at his bedside table. "And the two
others?"

"Secured."

He nodded. "You say she was dead?"

"Yes."

"But not when the driver arrived?"

the overseer	7


"I said I couldn't confirm--"

"Yes, yes," he interrupted, the first signs of frustration in his
tone. "You said you could not confirm that a sixteen-year-old
girl whom you had just shot several times in the back was
dead."

"If she wasn't dead when he arrived, she was dead within a
minute. At most."

"Marvelous."

"It was an absolute fluke that the car--"

"Do not try to excuse your incompetence. You permitted her
to get within five feet of that road. Fluke or not, the car was
there. Which means that our young lady friend is now at some
hospital, some morgue, or some police station, under the watchful
eye of one of our local law-enforcement specialists. Not exactly
what I had asked of you." Silence. "You will leave here at
once. All of you. Weapons, clothing. You will see to it that the
grounds are taken care of. No tracks. I want nothing that might
lead them here. Is that understood?"

"Yes."

"You will then remove yourself until I call upon you. Is this
also understood?"

"Yes."

"Good." The old man sat back against the pillow, the brief
tirade at an end. "Your mistakes, of course, will not be impossible
to correct. Difficult, yes, but not impossible." He nodded.
"Still, you did well with the other two." The younger man nodded.
"That is, perhaps, worth something."

A minute later, the old man lay alone in the dark, his eyes
heavy, though as yet unable to rekindle sleep. A fluke, he
thought. Only a fluke. How many times had he heard it? Once
again, fate has played her ace.

Drifting off, he knew it would be her last.

^•wfib
part
It/flaw—
r


I

Power clings to those wno recognize its discord ana
who can tarn that discord to dominance.


-- On Supremacy, ckapter I


th,

I he failed putsch in Jordan. During Bush's little war."
Arthur Pritchard looked up from his desk. "Who was onto that
before any of us saw it coming?" His long face and bushy eyebrows
invariably gave the impression of an angry stork ready to
I pounce.

"The putsch ... ?" asked the man seated across from him,
suddenly realizing who Pritchard was talking about. "No, Arthur. You know that's not possible."

Pritchard nodded, an air of New England refinement in the
|	gesture. "True. Still..." He let the word settle; it was a favorite

tactic. A product of the right schools, the appropriate clubs,
Pritchard was anything but the dull-witted WASP his family
and friends had tried to cultivate. When, at the age of forty, single
and painfully aware that he had little to look forward to save
another thirty years at the esteemed Boston firm of Digby &
Combes, he'd pulled up roots and applied for a position at
State. Washington. A city that had always held a certain fascination
for him. The power? He often wondered. If so, his meteoric
rise had brought more than he could have imagined.

Even through the mayhem of '74. Somehow he had man-

"S



12


Jonathan Rabb

r


the overseer


13







aged to keep himself far enough from the fray; when everything
fell back in place, he had been offered a most unusual position.

The Committee of Supervision. A nebulous title for a Truman
brainchild instituted during, of all things, the desegregation
of the military. A covert office within State to ensure that "rules were being followed." Truman, of course, had given the
Committee considerable leeway in defining those rules--and in
safeguarding them, "by whatever means necessary." Over the
years, any number of difficult tasks had carried the mark of
COS, and with each new enterprise, the Committee had consolidated
every ounce of leverage thrown its way. Somehow
during the power struggles of the seventies and eighties, when
CIA and NSC had vied for favorite-son status, COS had quietly
established itself as the most adept of the three--Nicaragua,
Phnom Penh, Iraq. In so doing, it had set itself apart. Above the
competition. Autonomous. In fact, only a handful of people in
Washington understood the Committee's capacity. Arthur
Pritchard was one. It was why the Montana file lay on his desk.

"She's perfect," he continued, framed by a window reflecting
Washington at dusk; ceiling-high bookshelves, oak paneling, and
antique furniture added to the image Pritchard meant to convey.
The beam from a single lamp shone down on the near-empty
desk. "She's familiar with the dynamic, the motivation." He
leaned back in his chair, swiveled so as to take in the last bits of
the sun. "Why the hesitation?"

Bob Stein shifted in his chair, his thick cream white fingers
squeezing into the green leather. His face, like his body, was
pear-shaped, the entire effect accentuated by the small tuft of
hair he kept close-cropped at the crown. Bob was most at home
when staring at his computer or satellite printouts, painstaking
hours fueled by diet Coke and cheese balls. Bringing his hands
to his lap, he answered, "Look, I'm as anxious to follow this up
as anybody, but she's not..."

"Yes?" asked Pritchard.

"I just don't think she's ... capable anymore. That simple."

" 'Capable'?" Pritchard turned and smiled. 'To flip over a

few rocks? Wasn't that what we were in Montana to do in the
first place?"

"We were there," Stein explained, "to snap a few photos of
the venerable Senator Schenten with a few men he's not supposed
to be that chummy with. Ask the senator why he--champion of
the New Right--has been meeting with Messrs. Votapek, Tieg,
and Sedgewick, and then see where things lead."

"A general sweep," piped in the third of the trio, comfortably
seated on the couch against the far wall, and busy unbending
a paper clip. Infamous for his plaid shirts and short, fat,
cream-colored ties, Gaelin O'Connell was one of the shrewder
analysts at COS. He was a tank of a man, just over six feet tall,
and easily 220 pounds, more and more of which was tending to
jiggle with each passing year. A onetime operative with both the
NSC and the Committee, he'd been with Pritchard since Watergate,
brought in to deal with some of the stickier issues facing
a government back from the precipice. It had been a
short-term transfer that had lasted over twenty years, fifteen of
which had seen him in the field. Together, the two men had
molded a disciplined core of operatives, men and women with
the cunning to survive in a highly explosive arena.

But survive alone. That had been the aim at the outset.
Those in the field flew solo--a few words over a phone, a command
from a computer--none permitted even to know the
building from which their orders came. -A single, unknown
voice of authority. O'Connell had often thought it ironic that
there was no room for group players in the Committee. Both he
and Pritchard, though, had recognized early on that such an
arrangement was vital to COS's integrity; and they had spent
long hours creating an infrastructure that produced strict operative
independence.

Not surprisingly, the two had grown on each other over the
years. In fact, it had been Pritchard who had finally convinced
O'Connell to get rid of the polyester pants. He was still working
on the ties. "A minor operation to make sure that the money
of politics remains ostensibly aboveboard." The Irish lilt was
unmistakable.


14


Jonathan Rabb

the overseer


15







"Exactly," answered Stein. "We track them, find them together,
and start asking questions. Then, whammo, a dead girl
turns up. This might sound a little weird, but I don't think we
can ignore that given Anton Votapek's history. I told you we
should have picked him up the moment we located him."

" 'Picked him up' ?" asked Pritchard somewhat incredulously.
"For what? For something that happened nearly thirty
years ago, and that no one's ever been able to prove? A few
children go berserk in the woods of upstate New York during
the Summer of Love, and you think it's linked to this!"

"The Tempsten Project was '69, not the Summer of Love,"
corrected Stein.

"Dating aside," O'Connell conceded, "he's right, Bob. A girl
appears on a tiny strip of Montana highway, less than a mile
from an area we've been watching for about a week--for reasons,
lest we forget, that have nothing to do with teenage girls. Nothing. She's riddled with bullets; just then, -some unknown
character drives by, pulls over, clasps her in his arms, and has
time to hear her blurt out one word before she dies. One word."
O'Connell tossed the paper clip onto the coffee table. "Where's
the connection?"

"All right," countered Stein, "but then, why no records?
Less than seven hours after the incident, police and hospital reports,
gone; the guy who picked her up, vanished. It's as if the
girl never existed--no past, no family, not even dentals. If we
hadn't been running the sweep, there'd be no trace at all. I'm
telling you, it's a little weird given Votapek's history."

"Votapek's history," Pritchard repeated. "Wonderful. And
because of that, you think our conservative senator and his
cronies are killing young girls." He turned to Stein. "Whatever
the history, Bob, I find that very hard to believe."

"Then why the missing records? Why the complete whitewash?"

"We could always ask Schenten," smiled O'Connell. " 'Excuse
me, Senator, but we seem to have found a dead girl in your
vicinity. Any comments?' " He shook his head and again

picked up the clip. "We weren't even supposed to be there in the first place. You'll have to do--"

"Granted," Stein admitted. "But we still have the dossiers on
the folks who were there--Votapek, Tieg, and Sedgewick. If
nothing else, we have to see if there's a connection between
their arrivals and the girl."

"And, of course, the dying word." O'Connell shook his
head. "Which was ... what, Bob?"

Stein hesitated. "To be honest, sound and visual distortions
were tough. Our guys were over a hundred yards from the
point--"

"Technoexcuses aside, what did she say?"

"As best as we can make out--Enreich."

"Enreich," exhaled O'Connell. "Now that's very helpful.
He--or she--could be anybody. Or maybe it's not even a
person."

"Do we have anything on it?" asked Pritchard.

"A former East German dissident--Ulf Peter Enreich--disappeared
in the spring of '63," replied Stein. "The body was
confirmed in '74. We're still running the name; something
might come up, but Gael's right. Beyond that, it's a dead end."

"As you know, gentlemen, I don't like dead ends. Not at
all." Pritchard took the file in his hands and leaned back.

"We could pressure Tieg and Sedgewick," offered Stein.
"See where--"

"Because of the girl?' chided O'Connell. "Where in the hell
do you get that? We don't even have an idea how the three men tie into Schenten, let alone to one another. And Votapek--the
linkup there is pure guesswork. It might surprise you, Bob, but
being a conservative doesn't make you a conspiratorial loony."

"Just someone with a misguided perspective."

"Whatever young Mao here might think," O'Connell continued,
"all we know is that they've been visiting the senator
with some frequency. Once in August, twice in October, and,
now, two nights ago. Let's not forget, this was a minor operation.
Snap a few photos; ask a few questions." He turned to
Stein. "Why the cover-up, Bob? Maybe the sheriff was having


16


Jonathan Raoo

r


the overseer


17





a little something on the side. It got out of hand and he didn't
want anyone to know. It'll be a made-for-TV movie. That
doesn't, however, make it a Committee priority. Sorry, boys,
but right now, our recently deceased young friend--"

"Is a dead end," interrupted Pritchard. He tossed the file
onto the desk. "Which would seem to bring us back to my earlier
suggestion."

O'Connell said nothing for a moment. "I thought we'd
agreed--"

"To leave her alone?" answered Pritchard. "She's had time
to recover."

"Recover?" The Irishman seemed unable to find the words;
then, as if explaining something very rudimentary, he spoke.
"She's now part of research, Arthur. At State proper--"

"And, no doubt, bored out of her mind."

"Which is probably a very big step forward for her." O'Connell
waited for a response; when none came, he reminded
Pritchard, "State's not Committee jurisdiction. You couldn't
touch her even if you wanted to."

"We both know that's not true." He stood and moved to the
bar. "She'll turn over a few rocks. Test her wings. Probably the
best thing for her."

"Have you been listening, Arthur?" O'Connell had become
far more animated. "Putting her back in the field, no matter
how simple the task--"

"She's perfect. Her work in Jordan remains textbook."

"Was perfect, Arthur. Was." He watched as Pritchard took a
sip of his drink. "Or are you forgetting what she was like after Amman?" He waited until their eyes met. "This is not an issue
for discussion. We leave her alone, Arthur. We let her get on
with her life."

"Actually ... she already has some of the information."

"What?" It was Stein who spoke. "That's all very sensitive
--"

"Don't worry, Bob," Pritchard continued, avoiding O'Connell's
gaze. "She has the absolute minimum. Names of organizations,
various players--oh, and that Enreich thing. If nothing


else, she might be able to figure out how that fits in. All of it's
through our contacts in research, so there's no way to link it to
this office."

"It's not this office I'm concerned with," snapped O'Connell.

"The report reads like a routine fact finder on the New
Right," Pritchard continued, "no mention of Schenten, our operation,
the girl--"

"What?" O'Connell was doing everything he could to contain
his rage. "Her mental state aside, you brought her in blind?"

"The report's been put together so that she'll think she's
doing a general file update. Don't worry--nothing to set off
any alarm bells."

O'Connell stared for a long moment at his old friend. "As
much as I agree that Bob is blowing this thing way out of proportion,
these are major players here, Arthur. Being chummy
is one thing, but if the killing is connected--if these men are capable of that--we'd have to ask why. We'd be throwing her
into something potentially far more dangerous than Amman."

"And that's exactly why she's perfect." Pritchard's tone became
far more pointed. "If it turns out that this is all a wild-goose
chase, then we've wasted a little of her time, and saved
ourselves far more by not having to mount an entire operation.
If not... she knows how to take care of herself."

"That remains open to debate."

The two men stared at each other; Pritchard then arched his
back and turned to the window. Streaks of pink and red darted
through the clouds, sending a single beam of light onto the
dome of the Capitol. "You know, I love this view. Insisted on
the office. Smartest thing I ever did." The ice in his drink
popped and sent a rivulet of whiskey over the side. He turned,
"You have to trust me, gentlemen. Know me a bit better than
that." He took a long sip. "I'll be watching her the whole way-pull
her out if things get tight. Chances are, they won't, but we
all agree. The files on our illustrious quartet could always be a
bit thicker." He put his glass down. "Given the nature of the
thing so far, something's bound--"



Ri


18

Jonathan Raoo

the overseer


19







"To turn up?" O'Connell had heard it too many times before.

Pritchard smiled. "Exactly. And when it does, we pull her
out. Fair enough? Look, the ball's already in play. If there is
anything here, all she has to do is raise a few eyebrows. How
hard could that be?"


saddled with overnight bag, purse, and briefcase, Sarah
Trent looked the typical attorney making her weekly trek to
New York. The heavy winter coat bounced playfully just above
her knees, revealing a pair of rather exquisite legs. At five foot
seven, trim and athletic, Sarah was used to the turned heads, the
long stares. She smiled back, her deep chestnut eyes flashing in
response, as she moved along the platform to a nonsmoking car,
the Metroliner surprisingly empty for noon on a Thursday. She
knew she would probably be able to find two seats for herself,
stretch out, and enjoy the three-hour ride to New York.

She had opted for the train rather than the shuttle for the simple
reason that she needed more time with the files--two days
hadn't been enough to digest all the material that had landed on
her desk. A research update. "Just some background information
for the new system," the note had read. "We've got the space,
we need to fill it." Typical bureaucratic reasoning.

Now, finding a pair of seats midway through the car, Sarah
swung the two cases onto the window seat, then dropped herself
into the one on the aisle. She turned to the briefcase as she
unbuttoned her coat.

She had spent the last two days on the phone, trying to piece
together the strands of information in the files. Very little had
come up. Most of the people knew less about the three names
than Sarah already knew herself. And whenever she tried to dig
a bit deeper, awkward pauses followed by curt responses had
made it clear that she was not meant to look further. Brushoffs
notwithstanding, a few names had popped up to catch her attention
--organizations that seemed to fit into a category with
various right-wing fringe groups but which remained just this
side of respectability.

In all the digging, one name had continued to crop up. One
Alexander Jaspers, a prolific academic who had spent the last
few years churning out article after article on the "new decency
in conservatism." His phrase. Sarah had leafed through a number
of his pieces and, realizing she had found her font of information,
had made an appointment to see him. His office had
been a welcome surprise of cordiality, given her recent track
record, staffed by a sweet woman who spoke with a thick German
accent, and who had no problem accommodating her by
setting up the meeting on such short notice. Mrs. Huber had
penned her in for 3:30 today.

As the train emerged from the station, Sarah opened the one
file that had intrigued her most during her first perusal. Tieg.
The infamous host of Tieg Tonight--one of the country's more
popular evening television entertainments. She knew more
than simple curiosity was prompting a second look. Jaspers
would be well up on Tieg's history, having mentioned him in
at least two of the articles. Never comfortable with academic
types--always a bit intimidated--Sarah was determined to
hold her own with Herr Doktor Yaspers. Even the name
daunted her. Another few times through Tieg's file would give
her the necessary confidence. She settled into her seat and let
her shoes drop to the floor, ready now to peruse the file more
carefully.

The first pages were standard form: born '33 to Hungarian
emigres, public schools, regional wrestling champion, scholarship
to St. John's. Nothing unusual until '51, when, in a period
of less than six weeks, Tieg's father died, he dropped out
of school, and he set sail for Europe. No explanation.


What might have occurred during these three years is left
to the reader's imagination.


Nothing. Not even the city, or cities, where he had lived.

It picked up again in '54, charting Tieg's rise from low-level
peon to programming executive with the then-burgeoning television
division of NBC. By '63, he had become a central figure

20


Jonathan rood


for various regional affiliates and stood as one of the bright
boys in NBC's future.


His sudden dismissal in early 1969, and his subsequent
blacklist at the other major networks, is yet another gap
in the story.


Sarah took a moment to jot down a few notes and then
turned to the last few pages. The story beyond '69 was common
knowledge. Buying up a number of radio stations--the source
of the initial capital unclear--Tieg had parlayed them into a series
of local television outfits, and by '73 had the largest media
package in the Southwest. Then the shift to telecommunications
in.'75, when he started to drum up business in Washington. His
involvement in the early stages of SDI remained unclear, but by
the time Star Wars hit its prime, he had severed all Washington
connections. His current linkups included Europe, Southeast
Asia, and South America. By '92, he had an estimated five to
seven pieces of high-tech machinery orbiting, all under the
aegis of the recently formed Tieg Telecom, headquartered in
San Francisco.

And then, just as quickly as he had gotten into the technology,
he moved on, turning his attentions to Tieg Tonight, the
homespun talk show that blossomed from a four share in '93 to
a twenty^two share by '97, a legendary rise by any standards.
The ratings established Tieg as the premier "pontificating
politico" on the airwaves.

A final page had been added hastily. Sarah read:


His central aim is to maintain a reputation as champion
of working-class sensibilities. In the last five years, he
.has allowed that persona a much more public face
through the Centrist Coalition. Originally a small enterprise,
the Coalition has gained considerable momentum,
and it now stands as a beacon of small-town concerns.
During the flood disaster in the Midwest several years
ago, Coalition volunteers shipped in food, supplies, and

r


the overseer	21


medical technicians to some of the more remote areas hit.
Tieg himself was spotted in over twenty different locations,
not as speechmaker, but as one more pair of helping
hands. While most agree that at this time he has no
political ambitions of his own, it seems clear that his reluctance
will be short-lived. In a recent election for a
midterm replacement to the Iowa legislature, Tieg received
nearly fourteen thousand write-in votes. He is not a resident of Iowa.


That was where the file ended. Sarah placed it on her lap and
closed her eyes. She had read the last few pages without the attention
she knew they deserved, preoccupied by the three-year
hiatus Tieg had enjoyed in Europe. The question remained:
Who--or what--was allowing him to escape the keen eye of
the world's most thorough intelligence agency forty years later?
How had those three years remained hidden? Three years of
anonymity. Of unaccountability.

Her mind suddenly raced to memories of her own past, images
breaking through to conjure an existence she had known a
lifetime ago, and which now resonated with an unkind immediacy. Her year of anonymity, unaccountability. Her gap to be
filled. A reality of shadows. A life created by the Committee, a
persona shaped by COS that let her slip into the madness of a
Middle East ready to implode. And how quickly she had been
able to lose herself, abandon Sarah Trent, assume an emptiness
without ties. A vacancy that had granted violence a chilling
ease, a comfort. Memories still so close, never dulled by the
passage of time, ever more acute by their distance.

Amman.

"B WI." The shrill voice of the conductor bolted her from the
violent images. "Arriving BWI Airport. Three minutes."

She was cold; her hands shook as she reached for her coat.
Not bothering to slide her arms through the sleeves, she draped
the heavy wool around her shoulders and chest, the swelling in
her eyes prompting a quick finger to her cheek. With a deep
breath, she leaned her head against the soft slope of the seat and


22


Jonathan Rabb

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23







concentrated on the gentle slowing of the train. The numbing
throb in her temples began to ease. She was learning to hold the
moments at bay.


washington, february 26, 12:43 p.m. -- The disc
popped from the slot: forty seconds to download the information,
twenty to initiate the delay sequence. Everything like
clockwork. The young man at the screen took the disc and
placed it in his pocket. He was dressed in coveralls, the usual
attire for maintenance staff at Hodge Wentworth, bankers to
Washington's elite for over 150 years. He had found the clothes
at the drop-off point four hours ago; the ID badge and disc had
arrived in the mail yesterday.

He turned off the computer and stepped from behind the
desk. Pulling a lightbulb from his pocket, he proceeded to
screw it into the lamp's vacant socket. It was, after all, the reason
he had been sent, the reason security had let him onto the
eleventh floor in the first place. He tossed the old bulb into the
trash and tested the lamp. Perfect.

At the same time, having made his way to the subbasement,
another young man--similarly clad, similarly instructed--
stood in front Of what looked to be a large medicine cabinet
filled with wires and computer chips, a tangle of the building's
phone and modem lines. He had snipped one of them and was
now threading the second of the two strands of copper through
a small black box. After a few seconds, the light on the box
flashed green, then turned yellow. Attaching a strip of adhesive
to its back, he affixed the box to the side of the cabinet and
closed the front panel.

Three minutes later, both men stepped from separate elevators
to the lobby, coveralls now folded inside attache cases, new
ID badges hanging from necks on silver chains. One set from
the World Bank, the other from the fed. The blue blazers and
gray pants screamed intern. No one took any notice as they
moved through the revolving door toward a car at the curb and
the young woman who sat waiting for them.

It had taken them twenty-seven minutes, four fewer than they

had planned on. That meant an additional four minutes for the excursion
to Dulles.

Reaching the car, they tossed their attache' cases next to the
driver and settled into the backseat. Both slipped off their jackets
and began to undo their ties as the young woman handed
each of them a plastic bag.

Another set of coveralls. Another set-of ID tags. Another
black box and disc. As she eased out into the traffic, she
glanced in her mirror at the two half-naked men in the backseat.

"Enjoying the view, Janet?" The two men laughed.

She smiled. "Not half as much as you like me watching."

"What would your daddy say?"

She checked her watch. They would be on the flight to Montana
by two.


the train arrived at 2:45, on time to the minute. Sarah had
been deep within the files at the time and was therefore one of
the very last to leave the car. She placed the papers in the briefcase,
pulled it and her bag from the window seat, and strode out
onto the eerily empty platform. The maze of stairs and corridors
that crisscrossed the underbelly of Penn Station sent her in several
wrong directions before she broke down and asked a passing
redcap for the quickest way to the West Side trains. When
he simply pointed to the sign ten feet in front of her, she was
mildly embarrassed. She had been to New York too many times
to act the tourist.

Twenty minutes later, the iron gates of Columbia University
and the smell of roasting chestnuts greeted her as she took the
last few steps to street level. Smoke cascaded from the vendor's
cart and lifted gently into the sky, lending an added haze to the
wintry gray. As she passed through the gates and into the sudden
quiet of the campus--its pockets of brown grass amid a
backdrop of overbearing buildings--she noted the stark contrast
to the bustle of Broadway. To her right, a lone stone structure,
perhaps a hundred yards long, glowered at her through the
single eye of an equally long window that stretched the entirety


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Jonathan Rabb

the overseer


25






of its second floor. A building to be taken seriously, if only for
the names that rose from its facade in huge sculpted letters:
Plato, Cicero, Herodotus. An avenue of steps to her left led to
an even more grandiose building, whose dome seemed to vanish
into the intensifying slate of the sky. Other equally stern
buildings completed the quadrangle that sufficed as the Columbia
campus.

Following Mrs. Huber's instructions, Sarah ventured left,
toward a set of narrow stairs and the Amsterdam crossway--a
concrete platform that covered the avenue from 116th to 118th . 1
Streets. Arriving atop yet another set of stairs, Sarah felt the
sudden swirl of chilled air unleashed by the open expanse of the
crossway. She walked to its railed edge, fighting a gust of wind,
to see Amsterdam continue on for miles and disappear to a fine
point in the distance. Cabs raced along, somehow less frantic
from her raised perch. As she turned away from the hum of traf fic, an extension to the crossway drew Sarah's eye. Moving to ward the peninsula, she neared what she assumed to be the
Institute of Cultural Research. A simple plaque to the right of
the door confirmed the guess.

The three-floor New England house--white wood shingles and I
all--stood out as an incongruous transplant alongside the more
modern buildings that lined the crosswalk. For Sarah, the
quaint anomaly conjured images of her own college days, the
creaky buildings of New Haven's Prospect Street, with their
faint aroma of damp wood. Mounting the steps, she pushed
through the oak door and found herself in a windowed
vestibule, the customary umbrella rack to her left. The cold
white tile of the small enclosure seemed to heighten the chill
and prompted her to move quickly through the second door and
into the dimly lit carpeted entry hall. A large wooden banister
greeted her, its swirling line leading up to the second floor and
the sound of several electric typewriters. In the sitting room to
her left, Sarah spotted two ancient scholars in a pair of deep,
embracing leather chairs, the men rapt in heated debate. The
whining cackle of a fire rose through the conversation.

From around the staircase, a young man suddenly appeared

carrying a tray of tea and cookies. He seemed overeager to
dive into the fray by the fire--food and drink clearly his
means of invitation. As he tried to dash by her, Sarah said,
"I'm looking for the office of a Dr. Alexander Jaspers." Tea in
one of the cups swayed dangerously close to the rim as the
young man made his abrupt stop. "Jaspers?" he asked, a furrow
creasing his brow. "Right," his eyes suddenly wide. "He's
on the top. The attic thing." He jerked his ear toward the sitting
room, not wanting to miss any of the discussion. A smile
touched his lips. "He's got it all wrong, you know," he confided
in Sarah, nodding toward one of the two by the fire. "All
wrong. Anyway, you want Jaspers. This staircase"--he indicated
with his head-- "and then the corner one^at the far end
of the second floor. Clara's always up there. Or usually. You'll
find her. Must run. It's getting cold." And with that, the man
darted into the room to take his place in the chair nestled between
the two older men. He--or rather, the tea--was received
with considerable enthusiasm as Sarah began to climb
the winding staircase.

Two sets of stairs later, she emerged on the third floor, a
large open area, a few chairs placed at center, amid ceiling-high
bookshelves on each of the four walls. No doubt this was
the Institute's attempt at a library, she thought, one with a very
select clientele. Several desks jutted up against the stacks of
books wherever one of about eight windows appeared, each
distracting with a lovely view of New York. Only one of the
desks was occupied, its claimant deep in the pages of an enormous
tome. Directly behind the chairs at center, a set of stairs
rose on a leftward slant; a note card tacked to the banister read
jaspers, followed by an arrow pointing up. Sarah's nerves
began to kick in. Images of a wizened old figure bent menacingly
over a desk came to mind, his cold stare cutting through
her as she reached the topmost step. She tightened her grip
around the handle of her briefcase and mounted the stairs.

The attic office--or offices--were a good deal larger than
Sarah had expected. Although constrained by the sharp angle of
the ceiling, there was enough room for a sizable desk--a small

26

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Jonathan Rabk


wooden plaque with Mrs. Huber's name positioned on its front
lip--two chairs for those with appointments, and a midsection
wall that divided the entire top floor into two separate areas. At
the far end of the wall, a door--with Jaspers's name on it--stood
slightly ajar. At the opposite end, a small copy machine was in
full hum, at the moment operated by a tall young man in jeans,
tweed jacket, and running shoes who looked the typical graduate
student, no doubt making some extra money--and some helpful
connections. Sarah checked her watch, realized she was still a
few minutes early, and took a seat in one of the chairs to await
Mrs. Huber, whose desk was unoccupied. The view from the
small portholelike window caught her eye as she settled back into
the leather--Momingside Park at the first hint of dusk. For a moment,
it seemed rather inviting.

"Waiting for Jaspers?" asked the young man while he tried
to stack the papers he had just finished copying.

"Yes," Sarah answered, and placed the briefcase on the floor
by her side. "I have a three-thirty appointment. Do you know if
he's in?"

"Most definitely." The young man smiled, setting the papers
on Mrs. Huber's desk and scribbling some instructions on the
top page. He dropped the pencil on the desk and extended his
right hand. "Alexander Jaspers. You must be Ms. Trent."

Sarah's eyes opened wide, an embarrassed smile forming on
her lips. "You're Dr. Jaspers?" she said as she quickly stood to
take his hand. "I'm sorry. It's just that I expected someone
... older."

"I know," he laughed, sitting on the edge of the desk and
motioning for Sarah to retake her seat. "It's all that 'Herr Dok-tor
Yaspers' stuff that Clara insists on. Everybody gets it
wrong." Sarah couldn't help but smile. He folded his arms
across his chest and asked, "Would you like something to
drink? We have coffee, tea, water, smelling salts."

She laughed, shaking her head. "No thanks. Sorry if I'm a
bit early."

"No problem." He rose from the desk just as Mrs. Huber
popped her head up from the stairs.


27


the overseer


The tight bun of black hair seemed to pull mercilessly at her
forehead, accenting the look of surprise on her face. "Oh my
dear!" Her thick legs tried vainly to take the last few steps. "Oh
dear! You are here already." The German accent was even more
pronounced in person, thought Sarah. "I was only in the kitchen
with some cookies for you, but, you see, they have disappeared,
and I was expecting you at half past three. I am so sorry. I was to
be here at the time of your arrival to make introductions." She
was back by the desk, straightening with a frenzied neatness.
'This is so dreadful of me."

"Clara," Jaspers interrupted with a little laugh, "it's all right.
We managed to work through the introductions without any
major disasters. Ms. Trent, Clara Huber." Mrs. Huber stood
silently, bowing somewhat sheepishly as Sarah said hello.

"It's Sarah. And I'd like to thank you for being so nice on
the phone. It was a welcome surprise."

"Oh?" A wide smile replaced the hint of anguish on Mrs.
Huber's face. "That is most kind of you. You see, Herr Doktor
Yaspers is an expert--"

"Clara is invaluable," Jaspers interrupted, somewhat embarrassed,
"and I know Ms. Trent--Sarah--would like to get
started. But since we're out of cookies"--he winked at Mrs.
Huber--"and because I happen to have an awful sweet tooth, I
was hoping you wouldn't mind if we do this at a little pastry
shop not too far from here. Every day at four--it's a ... family
thing. Can I convince you to--"

"Yes." Sarah smiled back. "I'd love to have tea."

"Great. Let me get my coat." Jaspers disappeared into his office
and a moment later returned in an old gray wool coat that
had clearly seen better days. He thrust his hands into the pockets
and stopped. "Right. The Domberg stuff should be sent to
Bill Shane in Chicago and, if you could, try to get hold of
Lundsdorf and see if I can steal some of his time tomorrow. Before
I have to take off. Anytime before three." Clara nodded as
Jaspers turned back to Sarah. "Sorry."

"Not a problem."

"Good. Tea it is."


28


Jonathan Raoo

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29







Jaspers pulled his hand from his coat and gestured for Sarah
to lead the way. Mrs. Huber was already busy at the desk as
Sarah said good-bye and trotted down the stairs, Jaspers behind
her, grabbing a scarf that hung on the banister. The two walked
in silence until they reached the first floor, where the debate by
the fire was in full flame. "Anything from One-twelve?"
Jaspers poked his head through the archway to the sitting room.
"We're out of cookies." The three faces turned, the youngest
answering, "Some of those little crunchy ones with the green
bits. That would be nice. If you could." Jaspers nodded. "Don't
put yourself out for us," one of the older men said. "Only if its
no inconvenience. But yes, the crunchy ones. Good choice."
Jaspers pushed off from the archway and smiled.

"No inconvenience." He pulled the door open and followed
Sarah through the vestibule and out into the cold air. "That
rather imposing triumvirate," he said as they walked across the
overpass, "all happen to be brilliant. If you want to know anything
about the Middle East, those are the boys to go to." Sarah
nodded and pulled the collar of her coat tight around her neck
as they took the steps down to the open quadrangle of the
campus.

"And they're all cookie enthusiasts." She needed to shift the
topic. "They were digging into a fresh batch when I arrived."

"Didn't you know that about academics?" Jaspers asked. "If
Entenmann's or Nabisco went out of business, the wheels of education
in this country would come to a grinding halt." He was
about to continue when he noticed a familiar figure moving
slowly not too far off in the distance. "Professor Lundsdorf," he
shouted, a slight quickening in his pace. He turned to Sarah as
she tried to keep up. "I'm sorry. That's the man I need to see tomorrow,
and I could save myself some time if I set it up now.
If it's all right, this'll just take a minute." He continued to hurry
them along.

"Why don't you run ahead," she said, slowing. "This pace is
a little tough in heels." Jaspers looked down at her shoes, back
to her, and smiled in apology. "Don't worry," she added, "I'll
catch up."

He raced off, his coat billowing behind in the wind before
he reached the side of the older man. Sarah watched the two in
conversation as she passed a small fountain on her way down
to the central walkway. Nearing them, she saw the older man
place a hand on Jaspers's arm, the two a moment later lost in
laughter. Sarah arrived to hear Jaspers say, "--without Parliament.
Otherwise, there would have been legitimate claims of
tyranny."

"I am sure that is right. Yes, quite sure. So you will see what
comes of it." Sarah stood at Jaspers's side.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Jaspers said. "Professor Lundsdorf, this is
Sarah Trent, from the State Department. For some reason, she
thinks I'll be able to help her unpack the New Right." Here, at
last, Sarah thought, was the old wizened character she had expected
in Jaspers's office. But once again, all fears were quickly
allayed when the five-foot-five Lundsdorf, slender and somewhat
frail from age, and tucked deep within several layers of
clothing, took her hand and offered a little bow.

"Enchanted." The twinkle in his light green eyes betrayed
the spirit of a man who had once fancied himself something of
a ladies' man. Even now, Sarah was unsure whether the venerable
professor was flirting with her.
"The pleasure is mine," she said as he released her hand.

"How kind. Herman Lundsdorf," he corrected Jaspers. "I
have known this young man for fifteen years, seven--no,
eight--as a colleague, and still he insists on calling me 'Professor.'
" He winked at Jaspers, who fidgeted under the
scrutiny. "One day perhaps. One day, he will not see me as so
frightening an old man, my dear. Be that as it may, you have
certainly come to the right man, and I, unfortunately, must take
my leave of your company and get out of this cold weather." He
nodded again to her and looked at Jaspers. "Tomorrow at two
will be fine." A short bow and Lundsdorf started to walk away,
piping back over his shoulder, "And your coat--button it up if
you want to live as long as I have." With that, he tossed his
hand into the air and waved good-bye. Jaspers started to laugh
to himself.



"^


30

Jonathan Rabb

the overseer


31







"There goes my mentor. And mother. The combination is
sometimes a little unsettling." The two walked through the iron
gates and crossed over to the west side of Broadway. "One
minute he's explaining German parliamentary procedure; the
next, he's telling me to button up." He shook his head. "I hope
your shoes are okay on the ice."

"I'm fine. He seemed very sweet."

"Very sweet and very rigorous. He forced me to finish my
degree in three years. I never worked so hard in my life."

"That's a little quick, isn't it?" asked Sarah.

"Lundsdorf wouldn't have it any other way." Jaspers dug his
hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. "He's had it all
planned out, ever since I got here. On average, it's eight years.
So yes, it was quick."

"I'm impressed. That would make you--"

Jaspers smiled. "Thirty-three. And don't be. I wrote an incredibly
mediocre dissertation, which the grand old man and I
spent a year and a half reworking into a book. He kept on saying,
'Just get the degree, get the degree.' He was right. I got it,
got a job, finished the book...." He paused, his eyes distant for
a moment. The smile returned. "Then I started doing stuff that
was interesting." He stopped. "It's right here." Jaspers opened
the door to a small cafe that smelled of thick black coffee; he
waited for her to step through the doorway with her overnight
bag and briefcase.

"You don't have to hold the door for me," she said.

"You're right. I don't," he replied without moving. "It's another
bit of Lundsdorf. German propriety. I've been trained too
well."

Sarah smiled. "In that case, all I can say is thank you." She
walked into the dimly lit room and spotted a table against the back
wall. She led the way through the legs and elbows at the packed
little tables and began to disentangle herself from her coat as
Jaspers slipped his off and draped it over the back of his chair.
He waited until she was seated to take his chair.

"More Lundsdorf?" she asked.

"Of course." They sat. "I'd recommend a nice cup of tea and


I a piece of the raspberry chocolate cake, but not everybody's a
chocolate nut."

"No, that sounds nice." Everything was nice, she thought--
I the idea of tea, the funny little cafd that wanted so desperately
to evoke images of Paris or Berlin--and the company. There
was something very relaxing about young Dr. Jaspers. Something
that seemed so ... unacademic. It was the only way she
knew how to describe it. Jaspers lifted his hand, raised two fingers
in the direction of the waiter, and turned back to her.
I "I... always get the same thing," he said almost apologetically.
"They know me here."
"Must be nice."
"I guess it is." He smiled and shifted gears. "So, Clara men-
Itioned
the State Department and my articles. I can only guess
we're here to talk about "The New Right and the rise of con-servativism.'
" The self-mocking tone in his voice prompted
another smile from Sarah. "The title of a very dull article I
wrote."

_	"Not so dull."

I	Jaspers's eyes widened. "You've actually read it?"

"My job, Professor Jaspers--"

	I"Xander," he interrupted. "Everyone calls me Xander."
Again, she smiled. "One of the many I read... Xander. All
very informative. And all quite different from the other articles
on the subject. Your approach is ... how shall I put this--"
"Unique? Probably the source."
"Lundsdorf?" A waiter arrived with water.
Jaspers grinned and pulled a thin well-worn book from his
| jacket pocket, several rubber bands holding it together. He
placed it on the table. "Even older." The cover read The Prince. "Never leave home without it."
_	"Machiavelli?" she asked.

	"Don't be so surprised. They were pretty bright in the six-
I
teenth century. He was probably the brightest. Go ahead. Take
a look."

Sarah picked up the book and gently unloosed its bands. The
front cover came away in her hand, an inscription filling the

32

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Jonathan Rabb


page: "I'll always be with you, Fiona." She looked up to see
Jaspers's eyes lost in the words. All traces of the smile were
gone. She let the moment pass. "I'm... sure he was." She
placed the book on the table, delicately slipping the cover on
top. "The brightest, I mean."

He looked up, nodded. "Yes." He reached over and took the
book. "He was."

"And now he's a man for all centuries," she said, watching
as Jaspers stretched the rubber bands around the flaking pages,
his smile returning.

"The nice thing about theory, Ms. Trent, is that it can apply
to any number of situations." He put the book in his pocket.
"It's the way you apply it that makes the difference."

"And your friend Machiavelli just happens to fit in with the
New Right?"

"And the junk-bond market, and several LBOs, even a separatist
group in Idaho--I'm not the only one whose seen a connection.
I just keep it theoretical. It's everyone else who tries to
put it into practice."

"Tell me, Professor--Xander--for those of us not quite
so well versed, how exactly does someone use a book like
that--".

"Oh ye of little faith," he cut in. "You'd be surprised.
There's a group of young guns right now who are convinced
that Machiavelli tells them how to play the market. One of
them's just written a book--The Machiavellian Manager. Catchy, if a bit humorous."

"And you're not convinced?"

Jaspers shrugged. "Let's put it this way--it's not the Machiavelli
I know. Theories are ... susceptible to broad interpretation.
That's what makes them so seductive. Look, I
understand--probably better than most--what it is to ponder
the practical implications. Sometimes, they're hard to dismiss.
But at a certain point, you have to recognize their limitations.
Wall Street hasn't seen that yet. They think it's about brute
force, deception--"

" 'Better to be feared than loved,' " she interrupted.


33


the overseer


"Now I'm impressed. That's not, however, the whole picture."

"No, I didn't expect it would be," she added playfully. His
gentle laugh and wide, if rather sheepish, grin, told her she had
hit the mark.

"Rambling comes with the territory, Ms. Trent."

"I'll try to keep that in mind, Professor Jaspers. So," she
continued, "it's all really just a matter of context--"

"Exactly," he replied. "Machiavelli wrote the Prince as
a ... how-to manual on wielding political power. What he really
wanted was a job from the Medici--Florence's ruling family.
The book was meant to catch everyone's attention by
explaining things as they really were. Very bold for the times."

"But specific to the times."

"You are good at this."

"We try."

"Then you no doubt recall sixteenth-century Italy was politically
very unstable--little more than a collection of city-states,
all with their own agendas."

"Yes, I no doubt recall that," she teased.

Jaspers laughed. "In simple terms? Machiavelli wanted to
protect Florence and inspire a bit of cohesion. His solution was
a leader who could anticipate trouble and wield power with a
bold hand, anything that might keep the people in line. For him,
they were all a pretty bleak bunch---not to be trusted and not
terribly bright. A little cruelty here, a little kindness there, could
keep things running smoothly."

"And that," Sarah asked, "applies to the market? It's a bit of
a stretch, isn't it?"

Jaspers took a sip of his water. "Not if the market men think
the book tells them what to do. It's their bible. Who am I to
argue with the interpretation? And you have to admit, it is intriguing."
He sat forward and rested his elbows on the table.
"All Machiavelli did was to recognize the darker side of politics;
along the way, he raised some pretty interesting questions
about power, deception--tell people what they want to hear so

34

Jonathan Raoo

the overseer

35






as to maintain a power base. The modern implications aren't
that tough to see."

"As long as it remains theoretical," she said. "In practice--"

"That's where the Wall Street boys make their mistake.
Machiavelli was a genius, but he was a sixteenth-century genius,
and we have twentieth-century questions. Where he talks
about cruelty and military bravado--"

"We talk about corporations and grassroots politics."

"Exactly." The waiter arrived with two plates and two cups,
a second waiter followed with the pots of tea.

"So you think he takes us only so far."

"Don't get me wrong," answered Jaspers. "I love the old
guy, but he's a springboard, that's all. Those who see him as a
definitive guide ... I don't put much stock in that." He smiled
as the waiters departed, then began to pour his tea. "A modern
equivalent--at least for me--is what the New Right's been
doing over the last few years. Except, instead of going directly
to the people, they pander to any number of interest groups in
order to maintain control. Theoretically, it's Machiavelli; practically,
it's--"

"The 'new decency in conservatism.' "

"Bingo."

"The Centrist Coalition," she added.

"You've obviously been doing your homework."

"As I said, we try." She pulled a pad from her case; she was
searching for a pen when Jaspers produced a rather gnawed
ballpoint from his pocket.

"Sorry about the teeth marks," he said. "Hazard of the profession."

"Mine would have been no better." She uncapped the pen.

"To be honest, I've only just started looking into the Coalition,
but it's an excellent place to begin."

Sarah flipped to an empty page and looked up. "Practically
speaking."


washington, february 26, 3:51 p.m. -- The class
moved through the museum room, a Veronese the highlight,

each child busy with notebook and pen, jotting down the relevant
information. The teacher, a woman in her late twenties,
smiled affably at the guard as she led the small group to a far
corner and a somewhat obscure offering by a young Tiepolo.
All fifteen huddled around the painting, the teacher at its side,
describing with great enthusiasm some of its more intricate details
--the angle of Christ's head, the position of his hands. She
kept her eyes on the guard, waiting for him to turn; the moment
he did, she nodded once. On cue, one of the girls quietly sank
to her knees, hidden by the other children as she removed the
grating of the vent directly below the painting. With equal precision,
she placed her pack inside the opening and slipped
through. A boy followed, the grate immediately replaced. The
sound of the teacher's voice drifted to the distance as they
began to crawl.

They had no need of lights or maps; they had run the mockup
perhaps a hundred times in the last week. The schedule had
called for three of them--everything in threes--but the old man
had made a change. Lydia had remained in Wolf Point. They
had not asked. It was not their place.

At the fourth duct, they turned. Forty feet along, they found
a second grate; they dropped through, this time into a narrow
tunnel, pipes and wiring running the length of the walls, enough
room for the two of them to scamper deeper into the innards of
the National Gallery. The girl checked her watch. Eight minutes. Plant it, set the linkup, and return. They had done it once in
seven. The old man had been pleased.

Half a minute later, they heard the sound of cascading water
directly above them--the promenade between the east and west
wings. Cafeteria, museum shop--always popular among
tourists. Both stopped and emptied their backpacks. To the
guards at the entrance, the items had appeared to be books,
pens, chewing gum, lipstick--the usual teenage fare. To the
trained eye, they were far more. In less than a minute, they had
fashioned the pieces into two large plastic bricks and a small
black box, a copper coil connecting it to the wires along the
wall. A yellow light on the box flashed once, then turned green.


36

Jonathan Raoo

the overseer


37







They retrieved their packs and moved on, scanning the duct
above. Twenty feet from the box, they found the third grate,
hoisted themselves up, and again began to crawl.

Several twists and turns later, they sat crouched behind another
vent, another gallery room, another painting for the class
to admire. They had done well. Six and a half minutes. He
would be pleased.


(t »
it's typical right-wing maneuvering," said Xander. "They

don't want the government to tell people how to run their lives,
but they're more than happy to be the country's moral conscience.
The Coalition likes to do it through school curriculums.
Abortion, sexual orientation--those are the big issues."

"Which doesn't make the Coalition any different from about
a hundred other groups," Sarah pointed out.

"True, except they've got plans to develop private institutions
of their own. Schools, funded by the Coalition, to compete
with the public sector, giving them a blank check on what, and
how, they teach."

She looked up. "Seems to me the Catholics have been doing
that for years. Where's the problem?"

"Yes, but they don't have TV monitors in the halls and classrooms,
all linked to some high-tech computers .that function interactively
with the kids. Specialized computers--if the stories
are true--that sound quite extraordinary. I mean, imagine a kid
being able to program an alternate plan of attack for, say, the
Battle of Midway, and then watching it come to life on the
screen; that would make learning exciting. Rumor has it,
though, that the computers are going to be used to replace
hands-on teaching. To make sure a clear, consistent message
reaches all of the Coalition's devoted little followers. That's not
education; that's indoctrination, and on a much wider scale than
any parochial school ever dreamed of."

"Brainwashing?" she asked skeptically. "Computers have
been around for a long time, Professor. Just because the Coalition's
using them doesn't mean--"


I

"If they're the only things that tie Jonas Tieg and Laurence
Sedgewick together--two men who haven't the slightest bit of
interest in education--I'm not so sure." Jaspers stared across at
her. "Have I struck a nerve?" Sarah said nothing. "Who else
would you be here to talk about?"

"You might be surprised."

He drained the last bits of tea from his cup. "Want some
more? I'm going to get another." Sarah nodded. She watched as
he motioned to the waiter, the two fingers and the shake of the
head. The waiter pointed to the plates of cake. Jaspers picked
up the cup and mimed taking a drink; he then turned to her.
"I've been known to have ... two pieces at one sitting."

She smiled. "So, Tieg and Sedgewick."

"As I said, neither of them cares one whit about teaching.
For Tieg, it's all politics. A way to rally his troops. More of the Tieg Tonight phenomenon. The school programs are simply a
lure, the technology his bait. If the environment were more hip
right now, he'd be focusing on that."

"And Sedgewick?"

"That's the interesting part." The waiter arrived with the tea,
repositioning plates and cups to make room for the extra pots.
Xander tried to help. "Didn't it strike you as odd that a man
who had made his career as a financial whiz suddenly started
developing computer systems for investment banks a few years
ago?"

Sarah recalled the file. "Those were security networks. I
thought they were designed to safeguard large investors--like
himself?"

"Perhaps." The waiter moved off. "But who do you think
helped him develop the prototype for the technology?" She shook
her head. "A subsidiary of the Tieg Telecom Service. That's not in
your notes. The trail's convoluted, but it's there. Trust me." He
took a sip. "And now it's computers in the schools. No real connection,
but... All I'm saying is, it makes me wonder."

Sarah nodded, jotted down a few words. With her eyes still
on the pad, she asked, "And Anton Votapek?" She was about to
repeat the question, when she looked up and noticed Jaspers's



^3



38


Jonathan R.abb

the overseer


39








f


expression. He was staring at her, a look of sudden concern
etched across his face.


washington, february 26, 4:09 p.m. -- "Repeat that, please." National Airport's chief controller did little to
mask his disbelief.

"Every screen in the tower just went blank," came the reply,
the confusion in the background filling the speaker. "Auxiliaries
are out, and we've lost radio contact."

"Is the beacon still operative?"

"No idea."

"What do you mean you have we ..." He leaned in closer to
the intercom as he stood. "Just take it easy. I'll be right there."

Two minutes later, he strode into the traffic tower, the slicing
pattern of runways beyond already lit for the evening arrivals.
"All right, people, let's see what we've got here. What
do we have up in the air, and what's within closing range?"

"Four two-sevens, one noncommercial, and two jumbos,
one from LAX, one from Madrid," answered a woman surrounded
by a mountain of printouts.

"What about Dulles--"

"They've got the same thing. So does BWI. And College
Park is completely unreachable. Everything went out about
four minutes ago. My estimate--of the three majors--six
planes in final patterns, another twelve that've been given
clearance."

The man moved to the nearest console, its vacant face staring
back at him. In twenty-five years, he'd never seen anything
so terrifying. He turned back to the general mayhem. "All right,
people"--he began to rub his hands together--"we reroute as
many as we can through Atlanta; the rest can try--"

"That'd be great," the woman answered. "One problem--
how, exactly, do we tell the pilots?"


I
I

I
I


" votapek?" repeated Jaspers. Sarah leaned forward to pour
herself a second cup. "Are we talking about the same Anton
Votapek? The Tempsten Project."

"It was actually called the learning Center," she corrected.
"The media dubbed it the Tempsten Project."

He shook his head. "Votapek?" He paused. "Why would--"

"It's about schools, isn't it, Professor?"

"Yes, but..." He was taking longer to recover than she had
expected. "I mean, the man was a genius, the education guru of
the sixties, but then... Tempsten." His eyes began to drift.
"Some sort of high concept... modular teaching--"

"The Modular Approach--'education as a more aggressive
means to creating less autonomous, more community-oriented
children.' Very good, Professor."

"One more wild theory forced into practice." He continued
to stare off, as if trying to remember something. "What was it,
about ten children, all around eight or nine--"

"Actually, fourteen, some as old as eighteen. You
seem ... rather familiar with all of this."

He turned to her. "One of the darker moments in American
education? If you care about teaching, Ms. Trent, you don't
forget Tempsten." The reference had clearly disturbed him. He
sat back, shook his head slowly. "Eight-and
nine-year-olds,
turned into ..." He suddenly looked at her, his expression far
more intense than only a moment ago. "You think he's linked
to Tieg and Sedgewick?"

"I don't think anything," she answered. "I simply asked if
his name had come up in your research."

Jaspers stared across at her. "I see." He paused. "It hasn't."

"Have I said something wrong?"

"Wrong? No. Of course not. It's just that throwing Votapek
into the mix makes Tieg's connection to the Coalition somewhat
more unnerving."

"Really?" She needed to see how far she could lead him.

"Well, now there'd be someone who really does have an in

40


Jonathan Raoo


terest in education, wouldn't there? A pretty frightening interest,
and not just as a political steppingstone."

"/f there's a connection," she reminded.

"Right." His eyes remained on hers. "If." For a moment,
neither said a word. "Now you've got me thinking."

"Sorry." She smiled.

"I'm sure you are." He began to fiddle with his spoon. "Trouble
is, everything I've told you is speculation. I don't know
about Votapek, but there's nothing in what the other two are
doing that even hints at extremism. No neo-Nazis burning synagogues,
no white supremacists making inane demands. That's
why I label it 'decent.' " Again, he paused. "Votapek, however,
would change that." He looked at Sarah as if expecting a response;
she merely raised her eyebrows as the waiter arrived
with the check. "Anyway," he said, tapping the spoon against
the saucer, "that's the most detail I can give you. I think there's
a link between Tieg and Sedgewick, but that's only what / think.
And even if Votapek is involved, I still couldn't tell you what
they hope to achieve. To be honest, as long as all three of them
remain separate entities, there really isn't anything to worry
about."

"But if they do somehow connect--"

"You'll have to ask why." He stopped playing with the
spoon and looked directly at her. "What do they want? I'm not
sure that's a question I'd like to answer."

"You make it sound so sinister." Sarah was finishing off the
last piece of her cake.

"I hope Lundsdorf's right. He keeps telling me to concentrate
on what I know and leave the conspiracy theories to the
tabloids. Maybe I'm overreacting." Xander had finished his
second cup and was trying to drain the last vestiges of tea.
Finding none, he placed the cup on the saucer and said, "I'll
leave the sinister side to you. Unfortunately, I do need to get
back--"

"Of course."

"But I don't want to cut you off. Was there anything else?"

Sarah slipped the pad into her briefcase, snapped the locks,


the overseer

^C

41


and reached for her purse. "I don't think so, but if we need to
talk again--"

"Absolutely. After all, I wouldn't mind seeing your files."

She smiled and pulled out a ten-dollar bill before he had a
chance to reach for his wallet. "I know Professor Lundsdorf
wouldn't approve, but this is on the government." Xander conceded,
more to the lovely smile than to protocol, and reached
behind to grab his coat. As he stood, Sarah remembered something.
"Oh, there was one other thing. This might sound
strange--"

"I'm sure it isn't." He began to put on his coat.

"Enreich. Does that mean anything to you?"

Xander reached into his pocket and pulled out his scarf. He
flung it around his neck as he repeated the name to himself.
"Enreich?" He shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell. I could
look through some old stuff, but I think I would have remembered
something like that. Sorry, not much help there."

She shrugged and stood, placing the briefcase on her chair
and slipping into her coat. "If anything does come up"--she
took a card from her purse and wrote the number of the hotel
on the back--"give me a call."

"Will do."

She handed it to him along with his pen, picked up her briefcase
and purse, and nodded to Xander to lead the way. Weaving
their way back through the tables, they moved quickly to
the counter, where he bought a box of the cookies he had
promised the boys at the Institute. Sampling one, he pulled the
door open and led Sarah out into the chill of Broadway.


washington, february 26, 4:24 p.m. -- The air
erupted in a torrent of glass and water, metal driving up through
the ground, a crater where the gallery's lower promenade had
been. Screams filled the expanse, silenced eighteen seconds
later by the detonation of the second bomb, which hurled its
flame through the opening and encased body after body in a
searing wave of gold. A sweet smoke followed, more deadly
than the blaze, stifling breath and forcing its victims to what re-



a



42


Jonathan Rabb

the overseer


43







mained of the ground. Those who could ran haphazardly, men
pushing women to the floor, parents grabbing for children,
cradling them as they sucked in air they could no longer breathe.

It was over in less than six minutes. Some had been lucky.
The initial blast had taken them unawares. Others had had to
live through the gas, feel the flames lick at their flesh, endure
their own incineration.

At 4:58, the first rescue teams made it through. It would take
them fourteen hours to estimate the loss at 117, two more days
to bring it to 130.


sarah emerged from the subway on 50th Street and continued
toward Sixth Avenue. She had thought about a cab but
knew she would save time with the train. Not that she was in a
hurry. In fact, she had left tonight open so as to go over the information
Jaspers had given her. Now, as she maneuvered
along the snow-packed curb, the image of the young scholar
hurrying them both along--so eager to get back to work--
brought a smile to her face. He was so committed to what he
was doing, so drawn into his little world where every moment
seemed too precious to waste. You're a lucky man, Xander
Jaspers, she thought. Lucky to have that passion. And yet, he
"had not overwhelmed her with it. Not once had he made her
feel incapable. Somehow, he-had allowed her to forget that fear.
Instead, he had invited her in and had seemed so pleased when
she had taken an interest. And how afraid he had been to bore
her. She smiled to herself. There was a certain charm in that.

The large neon of Radio City loomed above her as she made
the turn. The avenue was jammed with people all trying to wend
their way through the chaos of rush hour. The fierce pace of the
sidewalk seemed to sweep her up in its manic drive. All thoughts
of the pleasant afternoon quickly drifted away. She began to lose
herself to the crowd, to the gnawing hum of humanity.

And without warning, the buildings melted away in a rush
of hands, feet, and arms. The rising pulse of movement
swarmed in on her, echoing an Arabian madness that reverber-

I
I

ated within her. No! Not here! Not now! A voice deep within
pleaded with her, her head dancing in numb detachment above
the noise and clamor, her mind slipping farther and farther
away. Fight it, Sarah! Short of breath, her chest growing tight,
she stopped on the sidewalk, staring about to find something,
anything, to draw her back. People moved past with unkind
stares, but she hardly noticed them as she struggled to retrieve
her calm. Let it go. With great effort, she found her breath, the
tremor receding, the buildings taking shape once more. Look
around you. It's New York. You don't have to hide here. All was
as it should be. As it had been.

As if a safe haven, the hotel came into view. She began to
walk, reenter the flow of bodies. Even among them, Sarah
moved in complete isolation.

Five minutes later, she stood at the front desk of the Hilton,
the card to her room resting on the counter. Still shaken, she followed
the bellboy down a wide concourse toward the banks of
elevators and noticed a wide array of watches, rings, and necklaces
in a row above windows built into the marble wall. A particularly
radiant stone caught her eye, its color a deep, resonant
blue, no less supple against the sterile white light of the open
hall. She stopped and stared into the sapphire, its gaze somehow
familiar.

"Would you like to see it, madam?" A man appeared at her
side, dressed in a neatly tailored suit, his hair combed tightly
across his scalp. Sarah gazed at him, for a moment uncertain.
"Madam?"

"No. No thank you," she managed. "It's a beautiful stone."

"Yes, an exquisite cut."

"I seem to have lost my bellboy," she said, glancing toward
the elevators.

"Of course." He stopped abruptly and offered a most disingenuous
smile. "Perhaps later, then." He was already with another
customer. Sarah peered once more into the sapphire--its
invasive stare no less haunting--before turning to find the boy
a good twenty yards ahead. He stood waiting by the elevators.
She raised a hand and moved quickly down the concourse.









ng

44


Jonathan Rabb


washington, february'26, 5:27 p.m. -- His pace was slow, almost casual as he turned onto G, the lamps above
already at full glow. Washington at twilight. Peter Eggart held
his hands in his pockets, eyes peeled on the doorway perhaps
two hundred feet down the street. As he had been told to expect,
three Dutch diplomats emerged and began to walk toward
him. They were lost in conversation, the woman at center apparently
explaining something to her two companions. Eggart
continued to walk, slowly pulling a gun from his pocket and
clasping it tightly to his side as he drew closer to the trio. No
one on the street seemed to take any notice until, almost on
them, he raised the barrel and discharged two shots into the
woman's chest, then one bullet apiece for the men at her sides.
All three lurched backward, a sudden stillness, everything
frozen, weightless.

Eggart turned to run, pushing past the few disbelieving onlookers,
the night in slow motion as he reached the end of the
block and crossed to Twelfth.

Only then did he stop.

Where was the car? He spun around, checked the sign to see
if he had somehow made a mistake. No. Twelfth--where they
had promised it would be. Screams began to echo from behind
him, time once again accelerating to full tempo. He could feel
the panic in his throat, the acrid taste of indecision. Maintain
focus. Understand the process. He needed to remain calm, listen
to the command in his head. There had been too many hours
spent preparing to allow a last-minute hitch to get in the way. He
started down the street, aware of the eyes staring at him from the
buildings above, tracing his escape. Again, he began to run.

A car turned onto the street, oblivious to the mayhem it had
just entered. Without thinking, Eggart darted out into its path,
raised his gun, and aimed it at the windshield. The car
screeched to a halt as the gunman moved to the door, pulled the
driver from her seat, and threw her to the curb. Within seconds,
the car was squealing in reverse toward the intersection. A sudden
stop, the grinding of a gear; a moment later, it was gone.

r
i

i


45


the overseer


sarah followed the bellboy into the small but comfortable
room, its view of Central Park. She placed the briefcase next to
the mahogany chest of drawers, handed the young man a few
dollars, and hoisted the overnight bag up onto the bed. Finally
alone, she unzipped her dress and slipped off her shoes, the
thick carpet a welcome relief from the confines of heels. Sliding
her hands through the sleeves of her dress, she let it drop to
the floor and then laid it gently across the bed. And she sat.

She was angry. A simple stone, and she had given in. It was always
hardest during trips outside of Washington, trips away from
the routine that helped to keep her in check. The unexpected conjuring
memories of the all too familiar. Nothing more than a sapphire's
hue, and she had been transported: the hotel on King
Faisad Street, the noise of the al-Balad raging in the background,
and the girl. Always the girl, staring at her, plaintive blue eyes,
forcing Sarah to promise. " You will come back." " Yes." " You
will come for me." " Yes."

No!

She forced her eyes open, only now aware that she had once
again drifted back. For several minutes, she sat absolutely still
as Amman receded to a distant pocket of her mind. With great
effort, she stood and reacquainted herself with the room. The
briefcase stared up at her. She knew she would be no good with
the files now. She needed to walk. Out and unafraid.

She opted for jeans, a T-shirt, a pair of black boots. Transferring
a few dollars from purse to pocket, she slid the briefcase
under the bed, then grabbed her coat. The research update could
wait.

Seven minutes later, the lights from the traffic on Sixth Avenue
glared at her as she made her way downtown. She had little
idea where she was heading, but she knew it was good to be
surrounded by movement. Around Thirty-sixth Street, she realized
she was hungry. She turned right and decided to try her
luck on Broadway. Save for a few racing cabs, the
Garment District was deserted, a few pockets of dark shadow
spilling beyond the sidewalk.



. I.


46

Jonathan Rabb

the overseer


47







The footsteps behind her only became audible halfway
down the block. They were even and clipped, in close synchrony
to her own, slowing and accelerating with each change
in her tempo. She could feel herself begin to focus on the distinct
pattern of the rubber-soled shoes, calculate the distance
between herself and her would-be tracker, measure the road in
front of her. Stop it! Ignore them. They're nothing. It's someone
on the street, anyone, damn it! Don't give into this--look back
and see it's nothing! But the signals were too well ingrained,
too near to the surface now for her to shut them out with a simple
plea. Twenty yards ahead, the sudden appearance of a second
figure, an apparent drunk, confirmed her instincts. He
seemed to weave along the street, but with each step, he drew
closer and closer, tightening the net around her, forcing her
deeper within the shadows. As she began to run, she could hear
the quick sprint of the assailant behind, watch the drunk lunge
up onto the sidewalk and block any means of escape. The trailer
thrust his shoulder into Sarah's back and sent her reeling into
the arms of the man in tatters towering above her.

With one swift move, he threw her into an alleyway
shrouded in complete darkness save for the bare bulb that hung
from an overhead fire escape. The cold brick scraped against
her hands as she tried to cushion the impact, the wall's brittle
edge slicing across her palms and forcing a momentary scream.
"Not a word!" She fell to the ground, only to be grabbed by the
shoulder and pinned against the wall. The pungent odor of the
man's all-too-convincing costume caused Sarah to wince as
he scanned her body, his eyes dancing with a lurid pleasure.
The second man appeared over his shoulder and grabbed her by
the hair. His eyes betrayed no such longing, no carnal desire for
a prey well won. Drawing a small blade to the side of her cheek,
he smiled, a sudden animation in the otherwise-vacant expression..
"We've been sent to give you some advice," he whispered,
dragging the flat of the blade across her lips and down to
her chin. "Forget Eisenreich. Today was only the first trial, a
promise of what's to come." He tightened his grip. "Walk away,
or next time I won't be able to hold back my friend here. He

seems to have taken a liking to you." The other man laughed
and placed his free hand on Sarah's breast, pressing hard
against her as he groped. The man behind continued to peer
down at her, watch as his comrade enjoyed the moment, probe
deep within her eyes for the fear, the revulsion that he craved.

No such terror stared back at him. Instead, her gaze revealed
a strange emptiness, a cold indifference, a warning that he
could not recognize. Trapped for a moment in the lifeless embrace
of her eyes, he let his grip relax almost imperceptibly.
And in that moment, the devastating precision of a killer
schooled in the streets of Amman unleashed itself in an explosion
of raw energy. No longer Sarah Trent, the assassin of Jordan
drove her knee into the testicles of the man still
preoccupied with her breast as her once-pinned arm lunged
across the face of the second man, nails finding flesh in a blur
of movement. Both men reeled from the onslaught, the knife
clattering to the ground in the melee. As if programmed in her
attack, she swung her foot into the midsection of the man now
holding his bleeding cheek, the jagged snap of breaking ribs
forcing an anguished cry as he dropped to his knees. The other
man, somewhat recovered from the initial blow, tried to stand
but was too slow to avoid the sudden jab of her elbow to his
temple. His head smacked against the brick wall, a final burst
of air shooting from his mouth before his unconscious body
slumped to the hard cement of the alley floor. With equal force,
she slammed her coupled fists into the prone neck of the man
crouched two feet from her--clutching his chest--and watched
as he, too, collapsed to the ground. Only the sound of her own
panting breath cut through the silence of the alley. She stood
frozen, her mind racing out of control, images of dark, sand-strewn
streets forcing their way into her consciousness, tearing
her from the cold embrace of the Manhattan night.

"You made the choice, Sarah. You accepted the responsibility.
" A solitary face shone through the dank haze, a girl no
more than twelve, thin streaks of blood trickling from the bullet
hole on her forehead. "Someone had to be sacrificed. Someone.
" With a frightened stare, her blue eyes faded to the shad

48

Jonathan Rabb


owed recess as the bodies of eight young Jordanian soldiers appeared,
each hung from a wire on the wall directly in front of
her. The stench from their clothes filled her nostrils, forced her
to move her hand to her nose. They dangled side by side, twisting
gently against the wall--faceless bodies of men who had
squealed in death and who now taunted her with their silence.
"Say something! Anything!" she screamed. "I had to take you,
to stop you! You were the priority, not her! Someone had to
be...." The bodies continued to sway in a single rhythm. "Say
something, damn you!" Her voice became choked with a torrent
of tears. "Anything! Please, anything!"

The white light of the bulb cut through the shadows, extinguishing
the horror before her, as a wave of nausea filled her
throat. She lay back against the wall, at the mercy of trembling
limbs and pumping adrenaline. A thousand voices reverberated
within her skull, crackling against the deadly silence of the
alley. Violence. Violence again, passionless and exact. She
looked at the two men at her feet--still motionless. She had
taken them without a thought, a swirl of activity that had come
only too easily, spun from a part of her that longed for the
anger, the destruction.

She had attacked. Provoked, yes, but she had been the one
to unleash a blind fury, the rapid, staccato blows that might
very well have killed them both. No thought, only pure animal
instinct. Could she have killed? Would it have been that easy
for her to slip so far back? She didn't know, couldn't make
sense of the questions that hammered within her head. Oh God!
Oh God! I was out of control.

Somewhere within, a single voice told her she had to move,
distance herself from the bodies. Clinging to the wall and unable
to tear her focus from the unconscious figures, she slowly
edged her way along to the alley's entrance. A car raced by as
she reached the sidewalk, forcing her to stare out into the empty
street, to try to forget the men behind her. The cold calculation
of the assassin was gone, replaced by a crippling fear, and
Sarah stood alone, suddenly aware that her clothes were
drenched in sweat. She began to tremble as she dug her hands


49


the overseer


into her pockets so as to fold the coat around her. Somewhere
safe. Find somewhere safe. Again, the voice led and she followed
in numb submission, back toward Sixth, back toward
lights, people, and the security of others. She didn't run--
somehow the voice would not allow it--but walked with a calm
determination, unobtrusive and therefore unseen, unremarkable.
As she turned toward the hotel, she felt the first tears of
release wash over her cheeks.

Only when she had stumbled into her hotel room, a safe
haven now from the attack twenty minutes earlier, was she able
to concentrate on what the man had said. "Today was only the first trial, a promise ..." What had they meant? And Eisenreich?
She turned and caught her reflection in the mirror, her
face a sea of black and red, her hair a tangled mess hanging precariously
about her shoulders. But it was the eyes that stole her
focus, the eyes not seen since Amman, the cold, unforgiving
eyes that stared back and condemned in silence.

It was then that she began to think beyond the attack. Why?
What had provoked it? A research update. That was all it was
supposed to be. Nothing more. Nothing to prompt warnings-- first trial, Eisenreich ...

A cold sweat creased her neck as one name entered her
thoughts: the Committee.

Sarah forced her gaze to the room around her, the box, holding
her in, squeezing her, the safety of isolation. Of course, the
Committee. It was all too familiar, too much of a life that had
come so close to destroying her. / won't be drawn in. Whatever
this is, I won't. She knew what she had to do. Give everything
back. Files, notes--the job, if necessary. Let others take the responsibility.
Let others carry the weight. Memories of the alley
would pass. Memories of Amman. Of herself. She had to protect herself.

She reached for her briefcase and noticed the flashing red
light on the telephone. For a panicked moment, she wondered
whether the message in the alley had been sufficient. They had
found her in the streets. No doubt they could find her here. Ignore
it. Let someone else play the game. But for some reason,

50

Jonathan Rabb






she couldn't. She had to hear it, hear them for herself, know she
was running for the right reason. She slid across the bed, picked
up the receiver, and dialed the operator. An electronic voice answered,
informing her that a single call had been taken at 5:10.
After a momentary purr, a second voice came on the line.

"Hi. Xander Jaspers at around five. Look, I don't know how
I could have been so stupid, but when I got back to my office,
it suddenly clicked. The Enreich thing. It's not pounds reich. It's Eisemeich. At least that's what my instincts tell me. If this does
connect, it could be a lot more than either of us bargained for.
Call me."

Jaspers. Oh my God. She wasn't alone; she wasn't isolated.
He had made the connection. Eisenreich... And she had been
the one to contact him, draw him in. Whose responsibility,
Sarah? Whose trust?

She pressed down on the receiver, released, and started to
dial.


Education ... can turn aggression to lervor, obstinacy
to commitment, ana volatility to passion.


-- On Supremacy, ckapterlV


^vander had raced out in such a hurry that he'd left his
scarf on the banister, and now, catching an updraft on Sixth Avenue,
he reluctantly recalled Lundsdorf's warning: "button it
up if you want to live as long as I have." Sometimes he could
be infuriatingly sensible. Xander walked up the taxi drive of the
Hilton, then through the door and into the stream of warm air
that embraced both neck and face. It was a welcome relief.

As he walked down the concourse, his mind returned to
Eisenreich. The moment of revelation had come some two
hours ago, standing over his desk, shuffling through various
papers--astounding in its simplicity. And perhaps his own
thickheadedness. So obvious. So damn obvious. At first, he had
wondered whether it was just another crazy theory--one
which Lundsdorf would dismiss with quick dispatch. Crazy,
yes. But theory? No. It made too much sense to be fiction. Of
course, he would have to run it by Sarah. After all, she was the
expert, the one from Washington. You 're only the simple academic. Even so, instinct told him he had uncovered something
to make sense of his research, something that might shed light
on whatever Votapek and Tieg had in mind. How Sarah and the
government tied in, though, remained a mystery.

52

Jonathan Rabb

the overseer


53







Inside the elevator, he glanced at the papers he had brought.
Scanning one or two, he recalled the rush, the excitement he
had known perhaps only twice in his life--the first, three years
ago, when he had found an unknown manuscript by an obscure
eighteenth-century theorist; the second, earlier tonight, when he
had remembered Eisenreich. Of course, the eighteenth-century
essay had turned out to be of little use--as Lundsdorf had predicted --but the thrill of the hunt, the chance to see something
through, that was what had caused such stirrings. And what was
now coursing through his chest. The elevator arrived, and he
tucked the papers inside his satchel.

Before knocking, Xander paused to consider what he could
expect from the woman who had called him just over an hour
ago. Then, he had anticipated enthusiasm, even excitement at
his discovery. Instead, a distant voice had told him to come by
the hotel; bring whatever he thought might be important. And
that had been it. Not the reaction he had hoped for. Even so, behind
her apparent detachment, Xander had sensed urgency, a
thinly veiled need for the two of them to meet tonight. Wrapped
up in his own eagerness, he had put her surprising coldness
from his mind. Now, he couldn't help but recall her tone on the
phone, far from that of the friendly, delightful woman with
whom he had shared tea that afternoon. And he had not been the
only one to appreciate her appeal. On arriving back at the Institute,
the fireside cabal had awarded him high praise for his
radiant companion. Even Clara had lit up at the mention of the
3:30 appointment. Only then had Xander considered Sarah anything
more than a Washington bureaucrat sent to tease his brain.
A bureaucrat with a rather lovely smile, he had to admit. He had
spent a good ten minutes in his office thinking of nothing else.

The sound of a double bolt releasing brought him back to the
present. The door inched open and Sarah appeared through the
shadows of a room lit only by a single lamp on the bureau. For
a moment, the two stared at each other, until Xander smiled and
asked, "All right if I come in?"

His own familiarity seemed to snap some life into her expression;
with a gentle nod, she answered, "Sorry. Of course."

He stepped into the room; Sarah immediately bolted the
door, then moved past him to the bed and her pillow propped
against the wall. It was then that he noticed the television, her
eyes riveted to the screen. She hadn't even asked for his coat.
Without looking over, she said, "Take a drink if you want. It's
a small bar, but it's well stocked." Xander saw the miniature JD
on the table next to the bed, the hotel glass steeped high with
ice and whiskey. Evidently, she had started without him.

"Thanks." He nodded stiffly, uncertain as to what he should
do next. A drink. Right. He nodded again, placed his satchel on
the rug, and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. Her gaze
remained on the set, her expression confirming the misgivings
he had felt over the phone. He wanted to convince himself that
the difference lay in the informality of a second meeting, her
lack of makeup, her casual clothes. But it was clearly more than
that. He stepped closer to the bed, his hand awkwardly in his
coat pocket. "So," he said, "what exactly are we watching?"

Sarah turned to him, a momentary look of confusion in her
eyes. "You haven't seen any of this?"

Xander shook his head, smiled. "I've been at the office.
The ... stuff with Eisenreich took some time to--"

"Then you should probably take a look." She picked up the
remote and flicked from channel to channel. Xander stood
watching as every station seemed to be covering the same set
of stories--reporters amid the sounds of sirens, fire trucks, ambulances.
Different scenes, all portraying the same confusion,
the same controlled mayhem. National Guardsmen in evidence
at every site. "You're looking at Washington, Dr. Jaspers." He
slowly sat. "Not a pretty sight, is it?"


luray, virginia, february 26, 8:17 p.m. -- Searchlights cut across the thick wood of the barn, glaring
white against a backdrop of open field, streaks of red and blue
from police cars encircling the lone building. Intermittent pockets
of steamed air floated into the black sky, men with rifles
waiting for their prey, newsmen with cameras waiting for the
latest installment from a night unlike any they had ever seen.



54


Jonathan Rabb

the ov.erseer


55







"I've just been told that all three of the Dutch diplomats are
alive," blared a voice through the bullhorn. "Critical, but alive.
Which means it's not murder. You still have a chance if you
come out now." Silence. The FBI man turned to the agent next
to him. "Are we set in the rear?" The man nodded. "We give
him three minutes; then we go. And tell these reporters to move
way the hell back."

From the darkness, a crow swooped down and settled on the
frozen ground between barn and police. It stood quietly, head
cocked to the left, drawn by the powerful beams. Half a minute
passed before the sound of a hinge creaking broke the silence;
the bird turned. A stooped figure appeared at the barn door, lost
in shadow. The bird suddenly began to run at him, flapping its
wings, the man at the door confused, his hands up to his face to
shield the light as he tried to run.

A single shot rang out. Eggart's head snapped back; he
dropped to the ground.

"Who the hell shot?" screamed the man with the bullhorn.
He ran toward the body, two others in suits with him. "Jesus,"
he said under his breath, "I hate these local guys." The three
men arrived at the body and flipped it over. The man shook his
head and stood, then turned back to the lights. "No one's going
anywhere. I want to know who fired that shot." One of the
agents pulled a note from Eggart's pocket and handed it to the
man standing. He unfolded it and read: "For the sins of all
Sodomites and those who protect them. Our wrath shall be
swift." He recognized the insignia at the bottom of the page.
Another militia-inspired lunatic. "Seems he didn't like the fact
that our Dutch friends came from a country that tolerates homosexuals."
He placed the note in a plastic bag. "We'll see
what the lab has to say. See if it connects to the rest of today's
insanity."

Another pair of suits approached, these escorting a state
trooper, a man in his late forties.

"Is this Trigger-happy?" asked the man. Both nodded.

"Grant, Thomas. Virginia--"

"All right, Mr. Grant, Thomas. What the hell happened?"

The trooper said nothing. Sacrifice, my government friend.
There must always be a place for sacrifice.


sarah had moved to the fridge and was refilling her glass.
"At last count, eight distinct acts of terrorism. The city's been
turned on its head--"

"Hold on a minute," Xander cut in, the last few minutes
clearly having taken their toll. "In an alley! Did they ... hurt
you in any way?"

"No, they were professionals." She dropped the bottle into
the trash.

"Professionals?" He shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed
on her back. "I'm not sure I understand... professionals? How
does that relate--"

"Exactly my question." She turned to him. "Why would
they describe the chaos on that screen as a 'first trial'?"

"They called it a first..." A sudden recognition crept across
his face, his words following of their own will: "First trial of
conjecture by experience."

"What?" she asked.

He looked up, his eyes still distant. "It's the way someone in
the sixteenth century would have explained experimentation."

"In English, Professor."

He turned to her. "A dry run. Something to test the waters.
That's what a first trial is. Why would they refer to Washington
as a--"

"Because they wanted to convince me to forget about Eisenreich."
"They mentioned Eisenreich?" Xander could do little to
mask his surprise. "How could they have known about Eisenreich?
Even I didn't make the connection until..." Fear
crossed his face. "Oh my God. Of course." He looked back at
the screen. "They are Eisenreich."


u

r


56	Jonathan Rabh


xander paced along the aisle created by bed and heater, a
half-filled glass of scotch wedged firmly in his hands. Two
steps, turn, two steps, turn. He seemed entranced, stopping
every so often to lift his head and stare directly at Sarah, who
was on the bed, trying to sort through some of the papers he had
brought. After a rather uncomfortable five minutes, he slumped
into the chair by the window and drained the alcohol in his
glass. Aware that the strange routine had come to an end, she
looked up.

"I can't make heads or tails of these. Half of them aren't in

English."

"German and Italian," Xander answered, his tone distant.
"Right. Look, Professor--Xander," she said, trying to reassure,
"I realize this isn't exactly the sort of thing you deal with
every day--"

"That's putting it mildly." He placed his glass on the bureau.
"If you recall, I do theory, Ms. Trent."

"Yes, I--"	.

"I sit in my nice little office, read lots of books and articles, I
and then I write about it. That's it. I don't do anything that
might warrant an attack, professional or not. I suppose I expect
someone else to see how the theories pan out." He stopped.
"Which raises a very interesting question. Who exactly are
you?"
"What?"

"I don't mean to be rude, but the little I know about State,
especially its research branch, has nothing to do with dark alleys
or professional assailants. You're like ... academics. You
don't get involved."

"I'm aware of that." She paused and looked over at him.

"Meaning..."

"I'm involved. So are you."

"That's not an answer."

"I might be able to figure out why if I knew what Eisenreich

meant."

"I see." He waited for more; when none came, he continued.


57


the overseer


"Look, I'm happy to talk about Eisenreich. That's why I came.
But I'd prefer to know if I'm dealing with the CIA or the FBI
or whatever acronym is the most popular these days--"

"You're dealing with me," she said.

"That's cryptic."

"No, it's safer." She stared at him. "Eisenreich, Professor.
How does it tie in to Washington?"

He returned the stare, trying to maintain his edge. After half
a minute without success, he let out a long breath, then shook his
head. "All right." He sat back. "Eisenreich. Not an it. A he. Swiss monk. Died about four hundred and fifty years ago under
some rather unpleasant circumstances--"

"A monk? How does a monk--"

"Because of a treatise he wrote on political power."

Now Sarah shook her head. "A book is supposed to explain
what happened today? Forgive me, Professor, but how dangerous
--"

"Could a manuscript be?" He leaned toward her. "It's never
the document itself, Ms. Trent. It's how people use it. Remember
Machiavelli? As long as they trust its message, a piece of
theory can create all sorts of trouble. If you need further proof,
you can always flip to another station."

"You're telling me a manuscript did that!" she said, pointing
to the screen. "That's sabotage on a very sophisticated
level, Professor. We're talking about computer manipulation,
high-tech explosives, acts of terrorism no sixteenth-century theorist could possibly have understood."

"He didn't have to understand--"

"A major U.S. city is on the verge of declaring a state of
emergency. I find it hard to believe that a manuscript could be
responsible."

"Don't. Peter the Great kept a copy of a book by a man
named Pufendorf by his bedside. Wrote in his diary that it was
the key to every political decision he made. Charles the Fifth
had Marcus Aurelius. Cromwell, Hobbes. And Luther's ninety-five
theses have kept Rome on edge for the last four hundred
years. Remember, these people didn't have television or radio;

58


Jonathan Rabb


Oprah didn't tell them which books to read. So they had to find
their own guideposts. Those who couldn't read found theirs in
the church; those who could found theirs in books; and those
who sought power found theirs in a specific type of manuscript,
a few of which have provoked some of the darker moments in
history." He placed the remote on the set. "Can you tell me who
invented television, Ms. Trent?" Sarah shook her head. "Exactly.
But we all remember Guttenburg and his printing press."

"Then why this book?"

"Because it was supposed to make the Medici masters of
Europe. Machiavelli had offered them only Florence." He
seemed suddenly struck by something. Almost to himself, he
said, "One city wasn't enough."

She watched as his eyes continued to wander. "Why 'supposed'?"

It took him a moment to regain focus. "What? Oh. Because
... we're not sure it exists."

"What?" Her head snapped forward. "He never wrote it?"

"We don't know. There's a lot of... speculation."

"Then speculate."


wolf point, montana, february 26, 8:42 p.m. -- Laurence Sedgewick stood on the veranda, his hands resting
on the rail, the night hovering just below zero. He enjoyed the
cold, his eyes tightening at the sudden gusts from across the
open field. A shock of white hair--somewhat premature for a
man only in his mid-fifties--lent an added distinction to a face
that tended to draw stares for its extraordinary good looks: the
high cheekbones, the supple lips, the gentle smile that seemed
always to grace them.

Sedgewick checked his watch. The last car had been due ten
minutes ago.

The sight of headlights bouncing through the woods allayed
his concerns. Within a minute, the car appeared at the
gate, its exhaust swirling in a gray cloud along the dirt path.
As it pulled up, Sedgewick moved to the steps.

[


59


the overseer


"Why the delay, Ms. Grant?" No greeting. No words to acknowledge
a job well done.

"Turbulence" was her equally curt response. She waited for
him to press further. When he merely nodded, she moved past
him and into the house. The two young men followed. Inside,
all three placed their bags and coats in a hall closet and stepped
through the archway to the living room. A fire was at full blaze,
the old man at its side, stoking in herky-jerky movements.

"I trust you had an easy trip." He thrust one last time at the
wood, watched as the flame burst toward the flue, and then
turned. "The car--what happened with Mr. Eggart's car? Why
was it not in place?"

All three looked at one another, then at him. Janet Grant
spoke. "It was on ... Thirteenth. He never showed up."

"Yes, I understand that." He moved to the chair nearest the
fire and sat. "I am simply asking a question."

"Did you know he'd been compromised?" Sedgewick appeared
at the arch.

"Only ... once we were in the air," she replied.

"But you were instructed to maintain radio silence." The old
man spoke with little emotion. "How, then, could you have
heard?" The woman did not answer. "I suspect that you failed to
do as you were told because you were aware of your earlier mistake
on Twelfth Street. Am I not correct, Ms. Grant?"

She kept her gaze straight ahead. "Yes."

"At last we have the truth." He stared into the fire. "Such a
mistake can be costly. And, of course, there is always the matter
of rectifying it."

"I understand--"

"You understand very little. Otherwise, this situation would
never have arisen." The cold directness of the old man's response
caught her off guard. He turned to her. "Your father has
accepted the responsibility for your actions. He has always understood
the process, the role he must play." He paused. "Do you understand that process, Ms. Grant?" Again he waited. "I
trust that is something you will think about."

The young woman stood motionless, unable to answer.


60

Jonathan Raoo

the overseer


61








"fifteen thirty-one." The tale of the monk seemed to be
calming Xander. "When the Medici resumed control of Florence,
Eisenreich sent some excerpts of his manuscript as a gift
to the returning conquerors. Much like Machiavelli twenty
years earlier, he was looking for a job. In the pages he sent, so
we're led to believe, he hinted at a method by which a few
men--naturally, the Medici--could seize power not only in one
city but on the entire continent. And not simply through military
aggression. In that mess on the bed is a copy from the papal
archives of a letter that Clement the Seventh sent to several of
his cardinals at the time. Clement--who happened to be a
Medici--describes the little he saw of the treatise as 'un lavoro
d'una possibilita grande ma anche perigliso,' 'a work of great
but dangerous possibility.' More frightened than intrigued,
Clement wanted the manuscript found and burned. Had he been
a bit bolder, who knows what the map of Europe might look
like today?"

"But why wouldn't the Pope have wanted to increase his
own power?"	_

"To where? He was the head of the Catholic church, the I
largest source of social and political control in the known I
world, and he held the ultimate trump card. He was the Vicar of
Christ. Excommunication was still a pretty potent weapon. He
had all the power he could probably fathom. What he didn't
need was one of his rivals--most likely Henry in England or I
Francis in France--to get hold of the document and threaten
European stability."

"So Clement destroyed it?"	I

"That's the great irony. He found Eisenreich--or rather, his
bastard son, Alessandro, Duke of Florence, found him--but
tortured the old monk to death before he got any information
about the whereabouts of the document. Clement probably I
spent some very uncomfortable weeks waiting for the manu- | script to emerge in some other court, but nothing ever showed
up."

"So it didn't cause any problems."

"For Clement, no. The manuscript never appeared. In fact,
in a letter written to Alessandro about two months after Eisenreich's
death, the Pope was already convinced that the whole
thing had been a ruse--that no manuscript had actually existed,
and that Eisenreich had created the threat just so that someone
would give him a job."

"And so the whole episode was just forgotten?"

"If you think about it, in the early 1530s, Clement didn't
have the time to dwell on the Eisenreich document. Henry the
Eighth's split with the Catholic church was far more pressing
than a hypothetical manuscript by a dead man."

"But it does reappear?" asked Sarah, picking out the copies
of the Pope's correspondence from the pile. "Eisenreich did write the manuscript."

"Yes and no."

She stopped. "That's not the answer I was looking for."

"No proof, no manuscript. That's what most scholars believe."

"That's the no. What's the yes?"

"The myth of Eisenreich," he explained. Sarah shook her
head. "Over the past few centuries, Eisenreich's name has
turned up in letters, documents, even in notes on the side of a
page, and always during periods of political upheaval. During
the Thirty Years War, an entire treatise appeared: Die
Wissenschaft des Eisenreichs--The Science of Eisenreich. Cute,
but not all that coherent. Our monk pops up during the English
Protectorate, the French Revolution, even into this century and
the early stages of the Third Reich."

"So what, exactly, did they all think he had to tell them?"

"As far as we know, when and how to create chaos. Assassinations,
the burning of grain reserves, destruction of ports.
Sound familiar?"

"And you think the book could actually plot out--"

"It's not what I think that matters. You asked what the manuscript
was supposed to tell them. Evidently, it's done a pretty
good job. The problem is, no one has ever taken the references
seriously."

62

Jonathan Raoo

the overseer


63







"Why? Because the chaos never played out?"

"That, and because most academics believe that the very
idea of the myth itself has been weapon enough."

Sarah looked up. "I don't follow."

"Think about it. If you want to consolidate your forces and
make certain they have a common goal, what's the easiest way
to bring them together?"

"A common enemy," she answered.

"Exactly. A threat that forces them to fight as one unit. Then,
suppose you discover some old story about a manuscript that
calls for, say, a severe restriction on individual liberty, a dismantling
of the current market infrastructure, and so forth-- and convince your compatriots that there's actually a group
ready to impose those measures on the state. What do your followers
do? They snap to attention so as to destroy the threat.
And in the process, they destroy all opposition."

"And that's what Eisenreich has been?" asked Sarah. "A fictional
device used by some savvy politicians to eliminate opposition?"

"That's what a number of historians believe. Even the name
raises questions. In German, the word Eisenreich means 'iron, state,' or 'iron regime.' The coincidence is ... too good to be
true."

"And you agree?"

"If I did, would I be here?" Xander got up and moved toward
the bathroom, picking up his empty glass along the way.

"Wait a second," Sarah broke in as the sound of flowing
water echoed through the room, "all those details about individual
liberty and market restructures--how do you know
that's in the manuscript?"

"We don't," Xander replied from the bathroom, a disembodied
voice over the water. "Remember, this is a myth. It has a tendency
to feed on itself. Over a four-hundred-year period, more facts are added; more little pamphlets appear expounding the
wisdom of the great man. It all depends on what those savvy
politicians require." He reappeared, glass and towel in hand.

"You're making a very strong case for the nos."

"I realize that. So, this afternoon I did a little digging." He
joined her on the bed. "Two articles appeared less than a month
ago from a professor at the University of Florence--the one
man who, over the last ten years, has defended the manuscript's
existence. Carlo--"

"Pescatore," Sarah read from the top page in Xander's hands.
"Eisenreich: La domanda risoluto."

" "The question resolved,' " he translated.

"Does he?" she asked, trying to read over his shoulder.

"Not entirely, though he makes a pretty good case, from the
little I read. It's all rather technical, but it's clear that he's seen
what he believes to be authentic excerpts from one of the original
manuscripts." He handed the pages to Sarah and started to
rummage once again.

"What do you mean one of the original manuscripts?"

"Usually, there were two or three translations--versions if
the master got lost or damaged before printing. As a precaution.
For those of us who place stock in the Eisenreich saga, it's generally
agreed that there were two versions. The one he sent to
the Pope, and the one he kept for himself."

"And given today's events, you think Tieg, Sedgewick, and
Votapek have one, Pescatore the other?"

"That would be remarkable, wouldn't it?"

"And you're telling me they could use it to construct--"

"I have no idea. Remember, it's what they see in it, how they interpret it. Take the Bible--think of how many different visions
of the Truth people find in its pages. Spoon-fed in the same way,
a book like Eisenreich's could create an equally dedicated following --one committed to a far more sinister truth." He went to
the pile and pulled out the second article. "Plus, in this article,
Pescatore seems to be saying that there's some sort of schedule
linked to the manuscript. A step-by-step process, first for creating
the chaos and then for building from it. That would make it
a very powerful document."

"What if someone were to find the other version?" she
asked, her expression more animated. "Would they be able to



a


64


Jonathan Rabb


understand what our three friends have in mind, and not just as
a... dry run?"

"I suppose ... but--"

"But what?" she interrupted.

Xander had moved back to the chair. "Look, I could be way
off base, here. It's a ... theory. There's no proof to link--"

"The two men in the alley were very real, Professor. What
happened today in Washington is no theory."

Xander stared at her. "I know." He shook his head. "It's just
that when I came here tonight, I thought--"

"You thought it was part of some academic intrigue, something
for your next article." He nodded slowly. "Well, it's obviously
more than that," the words as much for herself as for
him. "This is no theoretical exercise. If they know Pescatore
has a copy, they'll want to get it back." She moved to the edge
of the bed, her tone more deliberate. "And they won't want
anyone else who might be able to decipher it to find it." She let
the words sink in before moving to the other side of the bed
and her briefcase.

"Look," he said, still recovering from the last few minutes,
"I've kept up my end of the bargain. You know how Eisenreich's
connected." He watched as she released the lock. "So,
who exactly are you?"

Sarah paused, then looked at him. "To be honest, I'm not exactly
sure."

"That's not very helpful."

"No, it isn't." She reached under the bed and a moment later
was busy with her boots. "Put on your coat. Take everything with you." She could feel the operative returning. "We need to
find a safe phone."

"A safe phone?" he asked. "Who the hell are you?"


virginia, february 26, 9:04 p.m. -- Thomas Grant,
outfitted in a recently acquired Virginia state trooper's uniform,
sat in the front seat, one FBI man behind him, the other driving.

r


65


the overseer


There were questions that needed answering. They had suggested he accompany them.

"You thought he was reaching for a gun."

"Yes," answered Grant.

"You actually thought--"

Grant suddenly reached over and grabbed the wheel, spinning
the car into the railing. The man tried to regain control, but he
had been caught totally unawares. A moment later, the car broke
through, rocketing over the side.

"Sacrifice!" screamed Grant. "Sacrifice!"

The car crashed to the ravine below, exploding on impact.


sarah raked her nails along the brick face of the wall as she
listened, the jagged texture helping to keep her mind focused.
The booth was cramped, the seat offering a partial view of the
bookshop at the end of the hall. Benches and shelves were piled
high with books; Tiffany lamps atop the three oak tables that
lined one of the walls cast a warm glow on the small room. She
had hoped the shop would distract Jaspers from the uncertainty
at hand. The place had had an immediate effect, although he
had been reluctant to stay by himself at first. A section on medieval
tapestry had managed to ease his concerns.

"No," she said. "Completely unacceptable."

"All right." Pritchard's voice hadn't changed, the tone distant,
even when trying to convince. "But it might be best for
you to come in--"

"And take advantage of your helping hand?" She did little to
mask her contempt. "I seem to recall an evening in Amman--"

"In which you made a choice. We've been through this. If
you hadn't taken out Safad, the city--"

"A girl died because of that choice. That life--"

"Was expendable when compared to an entire city, perhaps
an entire region. The repercussions with the Israelis--"
"Wouldn't have made any difference!" She stopped herself,
heard the venom in her voice, a tightness in her chest, knuckles
white as she gripped the phone. She shut her eyes and took in a

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Jonathan Raoo


strain of air. "So why the sudden concern?" She forced herself
to stare at the wall. "As ever, you've been more than happy to
set the pieces in motion."

"We weren't aware--"

Sarah laughed, enjoying the silence it provoked. "I'm sure
of that. No," she continued. "I come in now, and you take me
out to a nice little farm in the Maryland countryside, find out
where the therapy went wrong--"

"As I said, we were all very impressed with your work in the
alley. I can assure you, no one questions your--"

"I don't give a damn what you think."

Silence. "Then walk away, Sarah. Come in, turn everything
over, and walk away." He waited. "I don't think there are any
loose ends this time."

Loose ends. She could feel the rage rise in her throat, the
need to lash out at the man on the other end of the line. Instead,
she forced her eyes to the shop, to Jaspers, his stooped figure
craning to read the spine of a book. The gentle academic, so
clearly unaware, unprepared. Loose ends. The words battered at
her, as they always had. Whose responsibility, Sarah? Whose
trust? She had been taught to walk away, taught that it was the
only way to survive. But she had never listened, never learned.
"You have no idea what you're dealing with, do you?"

Again silence. "It would be best for you to come in. I
trust--"

"Trust hasn't always been your strong suit. No, this time we
play it my way. No last-minute surprises. No loose ends." Her
eyes turned to Jaspers. "This time, nothing expendable."


ten minutes later, she emerged to the shop's main room.

"Did your instincts pay off?" prodded Xander.

"They were expecting my call, if that's what you mean."
Her tone was distant as she picked out a volume of Trollope
from the shelf, more to keep her hands busy than for any other
reason. "I need to see that manuscript."


67


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"Wait a minute." His uneasiness had returned. "Who's the 'they'?"

"Would it make any difference if you knew?" Xander remained
silent as Sarah replaced the book and chose another.
"Pescatore. Which department is he in at Florence?"

"Political Theory," he answered almost involuntarily. Trying
to dismiss the question, he continued, no less agitated. "What
do you mean it wouldn't make any difference? Remember, I've
written about--"

"You haven't written about them." The intensity in her tone told him to press no further. "What I need from you is a letter
of introduction to the Italian. Something that'll let me see what
he's been working on. And I want you to take a few days off.
There's a place in Delaware. I'll contact you when I get
back--"

I	"Wait a second .... You're going to see--"

I	"He has the manuscript."

Her candor was a bit off-putting. "I see," he replied. "And
I what do you intend to do with it if, in fact, he lets you see it?"
'	"Let me worry about that."

Xander nodded, his unease turning to frustration. "I give
|. you the letter, disappear, and you talk to Pescatore. Just like
that." He continued to nod. "Unfortunately, I don't think it will
work that way, if I know Carlo."

For the first time since her return from the phone, Sarah
looked directly at him. "If you know him?" She could do little
to mask her surprise.

"For the last ten years," he responded casually. "He's another
of Lundsdorf's proteges. In fact, he was the one who got
me interested in Eisenreich in the first place. I tried to tell
you--"

"Did you? ... It's perfect, then. Call him and tell him I'm
coming."

Xander tried to control his impatience. "That simple?"
"Yes. I think I can handle it from there."
"Really?" He sat on the ledge of the shelf and crossed his
arms. "And, again, what exactly are you going to do with the

1



-H



68	Jonathan Rabb


manuscript if and when you find it?" He waited. "It's either in
Italian or Latin, so I trust you're fluent. And of course you know
a great deal about sixteenth-century discourse, so you can wade
through the endless pages of extraneous information, right? Oh,
and by the way," he continued, gaining momentum, "Carlo
won't be very accommodating. He might--and I emphasize might--let you take a quick look at a few pages while he peers
over your shoulder, but that's it. He's easily the most protective
academic I've ever met. Not to mention a little paranoid. He
might even think I've sent you to steal his ideas. No. He'll be
courteous, self-congratulatory, and more than a bit condescending.
What he won't be is helpful. Moreover, he won't even be
there." His directness had quickly turned to irritation, perhaps
even a hint of comeuppance.
"And how do you know that?"

"Because, like two hundred other scholars in the field, he'll
be at a conference in Milan for the next three days." Xander
paused for effect. "I'm on the six-thirty flight tomorrow night.
I'm already taking a few days off."

Sarah allowed herself a smile as she squeezed the book back
in place. "I see." She sat down next to him on the ledge, clasping
her hands on her lap in a show of mock surrender. "So what
do you propose I do, given the fact that you're obviously three
steps ahead of me?"

"Since you won't tell me who you are... let me talk to
him."

"You were going to do that anyway."
"True." Xander smiled.

"What about the people who might not want you to find it?
Their message tonight was pretty clear. On all fronts." She
paused. "This isn't a game."

"It's a little late to be explaining the rules." Xander turned to
her, greater confidence in his voice. "Look, you came to me. I
understand you think I might be in some sort of danger now, but
wouldn't it look odd to anyone interested in my recent activities
if I didn't go to the conference? I've been planning it for
months. So I decide to take a jaunt to Florence afterward--see

the overseer	69


an old friend. How uncommon is that?" He waited for a response.
"You want to know how the manuscript ties in. Then
you need someone who can decipher it, and who has access to
Carlo. That would be me. I've done him some favors in the
past; he'll put the paranoia aside for a few days. All I'm saying
is that, on some fundamental level, you need me."

"What I need is someone who knows what he's doing." This
time, it was Sarah's turn to think. There was little chance she
could persuade him not to make the trip. And if he'd made the
plans ... maybe the sudden change would raise a few eyebrows,
make him an even more acute target? Acute target--it
was a phrase she hadn't let enter her mind in months, years.
And now it returned with relative ease.

It also made it all the more apparent that Pritchard had
known exactly what he was doing. Sending her out, letting her
get tangled up with someone like Jaspers, her sense of responsibility. "Then walk away." He had never meant it, knew she
would never take the bait. He had played her perfectly. "No
loose ends." The question remained--why? Why force her back
in?

She looked at the academic. His logic, much as she hated to
admit it, was annoyingly on the mark. What exactly did she
plan to do with the document once she had it? Once again, the
voice--somehow fainter than before--broke through: Whose
life are you playing with, Sarah? Whose trust? "Considering
there's very little I can do to stop you--"

"Do you have a choice?"

"It doesn't seem that way, does it?" She stood and stared directly
into his eyes. "You have to promise me that you won't do
anything until after your conference, until he's back in Florence.
Nothing more than casual contact."

"Why? Wouldn't it make sense--"

"No." The operative was now giving orders. "Remember,
you're not the only one who knows he's been working on the
manuscript. You have to lay low, at least until I get there."

Now it was Xander's turn to show surprise. "Until you ...



TS


70


Jonathan Rakb


Isn't that the sort of thing that would cause our friends in the
alley to take notice?"

His naivete was losing its charm. "I've got some business to
take care of in Switzerland. I'll be in the neighborhood anyway.
And remember, I'm the one with the files on our three friends.
If things do get rough"--again she held his gaze--"it would be
nice to have someone there who knows what she's doing." She
paused. "On some fundamental level, you might just need me."


children scampered about, tossing quickly packed snowballs
at one another, missiles whirling through the night air at
targets almost unseen. The large expanse of open ground, nestled
comfortably at the base of a long hill that tumbled down
from the side of the redbrick building, served as the perfect battleground.
Shrieks of laughter echoed, muffled by the sound of
crunching boots racing through the near-frozen snow. The
small wooded area that bordered the little arena lent the picture
a calming quality.

A lone figure stood atop the hill, a cigarette between his fingers,
his other hand clenched tightly inside a pocket for
warmth.

Jonas Tieg watched as the smoke from his cigarette drew
upward, colliding with the puffs of steamy air that poured from
his nose. He knew it was a mistake; his doctor had told him to
cut back, but Tieg had never been one to deny himself life's
pleasures. At just under six feet, he had the stomach to prove it,
although a barrel chest managed to hide a good deal of his most
glaring indulgence. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds
tucked judiciously within the confines of a double-breasted
blazer.

The scene below allowed him a momentary respite--these
children, so different from those in his own tightly woven
world. He closed his eyes and let the last few months slip from
his shoulders, the past day and a half fade from his thoughts.
Memories of his own childhood--cackling laughter, sweat-soaked
shirts and socks, panting breath, the cold wonder of a



the overseer	71


sudden explosion of snow on an unsuspecting back. So much
easier. So much more tangible.

The cigarette began to taste sour in his mouth; he tossed it
to the side of the hill and heard the momentary fizz as flame
met snow. The sound of cars arriving, the sudden intrusion of
headlights against the ethereal backdrop, drew him back to the
evening's task. Turning to face the oncoming lights, Tieg heard
the hurried steps of one of his aides as he approached. It was
time to put on the determined face, the mask of authority that
had come to characterize the most popular figure in the world
of television rabble-rousing. Tieg smoothed back his jet black
hair and walked toward the large brick building. As he made the
turn .toward the school entrance--his aide now at his side--the
large letters above the two oak doors rose from the brick in majestic
fashion: the elkington charter school.

Tieg unbuttoned his coat as he made his way through the
thick doors and into the small, tiled front hall of the school. An
impressive glass case full of trophies stood directly in front of
him; he removed the coat from his shoulders and handed it to
the young man at his side.

"Keep it with you. I'll want to make a quick exit tonight."
The aide nodded and moved off toward a set of doors at the end
of the hall. A young woman appeared at the end of the hall, clipboard
in hand, a harried look on her face. Amy Chandler--pro.
ducer of Tieg Tonight--had been less than thrilled with the
two-week-tour proposal that had landed on her desk three
months ago. Fourteen shows in fourteen towns. Tieg had
wanted to get to know his fans, hear their concems.Mer concerns
had not been an issue.

"You've got about four minutes before we go to air," she
said, moving toward him. "Your devoted fans--five hundred of
them--are patiently awaiting the promised schmooze session.
Give them a quick sweep and then head down. I'll spot you
when we're at thirty."

Tieg started toward the double doors, adjusting his earphone
before he answered. "I'll come down the center aisle," he said
as they met at the door. She began to adjust his tie. "Pick me up

72


Jonathan R.aoo


with the forward camera just before I make my way up to the
stage."

"Done." She pressed the tie against his chest, gave him a
wink, and spoke into her microphone. "He's coming through.
Cue them up."

Amy slipped quietly through the door; fifteen seconds later,
a deep, resonant voice broke through the dull hum of voices just
beyond the doors.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Tieg
Tonight." A smattering of applause accompanied the sudden hush
of the room. "We'll be on the air in just a few minutes, so sit back
and relax, and please give a warm welcome to the host of the
show... Mr. Jonas Tieg." Tieg waited for the cue from Amy; a
moment later, the doors opened in front of him, the applause considerably
louder as he strode into the spotlight. The classic gym-cum-meeting
hall, with ever-present stage and wooden floor
agleam under untold layers of wax and varnish, served as the setting
for this evening's off-the-beaten-path taping of the show.
The studio equipment had been slotted into an area just below the
far basketball hoop, cameras and booms at the ready for the on-air
cue. Tieg raised his right hand in a fist of appreciation and
then set off into the crowd. As he moved through the audience,
he seemed a man with boundless energy; a man with vision, they
would say.

"What a pleasure to come out here and listen to what you people
have to say," boomed Tieg, shaking one man's hand and turning
to another. He continued to wink and nod his way through the
now-standing audience; two minutes into the ritual, he heard
Amy's voice in his ear. "We're at thirty."

Tieg pulled himself away from one adoring young lady and
started for the stairs at the far end of the stage. The set looked
small, the bookshelves and desk pulled far down on the stage,
but Tieg knew the cameramen would work their magic. He
stopped just short of the steps and waited for the intro. "Smile,
Jonas," came the voice in his ear as the familiar music swelled
up.

He did as he was told, speaking under his breath, the tiny


73


the overseer


microphone on his tie keeping him in touch with his producer.
"The plane's scheduled out of Rochester at eleven forty-five?"

"It'll wait if we run late."

"Not tonight, Amy. In and out. That's the plan."

"But what about your adoring fans?" He heard her laugh.
"They'll want some time with you after the show, Jonas."

"In and out." He waved at a young man in the front row,
smiled as he talked. "Not tonight."

The voice boomed over the music, the audience now at full
pitch as Tieg took to the stage.

"Tonight, from the grand state of Vermont, the town of Elk-ington
welcomes Jonas Tieg and... Tieg Tonight." The applause
sign flashed mercilessly, though without reason, the
audience already in full lather. Tieg walked slowly toward the
desk, applauding the audience and pointing to one or two unknown
faces in the crowd. He got to his chair and sat just as the
music reached crescendo. He then adjusted the microphone on
the desk, moved a small stack of papers to the side, and looked
up, a broad smile on his face. It was time to inspire, he told
himself. Time to bring the vision to life.

"My, oh my, aren't we a spirited bunch tonight." The audi ence erupted one last time; Tieg waited for them to settle
down--nodding, waving, stacking the pages--until, staring
into the number-one camera, he continued. "Let me extend an
Elkington welcome to everybody watching out there. As you
can hear, we're a bit on the rowdy side tonight." Another wave
of applause. "Folks, we've been in ten towns in ten days, and
the amount of support we've been getting continues to astound
me.	>»

"Over the last week, we've tackled jobs, immigration,
taxes"--a groan rose up from the audience as he turned to cam- era two--"and yesterday"--he paused, suddenly more serious --"well, we all know what was on everyone's minds
yesterday." He let a silence settle on the hall. "To our friends in
Washington, our prayers." Again he waited, then turned back to
camera one. "Now, we're not going to rehash those stories
tonight, but it seems pretty clear to me that they all carry the

1


74


Jonathan Raoo

r


the overseer


75







same message: What's happening to this country? Where are
we supposed to place our faith when our jobs--our very lives-- are at risk? Are we losing control?" A burst of applause forced
him to pause.

"What it boils down to is that it's time for us to make our
voices heard. That's what this two-week tour is all about. And
tonight, we were thinking, What would be more appropriate-- in this beautiful high school setting--than to talk about the state
of education in this country. It's true--we might all need to
tighten our buckles from time to time; we might even have to
put a few extra locks on the door, but we've done that before.
When it comes to our children and their future ... that's when
we really have to sit back and do some thinking." A number of
voices rose in agreement from the back of the hall.

"As you know, I don't usually start out the show with a
monologue, but tonight, well, I'm going to ask you to indulge
me. I want to take a few minutes here and talk to you about
something that's just too fragile to leave in the wrong hands.
Our children's future." He took a sip of water and then placed
both hands on the desk.

"There are some pretty strange ideas out there when it
comes to educating children. Ideas that say morality isn't supposed
to be taught in the school, that religious faith isn't to be
encouraged. That strikes me as a little sad, especially when a
school is meant to be a place where we shape young men and
women into the sort of people who can make a difference. It's
why we're here tonight, because we're sick and tired of a system
that tells us--no, that forces us--to give up our own ideals,
and claims that our vision is somehow unacceptable. Unacceptable?"
Tieg allowed himself a quizzical laugh. "When
we're the ones asking for a higher moral standard, a greater
sense of community commitment, an investment in our children's
future?" More voices from the audience. "I know. It
makes no sense to me, either. The question is, Does that mean
we're asking for a system that demands a bit more control over
those young lives, that wants the same sort of freedom to
choose what not to teach as others want in choosing what to

teach? Perhaps. But what's so wrong with that?" The applause
sign flashed as Tieg turned to camera two.

"Limitations, parameters--these are healthy things when
they have a strong moral justification, when they help to define
a character. As you've heard me say time and time again, too
much time has been spent championing the fringe elements, the
causes that only abuse the word right--in this case, a right to teach this, to protect that. Some things don't merit that kind of
protection--at least not in the schools." Tieg picked up a newspaper
from the desk and pointed to a headline. "I was reading
this the other day, and it absolutely astounded me. 'court
opens the door,' " he read, shaking his head while he stared at
the page. "New York Times, tickled pink by a ruling that says
sexuality must have a place in the classroom." The audience
broke into laughter; Tieg looked up, a sheepish grin on his face.
"Now come on, you know what I meant, folks." He laughed
and turned to one of his cameramen. "We've got a frisky bunch
tonight, Pete. Maybe I will have that glass of Vermont spring
water." The audience applauded.

"But seriously," he continued. "Let me ask you--does my
daughter need to know about birth control? Perhaps. But not in
our schools. Does my son need to know about homosexuals and
single-sex parenting? Perhaps. But not in our schools. Do my
children need to come in contact with music that teaches
pornography and hate? I would say never. But certainly not in
our schools." Tieg took a sip from the glass. "That's why, by petitioning
your school boards, we're asking to distance our children
and ourselves from a system that, in the name of some
constitutional freedom, claims the right to impose those standards --and I use the term very loosely--upon all of us. These
aren't standards. They're an excuse. An excuse to give up responsibility
for what goes on inside these walls." Another burst
of applause.

"When I ask government officials--and I have--why my
child needs to be indoctrinated by a bunch of liberal policy
makers, they have no answer. At least none that makes any
sense to me. It's become painfully apparent that they realize



^


76

Jonatnan Raoo


that schools are nothing more than holding pens, part-time jails
for children who have no desire to learn about themselves, let
alone anything else. They aren't children. They aren't allowed to be children,-with all the mumbo jumbo that's thrown at them.
Does a fourteen-year-old understand the questions abortion
raises? Does a fifteen-year-old recognize the implications of a
single-sex home? Can a sixteen-year-old distinguish between
music and political brainwashing? I don't think so." The room
erupted in applause.

"Standards." Again Tieg laughed in disbelief as he turned to
camera one. "Standards imply caring--caring for those young
minds, their spirits, their senses of themselves. And that's been
lost." Again he paused. "Now, suppose I told you that the system,
the chain that we're forced to wear around our necks, can't
survive? And that when the time comes, we have to be ready
with schools where children actually graduate with a sense of
purpose, a mission. A new type of student, a new approach to
learning" and activism. How would you respond? How do you
respond?" Waves of applause. "But the only way for that to
happen, for those schools to pave the way and set those standards,
is if we set ourselves apart now.

"Folks, that's what we're working toward. We have to be
prepared to assert ourselves when the moment comes. We're on
the brink of a powerful period of turbulence; too much is happening
for us not to see it. I'm truly afraid that Washington yesterday
was only the beginning. That's why this school, these schools, must be ready to take the reins, to stand as the very
rocks on which our future is built. To pave the way to that future."
He shifted his gaze to camera two.

"What does that future bring? And how do we prepare for it?
That's what we'll be talking about tonight." He picked up the
papers in front of him and placed them to the side. "You've
been nice to let me have my say, but now it's your turn. When
we get back, we'll see how far we can take this tonight. So start
thinking, folks, and we'll be right back."

The bright light on his face dimmed and Tieg sat back. He
pulled the earphone from his ear in anticipation of the makeup

the overseer	77


man, who approached from the wings for a few touch-ups. Amy
was right behind him.

"Keeping them awake?" Tieg asked.

"Just keep it within reasonable limits," she answered, placing
another stack of papers on the desk. "You were pretty close
to the edge there at the end--'the brink of turbulence.' Let's
stay this side of the apocalypse."

"Trust me, Amy. They were eating it up."

"They always do, Jonas. That's what's a little frightening."

"Are you complaining about the ratings?"

She smiled and picked up the earphone. "Stick it in your ear.
We're back in thirty."


Tieg smiled. Close to the edge, he thought. Far closer than
she could possibly imagine.


the whiskey glass was all but empty, resting gently in
O'Connell's palm. He had turned off the overhead fluorescents
and was allowing himself a few moments in the somber glow
of lamplight. A reflection stared at him from the darkened window,
his slouching body comfortably wedged into a leather
couch. Somewhere through the glass, the icy waters of the Potomac
ran silent and unaware, speckled by the light patter of a
winter rain. The streaks of water slid along the window and cut
through the still portrait.

The day had been filled with surprises, not the least of which
had been the unexpected appearance of a dispatch from Bern.
The operative fund. sarah trent: access granted. He had
wasted no time in confronting Arthur.

"I thought we were pulling her in."

"She appears to be on to something," Pritchard answered,
"and she's chosen to be a part of it. I wasn't going to leave her
high and dry."

" 'Chosen'?" snapped O'Connell. "Jesus! That's an interesting
way of putting it. Did you at least fill her in on the rest of
the file--Schenten, the girl in Montana?"

"Over the phone?"



1


78

Jonathan rood


O'Connell stared at Pritchard for a long moment. "You expected
this, didn't you?"

"It was a contingency, yes."

"Why? Why would she come back in? What aren't you
telling me, Arthur?"

Now he sat drawing the last drops of alcohol from his glass.
His office was a bit smaller than Pritchard's, but it had all the
amenities--desk, couch, and plenty of whiskey. No books. He
knew he'd never read them, so why bother? And no Washington
--just the river and Arlington beyond. It was the view he
liked. Arthur had never understood. How could he? He'd never
been in the field. He'd never needed a drink to soften the
twinge of guilt. No. Arthur would never permit himself that sort
of involvement. For twenty years, they had worked that way. It
was, he supposed, why he had the ulcer and why Arthur had the
bigger office.

He poured himself a second and picked up the phone.
"Irene, my love, I need to see Bob as soon as possible.... Yes,
I know it's all rather hectic, but he's going to have to start earning
his money.... No, you get home safe. Have one of the boys
drive you." He sipped from the glass. "I want the meeting offline.
... No, not even Arthur's log. Strictly off-line." He
paused. "And erase this conversation.... Right.... Tell him
I'll be waiting." O'Connell put down the receiver and brought
his feet up to the couch. The rain had turned to snow, blanketing
the window in a white veneer. He remained still, caught by
the rapid descent of chalky crystal as it devoured the panes of
glass.

She had found something, something to draw her back in.
And this time, she was keeping the Committee at arm's length.
Somehow, he wasn't surprised.

O'Connell gulped down his drink and waited for the phone
to ring.


xander downshifted the Fiat into second gear, its engine
growling at the sudden change to accommodate a quick turn at

the overseer	79


the bottom of yet another winding hill. The sharp drop from the
side of the road to the houses perhaps a hundred yards below
gave the view the classic features of the landscape in any number
of Italian Renaissance paintings. Even the somber colors of
a winter sky, draped coolly over the rigid crags of the Apennines,
couldn't diminish the luster of the earth and orchards
below. Several times during the past hour, he had found himself
dangerously close to plummeting over the side, caught for a
moment too long in the splendor of the rolling Tuscan country.
Now, with dusk creeping up ever more eagerly, he had no
choice but to direct all his attention to the road that twisted mercilessly
in front of him.

He had left Milan four hours ago, had made Bologna in good
time--enough to stop and indulge a craving for afternoon coffee
and sweet--and was now about half an hour from Florence.
Somewhere over the next group of peaks he knew he would see
the distant outline of the Duomo--the white ribbed crown of
Santa Maria del Fiore--symbol of the Florentines' bravura,
Brunelleschi's genius, and their faith in both God and artistry.
Which they held in greater esteem was hard to know. Somehow,
Xander thought, they had managed to sustain both commitments
in a world that did its best to cultivate less impassioned interests,
a coldness driven by the love of computers and mass communications
and soulless art. Not that Florence had detached itself
from the twentieth century completely, but its signal character
had remained delightfully embedded in a consciousness, a fervor
for the grandeur of its past.

He had chosen a rural route, forgoing the faster, if somewhat
antiseptic, highways. There had really been no reason to monitor
his time, since Sarah wasn't due until much later that
evening. She had cabled from somewhere in Switzerland two
days ago and had left instructions on which hotel he should
check into once in Florence. And under which name he should
register. That had seemed a bit odd, but the instructions had
been very clear. Instructions. It was the kindest way he could
describe the marching orders he had received. No questions
about the conference, the weather--anything that might have

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Jonathan Rabb


lent the message some personality. So be it, he had thought.
And, of course, she had told him to stay away from Pescatore.
That, Xander now mused, had not been all that difficult, considering
his old friend hadn't actually been there. No doubt he
was digging ever deeper into the mysteries of Eisenreich, unwilling
to tear himself away in order to take part in what had ultimately
been a social gathering masquerading as an academic
colloquium.

The sudden appearance of headlights in his rearview mirror
brought Xander back to the road. Realizing he could barely see
thirty feet in front of him, he flicked on his own high beams just
in time to avoid a collection of rocks strewn across the pavement.
With a quick jolt to the left, the car momentarily drove up onto
the grassy slope of the hill with sufficient force to bounce Xander
a good two inches above his seat. Another rapid swing to his
right and the car was back on the road. He had to laugh. He had
deserved the slight bump to his head, he thought. His overreaction
to a few pebbles on the road had no doubt caused the driver
behind him no small amount of anxiety. Checking his mirror
again, Xander watched as the headlights--now creeping along--
cautiously maneuvered the rocky spot. Within a few minutes, the
car was once again only about forty yards behind him.

Forcing himself to concentrate for the last leg of the trip,
Xander began to look in the mirror every ten to twenty seconds.
He noticed that the car behind was drawing closer and closer,
shooting along the road at near breakneck speed. It seemed
rather odd, he thought, considering the care the driver had taken
only moments ago. And yet, the car was looming ever larger in
his mirror. Within a few seconds, the sound of its engine rose
above the din of his own, the glare of its lights momentarily obscuring
his vision. Luckily, the advent of a long, straight descent
offered Xander the opportunity to slow down so as to let
the car pass.

But the driver had no intention of passing. Instead, he closed
within only a few inches of the Fiat and began to nudge the
smaller car, jerking Xander forward with each tap. What the... Xander looked over his shoulder only to be met by the sudden


I


the overseer	81


shock of high beams cascading through his rear window. Trying
to blink away the spots now dancing in his eyes, he hit the
accelerator, shifting the car back down into third as the road
began to climb. The churning of the fiery little engine, however,
was no match for that of the car behind. The beams streamed in,
reflecting off the windshield as Xander rocked from another
jolt. He felt encased in light, almost unable to see the road in
front of him, the small guardrail racing alongside his only
guide. Jesus Christ! What is this? One word entered his mind. Eisenreich.

Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the thin sheet of metal,
Xander eased the pedal closer to the floor, the small car screaming
at the exertion. The car behind matched the Fiat's surge of
power, careening again into the rear fender and thrusting Xander
even more quickly up the incline. At the crest, the Fiat shot
above the pavement, crashing down to the sound of crunching
metal as it found the road again. Xander glanced at the mirror
during a momentary respite from the blinding light, just long
enough to see the car dart into the left-hand lane and disappear
from sight as the road curved violently to the left. Crashing his
palm into the gearshift, he thrust his foot onto the clutch and
again listened as the engine nearly buckled at the strain. As the
road straightened, the light from behind again invaded his car,
making him wince and, for an instant, lose sight of the rail. Out
of instinct, he pressed hard on the brake and began to feel the
back of the car slide to the right and scrape against the metal
protector that stood between him and a quick plunge to the orchards
below. At that moment, the larger car raced past him on
the left, unprepared for the Fiat's sudden change in speed. Xander
immediately released the brake--his car readjusting itself
to the road--and focused all of his attention on the taillights of
the car now in front of him. It, too, began to slow, as if taunting
him to pass so that the game of cat and mouse could continue.
As his own lights probed its rear window, he could make out
the shadow of two figures, one--his head the egg shape of a
fully bald man--clearly looking back from the front seat in
order to keep an eye on the car they had inadvertently sped past.


82	Jonathan Rabb


Xander wondered how long they would wait before making another
move. He had no idea what to do.

Eisenreich had tracked him, had been with him in Milan, no
doubt in Bologna, waiting. He had been foolish to think otherwise.
But waiting for what? Whatever the answer, they seemed
to be placing a great deal of stock in his ability to decipher the

theoretical.

Theories, he thought. Always theories. The deceptively alluring
panaceas that promised solution but that invariably disappointed.
He had put his career in jeopardy too many times in
the name of one of his pet projects, one of those theories that
seemed so right at the time. And yet, he had made a name for
himself in no small measure because of his imagination, a capacity
to distill the crumbs worth saving when the theory began
to fall apart. From those crumbs, he had managed to create
some of the more insightful approaches to what ultimately
proved to be unanswerable questions. It was always a game of
knowing what had value, what was smoke screen. Lundsdorf
had seen the talent, drawn it out of him, forced him to recognize
his own passion for the bits and pieces that always lay at
arm's length. Beyond the haze.

And he had run with it, all too often surprising even his mentor.
The practical implications of a theory--the ways in which it
could be implemented to good effect--remained somehow intoxicating.
He had tried to convince Sarah otherwise with Machiavelli,
but Xander knew himself too well. He was too good at
lending the theories clarity to dismiss them as mere ideas. And
now Eisenreich was stepping off the page. Frightening, given the
reality of the men who had tracked him. Exhilarating, given his

own passion.

The car in front of him broke left, turning into what looked
to be a sea of black. Unable to react quickly enough, Xander
found himself gliding by the red taillights of the car--the sound
of its gears shifting into reverse forcing him to refocus his energy.
He pressed down on the accelerator and downshifted in an
attempt to create as much distance as he could between the two
cars. Once again, the lights bore down on him, sending his eyes


1


83

the overseer


to the rail for guidance, the rapid, sloping curves of the road
coming with even greater frequency than before. Much to his relief,
the change in terrain seemed to be preoccupying his assailants
as well, allowing him to avoid more of the hammering
from behind; even so, they were gaining with each new bend in
the road. Any contact, he thought, and he wouldn't be able to
keep the Fiat from careening out of control. The guardrail continued
to whisk by, a token gesture against the imminent impact
from the speeding car behind.

As if from nowhere, the distinct shape of the Duomo rose up
on the horizon, an elongated orb floating atop a sea of lights--
Florence. Houses began to fly by, less precarious on the hills,
whose slopes now receded to a level plain. And the road accommodated
the change, forgoing the snaking twists and turns
for a straight and narrower path toward the lights. Xander
shifted again, taking the car to the utmost limits its engine
would allow. Through his mirror, he watched as the car behind
responded equally well, cutting through the distance with voracious
speed, and bearing down on him in anticipation of the
kill. There was little Xander could do but will the yelping car to
ignite a hidden burst of energy, a sudden swell of power to tear
it from the oncoming assault. Clusters of houses shot by, forming
a strangely amorphous wall through which the cars tunneled.
Realizing that he was drawing closer and closer to the
city, Xander became all too aware that the road would soon dissolve
into the myriad streets and alleys of central Florence--a
maze in which to get lost, or cornered. Or worse.

At the moment of certain impact, the road miraculously
began to curve gently to the right, merging with what Xander
guessed was the central highway from Bologna. Not slowing,
he fired the little car onto the four-lane road, barely missing an
ancient bus that swerved at the last moment so as to avoid the
collision. The sound of its bellowing horn slipped quickly into
the distance as Xander whipped through the light traffic heading
into the city. Daring a glance in the mirror, he watched the
large car try to make its way through, its bulk now a hindrance.
With each passing car, Xander was drawing farther and farther



^3


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Jonathan rood






away; within a minute, he had placed a hundred yards between
them as the city began to appear all about him.

Its immediacy, the sudden rise of central Florence, had always
struck him as overwhelming. Five minutes ago, he had
been bulleting through the Tuscan countryside. Now he was
doing his best to avoid the first hints of rush hour. Bringing
the car down to a reasonable speed, he settled into the flow
of traffic as he swung around the Piazza della Liberia and the
old Porta San Gallo, a relic from the city's medieval past. The
old stone figure glided by on his left, lit from below and
bathed in a wafting glow. Xander had no time for its serenity.
Turning into the wide avenue of the Viale S. Lavagnini, he
again picked up the pace, darting through whatever gaps the
cars around him would allow, slowing only at the Viale F.
Strozzi and the circuitous approach to the railway station. It
would be his best bet--a place to drop off the rented car and
to lose himself in the crowds.

Directions to the rental returns began to appear as soon as he
turned into the long drive of the Piazza della Stazione. Slowing,
he noticed a gap in the parked cars and slipped the Fiat into an
empty spot. He then pulled his overnight bag and attache case
from the backseat, opened the door, and made his way as
quickly as possible toward the station's main entry way. Looking
back at the small car, he was glad to find no apparent marks
from the confrontation in the hills. More than that, though, he
was relieved not to see a large car hurtling toward the station.
He quickened his pace, striding through one of the entryway
doors.

As the door swung closed behind him, the black Mercedes
that had provided the recent entertainment turned into the station's
drive.


iccreurnan

Laws are no more trustworthy than the men \vh
ate them, ana stability can never rest on h
caprice.


--On Supremacy, chapter X.VIII


YXA1>

\nder met A sea of bodies as he pushed his way through
the main station. The early-evening trains stood on distant
tracks, waiting to whisk commuters from the city, conductors
yelling out any number of obscure village names, muted by the
sound of hissing locomotives. To his left, he spotted the Hertz
counter, a woman dressed in the appropriate gold scarf manning
a computer. Fighting his way through the throng, he reached the
counter and handed her the bright yellow envelope that held all
the rental information. She began to shuffle through the papers;
Xander casually scanned the station, every so often turning his
attention back to the woman in order to answer another question.

"Your Italian is excellent, Signore Jaspers," she said as she
typed.

Xander had enough sense to smile. "You're very kind. Is
there a phone somewhere?"

She handed him his receipt. "You may use the one here at the
counter if it is a local call. Otherwise"--she pointed--"directly
across the plaza."

Xander had no intention of staying by the counter. He wanted


I


86

.Jonathan rood

a good vantage point in case his friends were still following; a
phone booth seemed the ideal choice. He nodded and pocketed
the receipt, then made his way to the bank of phones, all the time
keeping an eye on the entry doors. Slipping into an open booth,
he fished out the hotel's number and dialed. Sarah had booked
him under the name Fabrizzi. Waiting on the primitive pulses,
Xander noticed a young man dart into the open atrium of the station,
evidently searching for something. He wasn't difficult to
miss, at least six-foot-five, a good 250 pounds, and completely
bald. Xander stepped closer into the booth. The man from the
car. He watched as the titan made his way to the Hertz counter
and began to ask questions. Once again, Xander began to inch
himself farther into the booth as he watched the exchange. The
sound of a voice in the receiver startled him.

"Pronto--Hotel Donate." Xander gently replaced the receiver
and continued to watch the man at the counter. The
woman was of no help; he moved to a more central point in the
station, where he stood for perhaps two minutes, slowly turning
his body in full circle. Finding nothing, he moved off toward an
exit, his hands tucked firmly into the pockets of his overcoat.
For some unknown reason, Xander began to follow. As soon as
the man pushed through the exit door, Xander hurried himself
through the station, jostling one or two impatient commuters before
cautiously making his way out into the cold.

Remaining within shadow, he scanned the parking area,
headlights now darting all about. There, above the mayhem, he
spotted a bald head making its way toward a large black car at
the exit. Xander watched as the man opened the door and bent
in, evidently to relate the futility of his search. A heavily
bearded man sat in the driver's seat; his reaction, however, was
not what Xander expected. He nodded. No burst of anger, no
blame meted out on a subordinate. Only a nod. And then, even
more inexplicably, he turned and peered through the rear window.
For an instant, Xander thought the man was looking directly
at him, a smile beneath the beard. It was enough to force
him to take a step back as the car started down the drive.

"Taxi, signore?" Xander tried to focus his thoughts--He was

the overseer	87


looking directly at me--his eyes now drawn to the grizzled figure
at his side. "Signore?" the man repeated.

Still dazed, Xander started toward the curb. "Donato," he
said, more rote reaction than command. He stepped into the cab
and sat as the small man placed his bags in the trunk. Half a
minute later, the man squeezed in behind the wheel, smiled back
at Xander and said, "Hotel Donato. Si."


A plastic chair served as Sarah's final waiting spot. Lodged
within a gaggle of similarly uncomfortable seats, it held the perfect
vantage point for anyone interested in a view of the long
concourse back to the main airport terminal. Over the last six
hours, she had done her best to minimize her audience--the
train from Bern to Zurich, the plane from Zurich to Milan, and
now the express train to Florence. She had decided to make the
trip in small installments for two reasons: First, there would be
only one flight manifest, thus limiting her name to as few
records as possible; second, she had wanted to bring Eisenreich
out into the open. The somewhat convoluted itinerary had managed
both. A small, nervous man had been at the Bern station,
on the Alitalia flight, and was no doubt at this very moment
somewhere in the terminal, frantically looking for Sarah Trent-- the woman in plaid shut, jeans, and boots whom he had seen
exit the plane.

Now, sitting alone, she was a different person entirely, hair
pulled back, its reddish tint an attempt to convey the vanity of
an Italian sophisticate with a yen for things northern European.
Along with the dark glasses, her face had a far more angular
quality. Her clothes were also less obvious, muted colors of skirt
and blouse beneath a heavy black coat. Subtle differences, to be
sure, yet each effected with a trained hand; she was having little
trouble blending into the surroundings.

The change Had occurred two hours earlier, five minutes after
she had cleared customs. She had ventured into a ladies' room
off the main concourse and had spent nearly forty minutes redesigning
herself, a skill she recalled with easy familiarity.

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Jonathan Raoo


Memories from her early junkets into the field as a member of
COS. Those first years when a simple change of clothing had
been sufficient. Until O'Connell had seen something else, something
that told him that her gift lay not in the costume burin the
alteration of her very persona. An ability to adapt beyond herself,
to become little more than a reflection of those she was sent
to manipulate. Pritchard, too, had seen the possibilities--the
perfect infiltrator.

Staring at herself in the oversized mirror, Sarah had come to
realize that it was no longer expedient to question why that
past--with its numbing, calculating voice--had returned with
such clarity. It was simply enough to put the instincts to use.
This time, though, she would have to maintain a connection with
Sarah, redefine the operative as something more than a sober
casing for easy brutality. Once again, someone so thoroughly at
odds with the arena was forcing the duality, the sense of responsibility.
After all, wasn't Jaspers the reason she had let herself
be thrown back in?

She had emerged without the slightest glance from her
would-be companion. So different from her first encounter with
the men of Eisenreich. The horror of the alley now seemed utterly
foreign. Even some semblance of sanity had returned to
Washington--the country all too eager to dismiss the hours of
mayhem as a singular event. But Sarah knew better. Only the
first trial. And yet she had nothing tangible to give her a lead.
Too much remained hazy, obscured in the shadow of a manuscript
she had yet to see.

What she needed were facts, pieced together in a neat little
lump to clear away any ambiguity, set the patterns in front of
her, allow her to set a course for confrontation. Know these men.
Meet them as they are, not as you are._Show them only reflections
of themselves. Orders from a distant past.

It was why she had contacted Feric. The name so like the
man himself, cautious, deliberate, ferretlike in demeanor, with a
curious talent for things destructive. His skills, though, were far
more than mere extensions of a will for violence. They were
tools, coupled with a loyalty that had nothing to do with the

the overseer	89


money Sarah left at his disposal. Over the years, she had kept
him from the Committee, a private resource, unknown and untouchable.
A combination rare indeed.

She had placed the ad in one of the Bern papers. As always,
they had met at a small cafe along the Aare.

"The notice came as something of a surprise." He kept his
eyes on the avenue, his words direct, hushed. "I did not think you
would be returning."

"Things change."

"Evidently. You are in Europe?"

"For now, yes."

He nodded, took a sip of his beer. "And the contact point."

"Next week. Same column."

"Good."

"The money's been deposited."

He allowed himself a smile, placing a few coins on the table
as he stood. In a somewhat louder voice, he said, "And, of
course, remember me to your dear mother." Tipping his hat, he
moved off, his hands casual at his sides.

The announcement for the train brought her back; she stood
and moved to the escalator.


chicago, march 2, 12:15 p.m. -- "We have a problem,
Marty." The voice came over the intercom.

"Problem." Martin Chapmann, a thirty-seven-year-old whiz
kid who had avoided the worst of '87 and now sat as managing
director of the Helpurn Investment Group, scanned the numbers
on his private screen.

"We're overextending," answered the analyst. "Some of
these options--I just took a look at the last two weeks of trades
in grain. Have you seen this? I don't think we want to be going
in this direction. At this rate--"

"What does the computer say?"

"The computer? The computer says ... we're fine. But even
a couple more hours like this, the market could be in serious
trouble. The sell-offs on reserve grain stocks are climbing--"

"Then we must be fine." The words carried a finality.

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Jonathan Rabb


There was a pause. "Let me take a closer look. Just to make
sure."

Another pause. "All right, Tim. If you think that's best." He
turned off the intercom and picked up the phone. A minute later,
Chapmann had Laurence Sedgewick on the line. "Sorry to trouble
you--"

"No trouble at all," the words delivered in a monotone.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Chapmann?"

"The vulnerability. It's ... beginning to show."

"It's a little early.... Still, all we need is a few more hours.
I don't see the problem."

"I know, but I'm not the one controlling--"

"I understand that," said Sedgewick. "Is anyone aware that
the trading positions are computer-generated?"

"No. We're up to about half a billion In bad bets. Someone,
however, wants to check the numbers this end."

There was a pause. "That would be a mistake."

"Yes, I... I'm aware of that."

"Then you'll need to take care of it."

Several seconds passed before Chapmann responded. "And I
keep buying those positions until--"

"It'll become clear when you've gone far enough."

"So we're actually going to take this thing over the edge?"

There was a pause on the line. "I thought we were clear on
this?"

Silence. "I understand."

"Think of it as an experiment, Martin. A controlled environment
to test the response. Let's just make sure the environment stays controlled."

A moment later, the line went dead.

Chapmann sat back, turned to take in the skyline from his
fiftieth-floor perch. It was never more than that from
Sedgewick--detachment with an edge. Chapmann had been
with him since the last days of Warren Corp., part of the shake
up that had left Sedgewick virtually isolated. Even then, the man
had been cool to a fault, the loss of a $60 million venture tossed
off with apparent indifference. He had been up and running

the overseer	si


again within three months. Chapmann had never asked how.
Part of the aura. It was why Marty had remained so close to him.
Sedgewick had earned his trust.

He inhaled deeply and flicked on the intercom. "How about
a little lunch, Tim? Fill me in on what you've found."

"You buying?"

"Of course." He paused. "Isn't it always my treat?" Removing
his finger from the intercom, he picked up the phone.


the Donate had been expecting Signore Fabrizzi and his wife
up from Naples for a long weekend, Italians not required to
leave passports with the concierge. Sarah had arranged everything,
including the bottle of champagne in the room. Perhaps
she had known Xander would need it. Given the absurdity of the
last hour, he had come very close to taking a few swigs. He
could almost forgive himself for his foolishness at the station--
trailing after his pursuers. But the man's smile, that had unnerved
him. He tried to push the thoughts from his mind as he
settled into the sofa, his legs up on a small table.

A yellow glow streamed through the window and cast an uncomfortable
glare across his eyes as he thought about giving into
a nap. He knew he had the time; Sarah wasn't due for another
two hours, but as he tried to maneuver himself from the streetlight's
grasp, he could muster only enough energy to shift his
shoulders. Evidently, it would take more than that.

Forced to wrestle himself up from the sofa, Xander opted for
the cold wash of the Florentine night and ventured out onto the
metalwork balcony that hung six floors above the Via dei Pan-zani.
The burst of freezing air erased all thoughts of dozing from
both mind and body. But it was the view to his left that truly
made him forget his fatigue.

Don Quixote and his ever-faithful Sancho. The fat one on the
left, the tall, thin one on the right. Xander's irreverence for perhaps
the world's most striking architectural display brought a
smile to his lips. Awash under a flood of lights, the Duomo and
Campanile stared back at him, the central stained-glass eye of

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Jonathan Raoo


the cathedral penetrating the deep shadows cast by the powerful
lamps from a hundred feet below. Clearly, their creators had
been artists rather than builders. To Xander, the two seemed to
be holding their ground, waiting for an unknown attack, comforted
in each other's company. There was something very settling
in their patience.

A chill began to rise on his back. He glanced wistfully at the
glitter of the city street below and stepped back into the room,
pulling shut the two French doors behind him. In an eerie unison
with the click of the latch, the sound of a key at the front
door drained the blood from his face. Images of the Florentine
night immediately slipped away. In their place, an all-too-vivid
picture of a bearded smile rose before Xander's eyes.

Xander's mind began to race, leaving his back frozen against
the icy pane.*He felt totally isolated, pinned against the glass,
caught within the angry stare of the shaded bulb from the table. Get out of the light, damn it! Get out of the light! The words tore
through him, an unknown source pulling him from his perch as
the long seconds passed. He bolted toward the lamp, nearly
striking his shin on the corner of the glass table before managing
the switch. The room sunk into dim haze; only the soft
stream of the streetlight cast odd silhouettes against the walls.
Hearing the delicate turning of the knob and the creak of the
door, he lunged to his right behind the childlike protection of a
leather chair placed opportunely in the corner of the room. A
broad wedge of light began to slice its way through the room as
he groped for anything that might serve as a weapon. The bulbous
outline of the champagne cork caught his eye; Xander
clutched at the two-pound bottle, drawing it to his side, ready to
flail about at even the hint of discovery. Focusing on his own
breath, he tried to quell the rapid-fire pounding of his heart, certain
that its echo could be heard throughout the room.

A shadow filled the expanse, rising across the ceiling and
bearing down on his little enclosure. Daring no movement, he
listened intently to the measured steps as they crept farther and
farther into the room. Cautious footsteps, testing the waters.
Again, the word professional taunted him, added to the strain in

the overseer	93


his fingers and lungs, and began to sap what little energy he had
for the instant of confrontation. The figure inched nearer, a momentary
flicker of light from the street catching a hand, a wrist.
And in a sudden frenzy, Xander sprang from the corner, clawing
desperately for the shards of arm that had revealed themselves
in the cutting glare of the streetlamp. His other hand, still
wrapped around the bottle, began to swing forward in the aimless
direction of the figure as yet unseen.

The sensation he felt was wholly unexpected. A jabbing pin-cerlike
object tore into the soft flesh of his 'wrist, forcing the improvised
weapon from his hand. With a single twisting motion,
a searing pain shot through his arm as his legs seemed to disap-.
pear; kicked out from beneath him. His backside and head
crashed into the carpeted floor--his arm still captive--the harsh
leather of a shoe's sole planting itself on his throat, the pressure
sufficient to bar any movement save for the sporadic gulps of air
he struggled to take in. More paralyzed by his own fear than
anything else, Xander waited for the final blow.

It never came. The viselike grip around his wrist loosened;
the next moment, the shoe lifted from his neck. Xander lay very
still, free but dazed. Slowly, he pulled his arm back to his side
and tried to regain his feet, but the pain in his arm would not
allow him to push up. Crouching on the ground, clasping his
wrist, Xander looked up through the streaks of light. There, staring
down at him, was the vague outline of Sarah's face.


jesus christ! " A swell of emotion rose up in his throat, unsure
whether to burst out in relief, anger, or anguish. "What the
hell were you doing?" Again he tried to get up, but to no avail,
his mind still swimming from the throbbing in his shoulder. "I
mean what the hell were you doing?" Sarah reached under his
arm and tried to help him to his feet. Almost involuntarily, he
pulled back. The indignity of lying supine on the floor, helplessly
pinned, could not be forgiven with the simple extension of
a hand. He began to feel a sticky warmth seep through his fingers,
the slight trickle of blood that ran from wrist to palm. Wait



94


Jonathan Raoo

the overseer


95







ing for the pounding in his head to subside, he slowly pulled
himself up from the floor, all the while making sure to stay well
clear of her outstretched arms. "I'm fine." He did little to mask
his anger and frustration. "I just need to get something for my
hand."

"You're not fine," she answered, waiting until he had
straightened himself up before moving to the small entryway
foyer, flicking on the overhead light, and shutting the door. The
sudden brightness only compounded Xander's discomfort. "And
I should take a look at that wrist." The concern in her voice,
though well intentioned, had little impact.

"Oh, so now you're the doctor."

"I know what I did. It's not deep, but it'll bleed." She paused,
once again trying to help. "I'm sorry. I thought you--"

"I was wharf What could you possibly have--"

"You did leap out at me from the shadows. It's not what I'm
used to." She started toward the bedroom.

It was his turn to pause. "Well," the edge to his voice suddenly less brusque, "I thought you were ..." He tried to find his
anger. "I don't know." He made his way to the sofa and gently
lowered himself. Speaking in the direction of the bedroom, he
continued. "Why did you creep in the way you did? Why didn't
you turn on the lights?"

"Because I heard someone switch off a lamp," she calmly explained,
returning with a small, partially wet cloth. Sitting down
next to him, she waited for him to extend his hand. "Why did you turn off that lamp?"

"I thought you ... might have been two gentlemen I lost earlier
this evening." He gave her his hand. "I also wasn't expecting
you until later." A short jolt of pain raced up his arm as she
began to dab at the opening. "And why wasn't there a bellboy with you?"

"I didn't realize my nails were this effective."

"They are." Another short spasm forced a quick breath.

"Because my Italian isn't very good, remember? I didn't
want to advertise the fact, Signore Fabrizzi." She began to tie

the cloth around his wrist, tightly so as to maintain the pressure.
"What two men?"

"Just outside the city. We played bumper cars." Sarah continued
to tie the cloth. "Don't worry, I lost them at the train station."

"Good." She got up and moved to her overnight bag, which
stood at the end of the foyer. "I'm going to take a shower. And
then you can fill me in."

Xander stared at her in complete disbelief. "That's itT

"I think so." She was busy searching for something.

"I just told you that I was nearly run down, that I thought
you were some kind of assassin, that I might be bleeding to
death--"

"You're not."

"And you're going to take a shower. That's itT

"Yes." She stared at him for only a moment--more relieved
perhaps than she was willing to admit--and pulled a cosmetic
case and a few pieces of clothes from her bag before heading
back toward the bedroom. "Keep applying pressure for about
five minutes. I'll be out in fifteen."

Xander watched as she walked into the bedroom, the sound
of running water a moment later strangely calming, given his irritation.
Her apparent indifference left him alone to ponder the
last few minutes, her uncanny ability to render a six-foot-two,
180-pound man utterly defenseless within a few seconds. And if
he tried to fool himself that he had been anything but easy prey,
the still jarring pain in his shoulder and the equally dense throbbing
in his wrist were proof enough that he had succumbed almost
effortlessly. Xander recalled the two men she had
mentioned in the alley in New York. It was not difficult now to
understand how easily she must have dispensed with them.

Waiting four minutes to remove his fingers from the cloth, he
decided to splash some water on his face and change his shirt.
He lifted it gingerly over his shoulder and let it drop to the floor
as he made his way to the sink in the entry hall. The water felt
remarkably refreshing, especially the handful he rubbed into the

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Jonathan Raoo


back of his neck. Even his shoulder seemed to appreciate the
few rivulets of water that managed to slide its way.

Grabbing a small hand towel to his left, he patted his skin
dry, inadvertently knocking over Sarah's bag as he made his
way toward the sofa. His clumsiness brought a short wave of self-recrimination before he dropped to a knee to restore the few
items. Opening the flap to the main compartment, he noticed the
five manilla folders wedged neatly into the side of the case. He
knew he wouldn't get another chance to take a look at them. A
quick glance at the bedroom door, the water still at full throttle.
With childlike eagerness, he slowly pulled the well-worn files
from the bag.

Staring up at him were the two names he had been researching
for the past two years, plus the file on Votapek. The Tieg
folder was by far the thickest, but it held the least interest. After
all, Sarah had used his own articles to gather the information.
Though considerably less impressive, Sedgewick's file seemed
the best place to start. He laid it on the floor and lifted its cover.


Laurence Caryll Sedgewick, age fifty-seven, born into
New York's Park Avenue set. The bulk of the wealth from
real estate and small interests in various publishing
houses. Parents both died in air crash in 1961. Early years
primarily under the eye of housekeepers and a series of
tutors.

Five years ago, left his position as chairman of Warren
Corp., a highly diversified venture capital concern. Reliable
sources confirm it was not an amicable departure, despite
press releases. Rumor is that he manipulated several
trading venues, some of which made a number of very
high-profile banking houses extremely vulnerable. The
Warren board discovered the tampering in time to avert
any major disasters, then quickly demanded his resignation.


Xander browsed through the rest of the page, facts that
seemed either inconsequential or of public record. Schools--


the overseer	97


Deerfield, Princeton--two marriages ending in divorce, one
daughter at a private academy somewhere in Switzerland. Nothing
of great moment save for one piece of startling information:
two years at Eton--involved in something called "independent
study"--prior to his acceptance at Deerfield. The years, 1953
and 1954. Xander stared at the numbers. Tieg, he thought. Same
time frame. Sarah had evidently noticed the connection, as well.
A small red check stood alone in the margin. Flipping the page,
Xander continued to read.


Since Warren, he's created something of a cabal around
himself, a mixture of some of the more powerful figures
within the world of finance. Some prominent names are
Simon Maxwell at Lehman, Diana Cox at Morgan, and
Martin Chapmann with the Helpurn Group. What he intends
to do with them is left to the reader's imagination.


Xander wondered why there was no mention of the recent
computer venture; it seemed the obvious answer to the question.

Here, the report seemed to jump inexplicably. Several paragraphs
had quite obviously been removed, and a very sloppy job
of reconstruction had been attempted. The flow of the report became
jagged, cross-references back to the missing sections
deleted so as to maintain the contrivance. Evidently, something
had happened in the last few months that someone considered too
delicate to include. The inconsistency was glaring. It's the computers, he thought. Why had they removed those sections? It's the
obvious link to Tieg.

The cessation of running water caught Xander by surprise.
He realized he had about three minutes to breeze through the
Votapek file and make it back to the sofa before Sarah reappeared.
Flipping quickly past the other files, he opened to the
two sheets that served as the entire report on Votapek. Not much,
but certainly more than Xander himself knew. He began to read.


Anton Votapek. Born 1934? Some question as to the authenticity
of his early background--parents, date of birth,


98

Jonathan Rail


etc. Records available only after age seven. Unremarkable
upbringing, followed by three years at the University
of Chicago as an undergraduate, one year as master's candidate
in education. Ph.D. from Columbia in sociology,
followed by several years abroad on various grants and
fellowships. Returned to the United States in 1963 to take
a position with the Cahill Group, an avant-garde educational
forum intent on revamping primary-school education.
Some question as to Votapek's relationship with
Arthur Cahill. Indications are that a struggle for control of
the governing council left Votapek out in the cold. He resigned
in 1965. Plans for the Learning Center (later
known as the Tempsten Project) began in late 1966.


Xander glanced through the next few paragraphs, a few more
details about the tragedy that had taken place in August of 1969,
but little to make him stop. And yet, for some reason, he had the
sense that, once again, there was a break in the narrative, a
rushed job of cut and paste that left too much unsaid but that
clearly hinted at more. No mention of any names associated
with the Learning Center--children, faculty, sponsors. Nothing.
In fact, the information, save for the very enigmatic first sentence
about Votapek's background, was readily available to any
practiced researcher. No, the report was evidently leading somewhere,
but it had been cut off, as if it was meant only to whet the
reader's appetite. And no Tieg or Sedgewick. Nothing beyond
1969. No connections made, none implied.

Wanting to scan the last paragraphs for answers, he reluctantly
slipped the pages back into the folder and delicately slid
the files into the bag. Struggling to his feet--his shoulder more
maneuverable than only minutes before--he draped the towel
around his neck and, realizing he had no time to make it to the
sofa, planted himself in front of the sink, turning on the faucet
just as Sarah reemerged from the bedroom.

"I'm glad to see you're up and about. Didn't bleed to death
while I was in the shower?" She had dressed in a pair of slacks,
a turtleneck rounding out the outfit. Her hair was pulled back in


99


the overseer


a bun, its red tint far more pronounced when wet. It was the first
I time Xander had noticed the change.
(	"That's different, isn't it?"

"What?"
"Your hair."

"You're not the only one who's had unwelcome guests

today." Sarah left it at that as she made her way to the sofa and

p began to browse through one of the magazines on the coffee

table. Without looking up, she added, "I hope you found them

interesting."

Xander flinched for only an instant, then continued to dry the
back of his neck. As nonchalantly as he could, he strolled toward
her. "Found what interesting?"

§"The files. In my bag." She looked up, no sign of accusation
in her expression. "Did they fill in any holes?"

"Some." He realized it was useless to play dumb. "How did
you--"

"I left the flap closed." Xander turned to the bag. Open. He
really wasn't any good at this, he realized. "How's the arm?" she
continued.

"Better. Thanks." He was by the bedroom door, ready to offer
an explanation. Instead, he smiled, turned into the room, and
started to unzip his case. Digging through layers of clothing, he
found it hard not to think about the woman who sat calmly in the
other room and who had shown no emotion when pointing out
his indiscretion. Was she the same person he had met over tea
only a few days ago? No. That much was clear. The hair, the
candor in her tone, the eyes. There was a self-assurance, certainly
not lacking before, but which now seemed to define her
entirely. It was, perhaps, best not to ask. Still, he couldn't help
but wonder.

Finding a reasonably unwrinkled shirt, he walked into the
living room, at the same time trying to manage the sleeves without
lifting his right arm.

"Want a hand with that?" she said, tossing the magazine onto the table.

"Thanks." This time round, he would accept the charity.

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Jonathan Rabb


He handed her the shirt, turned his back to her, and placed his
hands at his sides. Slowly, she positioned the sleeves by his outstretched
fingers and gently pulled the collar to his neck, draping
the shirt on his shoulders. As she let the material fall, she
momentarily caressed the injured shoulder, as if to apologize.
For someone who had tried to maim him only minutes earlier,
her sudden tenderness was pleasantly unexpected. "You have a
nice back, Dr. Jaspers."

Her comment caught him completely off guard. After a very
long moment, he stammered, "I... I row."

"That would explain the shoulders."

He suddenly felt very warm. Without turning to her, and trying
to handle the buttons as quickly as he could, he continued.
"I have one of those machines ... in my apartment.... A rowing
machine." He tucked the shirt into his pants with surprising
speed, given his discomfort, and made his way behind the sofa,
heading to the sink. "I try to use it every day ... the ... rowing
machine."

"I can see that." She was seated again, a smile on her face.
Xander was finding it difficult to meet her gaze.

For no apparent reason, he turned on the faucet and began to
wash his hands. "Yes, well... the shoulder is feeling much better."
And with that, he rinsed off his hands, dabbed them lightly
on the remaining towel at the basin, and turned to Sarah, trying
his best at a smile. ''Dinner?"

"Yes." She looked at him and then reached across to the
menu in the middle of the glass table. "It looks as though they
have a nice selection."

"Oh." Xander was unsure for a moment. "I thought we--"

"Given the way things have gone today--for both of us--I
think it'd be smarter to eat in. Just to play it safe."

He nodded awkwardly. "Right. That seems ... right."

"Plus, it'll give you a chance to tell me what you think
about those files before we go and see Pescatore tomorrow."
She remained focused on the menu, though her words seemed
to jar Xander from his momentary stupor.	i

"Carlo," he uttered. "You know, he wasn't in Milan."


I


I

the overseer	101


Sarah looked up, all signs of the smile gone. "Does that surprise
you?"


"It didn't." Xander sat down next to her.
"But it does now."


"Yes"--he nodded, more to himself than to her--"I suppose
it does."


chicago, march 2, 12:47 p.m. -- The lunch-hour
crowds filled the streets. Martin Chapmann was deep in conversation
with his young associate, debating grain's solvency between
bites of a chili dog. Tim Gillespie was wiping his chin
with a napkin as they walked.

"Then the computers are fucked, Marty. I'm telling you, the
surge over the last two weeks could be based on a lot of high-risk
bets--farmers selling off reserve stock at inflated prices....
Look, I don't think I have to explain basic finance--if grain
doesn't go that way--"

"You think we'll have a panic on our hands. Come on, Tim."

"Well then, humor me, Marty. Let me trace the numbers, see
where the positions are coming from. Worst-case scenario, I
waste an afternoon."

"You really think--"


"I've already got the computer doing an initial search. Two
hours max--"


A woman momentarily brushed by the two men, inadvertently
scraping the hand of the young analyst with her bracelet.
Gillespie hardly felt the pinprick as the woman turned her head
to apologize, an instant's recognition from Chapmann as she
continued down the street.

"Then again," joked Gillespie, "I could always spend two
hours with her." Laughing, he turned back to Chapmann and
began to walk. They had moved no more than ten feet when the
younger man stopped. Chapmann saw the smile vanish from his
face, Gillespie's expression one of confusion, disorientation. For
a moment, he tried to blink it away. He grabbed on to Chapmann,
who continued to watch as the analyst's face suddenly
contorted in a wild spasm. A few seconds later, his body col

1




^


102


Jonathan rood


lapsed to the ground. Chapmann screamed for a doctor as he
knelt by his friend.

But he knew it would make little difference. An aneurysm to
the brain was fatal--a sudden, inexplicable, though entirely
plausible cause of death.


the early-afternoon sun glistened on the rolling waves, giving
a strangely warming sheen to the frigid air on the Cape Cod
beach. The sand, powdered with morning snow, parted easily
under the feet of Anton Votapek, his wiry five-foot-seven frame
wrapped in a long leather coat. He held his hands at his back, his
shoulders hunched slightly forward as he trod just out of reach
of the tide. His gait was slow, not so much because of the sand
or snow but for the figure at his side, who was doing his best to
keep up on the precarious terrain. The older man was on a slight
incline, making the two roughly the same size as they sauntered
along--tightly bundled bodies, each in Russian hat and walking
boots, thoroughly isolated on the long stretch of shoreline. Three
other men stood around a car perhaps a half mile away, alone in
a parking area long abandoned by the summer crowds. The engine
was running.

"As usual, they were not told that I was meeting with you,"
rasped the older man, his breath short from the demands of the
walk.

"Probably best," nodded Votapek as he spoke. "Jonas and
Larry have their hands full with the first trial. The economic
phase should begin--"

"Do not concern yourself with such things, Anton." There
was a hint of reproach in the tone. "Men must see to their own
tasks." A phrase he had heard all too often. "Yours are the children. Remember this. Not the first trial." He smiled, the lesson
over. "Still, you are right. Washington was remarkable. It sets
the stage perfectly."

The accent, though almost entirely Americanized, hung upon
the words and reminded Votapek of his earliest days with the
man. Days spent expunging any traces of his own accent so that

r

I


I


103


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he could assume his place in a new world, a new society, free
from the stigma of his past. America. He had embraced it then
and had lost none of his fervor in the intervening years.

The problem was that things had gone terribly wrong. Yes,
the war had been won, the sense of expectation--of real
promise--profound. "Rut fear had infested activism, indulgence
had replaced direction, and empathy had diluted everything"--
more words from a book he had seen only once. As a young
man, Votapek had watched as Cold War fixations had drained
America of its very spirit. The result, faddism. No agendas, no
claims to a future, because no one had been willing to muddy his
hands, run the risk of using power to ignite real passion and
commitment. Everything had become worthy of pursuit and thus
nothing had been achieved. That brave new world, the society
that had offered him such promise, had become nothing more
than a breeding ground for every eclectic whim a people could
foist upon itself. That wasn't use of power. It was an affront to
it. And Anton Votapek had been groomed to treat power with
greater respect. People needed to be taught, guided. They
needed a moral vision. That was what the man at his arm had
taught him all those years ago.

"The word from Montana is that everything with the children
has returned to normal," Votapek added.

"As we knew it would. Thirty years, and only six such
episodes. We have been most fortunate. It is a testament to your
leadership."

Votapek nodded, then spoke. "Still... I should have anticipated
the problem." There was a certain nervous quality to his
voice. "We've had similar rumblings at seven or eight of the
other sites, but we've managed to find ways to avoid... such
extreme measures."

"You question the method?" asked the old man.

"No. Of course not. It's just... I should have been better
prepared--"

"You are afraid of repeating your errors."

The younger man nodded.

"How many times do I need to tell you, it was not yours

104


Jonathan Raoo


alone." The old man looked at his onetime pupil, a warmth in his
eyes. "It could not have been. Those children were ill-adjusted,
our program ill-designed to cultivate the right sort of passion
without fostering a certain element of violence. Hatred is a powerful
tool, Anton. More powerful than any of us understood. We
needed time to learn how to control it. You cannot blame yourself
for a certain level of... naivete' all those years ago."

Votapek remained silent.

"Anton, this sense of inadequacy, is it a result of the recent
episode," he paused before adding, "or is it because it reminds
you of the girl?"

Votapek took a moment before answering. "You mean
Alison."

The old man stopped. "Yes, Alison." The warmth had disappeared
from his eyes. "We have been through this too many
times, and I will not hear of it again. Things are too far along
for her to play on your mind. It was thirty years ago. You have
done all that you can for her." He patted Votapek on the arm.
"We should turn back. It is getting a bit cold for me." The old
man clutched at the outstretched arm as the two retraced their
way through the sand and snow. "The children, Anton. Think
only of the children."


sarah drew back the drapes, momentarily stunned by the sunlight
streaming off the balcony. Sleep still heavy in her eyes, she
pressed her cheek against the icy pane of glass to jolt herself
awake. She had been to Florence only once before--as a student --and had been more intrigued by the young Italian boys,
who had made her feel so welcome, than by the splendor of the
city. Now, staring to her left, she watched as the sun spread
across the ribbed dome of the cathedral, the tourists already
thick within the open court of its square.

Pulling herself away, she shuffled toward the bedroom and
knocked on the door to see if Jaspers was up. Given his injuries,
she had thought it only fair he get the bed. It had taken considerable
effort to convince him--at nearly two in the morning--


105

the overseer


that she would be far more comfortable on the sofa. Lundsdorf's
etiquette aside, Xander had finally conceded, due in part to fatigue,
but more to Sarah's reference to possible unwanted guests
in the middle of the night. Who better than she as the front line
of defense? Of course, she had been kidding, but her suggestion
had been just enough to break his resolve. The smile on her face
now recalled his momentary look of panic.

She knocked again, surprised by the lack of response.

"Looking for me?" Sarah spun to her right to see him, tray in
hand, walking through the front door. She pulled the blanket
tighter around her waist. "I bring coffee and croissants."

"I didn't hear you get up."

"I'm amazed," a broad smile on his face as he moved to the
table. "But there you were, fast asleep, when I emerged this
morning. I thought it best to let you sleep."

"I guess I needed it." Sarah pulled the heavy chair closer to
the table while Xander poured out two cups of coffee. As he did
so, she noticed the thick piece of gauze lashed tightly to his
wrist. "I'm sorry about that."

"Not to worry. The concierge had all this medical stuff downstairs
and was only too happy to have a chance to use it. I think
he went a bit overboard. It feels absolutely fine."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"As am I." Xander winced from the heat of his first sip. "Unfortunately,
I tried to reach Carlo--from the lobby phone. No
answer."

"Maybe he hasn't gotten to his office," she suggested,
spreading a thick spoonful of jam onto one of the croissants.

"No. He's a workaholic. He's usually in by seven, seven-thirty
at the latest. It's not like him."

Sarah stood, taking her cup with her--a large piece of croissant
jutting from her mouth. She pulled a few items from the bag
by the bedroom door and said, "We'll have to see. I'll straighten
myself out, and we can get going."

106

Jonathan Rabb

twenty minutes later, Xander followed her out onto the Via
dei Panzani, a broad avenue by Florentine standards. Thick rustic
stones of brown and gray furnished a textured armor for
some of the more overbearing buildings, crude second cousins
to the smooth-polished stucco shops narrowly wedged in
between. The most ancient of them seemed unable to hold themselves
upright, resting ever so slightly on the buildings to either
side. Their familiarity lent the tightly packed row a strange sort
of camaraderie--wood, cement, and stone banding together
against time and the elements. Xander drew up to her side, and
she slid her arm through his; he did little to mask his surprise.

"Don't worry, Dr. Jaspers. It's only what the Fabrizzis would
do." Xander nodded, though she could sense a slight hesitation
in his response as they continued on in the direction of the cathedral.
His discomfort with her as a woman--evidently something
he had only realized last night--struck her, for some odd reason,
as charming. Thinking about it now, she couldn't help but recall
with delight the episode with the shirt. She squeezed his arm a
bit tighter, only to feel a tension rise in his shoulder. Knowing
full well she wasn't, she asked, "Am I hurting you? Is that the
one from last night?"

"No. No, it's fine. It was the other shoulder," he replied.
"Which... seems to have recovered entirely." He swung the small case out in pendulum style to illustrate the arm's mobility.
"See?"

"Good." She began to propel them along at a brisk pace. "So
tell me what we're looking at."

His immediate sense of relief was painfully apparent. It was
only fair, she thought, to consent to an impromptu lecture on Renaissance
history and architecture. After all, he had been
through quite a lot in the last day or so, and she knew a brief
jaunt into his little world would relax him. It might also make
the burden of a rather attractive woman on his arm less taxing.
Listening with only one ear--on occasion nodding or offering
an "I see"--Sarah tried to extend her focus to the area around
them, ever wary of any sudden movements within the growing

the overseer	107


crowds. As they reached the Piazza San Giovanni, the buildings dropped away and the tourists, until now only a trickle, burst
forth in a torrent.

The Duomo loomed with fitting grandeur over the open expanse,
its stained-glass and marbled facade reflecting a brilliant
sun. Few seemed deterred by the glare, cameras clicking in syncopated
rhythm to the growing echo of footsteps. Perhaps out of
instinct, Sarah asked if there were a less-traveled route to the
university. Xander stopped and nodded to his left toward a small
street just off the main square.

"It's the shortest way, but we'll miss the Medici Palace and a
number of other lovely--"

"I think we can pass on the sights for now." Sarah smiled up
at the young scholar, seeing her point register in his eyes.
"Right." He nodded. "The less-traveled route."
Unwilling to bypass the Baptistry entirely--the large
nipplelike structure in front of the cathedral--he led them
around several of its sides before pausing at its easternmost
door. Ghiberti's Gates of Paradise stared down at them, scenes
from the Bible rising from the bronze in rich undulating lines:
the Expulsion from the Garden, the Sacrifice of Isaac, Moses
on Sinai. Xander looked on entranced. Somehow, the sculptor
had captured the anguish, the elation, the immediacy in these
scenes. Sarah, too, found it difficult not to stare, to give in to
the door's seductive lure. But an inner voice told her that they
should keep moving. Too many people cluttered around them.
She pulled at his arm and led Xander toward the smaller road
and its comparative stillness. At once, she felt more in control
within the confines of the nearly deserted street. Even the sun
seemed less inclined to venture in with them, cut off by the high
walls rising above the narrow lane.

Within a few minutes, they began to see the telltale signs of
academia, students sauntering along, several clutching the uniform
leather satchel prematurely aged through years of abuse.
As the road opened to the Piazza San Marco--a large square
serving as the foreground for a delightful church and its rather
imposing monastery--Xander pointed to a placard on the side


108

Jonathan Rabb

the overseer


109







of a windowless archway indicating an entrance to the university.
A few students brushed by them at a furious pace.

"It must be time for lecture," he smiled. "They never move
that fast."

Venturing through a series of long arched redbrick passageways,
they arrived in an open courtyard cluttered by a smattering
of leafless trees and wooden benches, all surrounded by
perhaps seven or eight fat little buildings, each an amalgam of
late medieval austerity and seven centuries of alterations. Xan-der
tried to remember which one of the buildings held Pescatore's
office. "I think it's that one," he pointed. "Yes, definitely
that one. With the funny slanted tree in front. He's on the first
floor somewhere." Together, they followed one of the myriad
crisscrossing paths that cut through the open court, stringlike
pavements connecting each of the buildings.

Without breaking stride, Xander managed the uneven stone
steps at the foot of Pescatore's building and pushed through a
thickly grained oaken door, distractedly holding it for Sarah. She
could tell he was now intent on the manuscript, with little time
for Lundsdorfian pleasantries. Not waiting to see if she was
through, he straddled another short set of stairs, and strode down
an empty corridor to his left. Sarah remained a few paces behind,
deeper in darkness as the door behind clicked shut, the few strips
of sunlight slipping to shadow. To her eye, the long cavernous
hall, streaked by several shoddy overhead lights, seemed to disappear
in a wall of haze, swallowing Xander in its ebbing glow.
Only the sound of his eager footsteps filled the hall. Falling in
with his rhythm, she lengthened her stride, drawing up to him
just as his eyes lit up at the discovery of Pescatore's office.

Raising his eyebrows in anticipation, Xander knocked gently
on the wooden frame and waited, leaning into the door as if expecting
to hear the muffled footsteps beyond. After a few seconds
without response, he knocked again, this time pressing his
ear to the thick wood. Nothing. He turned to Sarah, a look of
concern in his eyes.

"This isn't like him," he whispered. "This isn't like him at
all." Just as he was about to pound firmly for a third try, Sarah


I


I

pulled him away. She knew there was no reason to draw unnecessary
attention, especially as they didn't know who might be
inside the other offices. Removing two thin metal strips from her
bag, she glanced down the hall and delicately slid them into the
door's lock. Xander looked on, utterly bewildered. With a short
snap, the bolt released, and Sarah gently pushed the door open.
Placing her other hand in the small of his back, she directed the
reluctant scholar into the office.

The room was in a state of complete disarray, books and
papers everywhere. Drawers from filing cabinets rested precariously
on the tips of metal railings, ready to pull the five-foot-high
units crashing to the floor. A few inches from the ceiling,
an entire length of wooden shelving had been dislodged from its
brace and now swung dangerously out into the room. Directly in
front of the door, several chairs had been shoved to the center of
the room, conjoined in a bizarre sculpture with legs jutting out
in all directions. What little light there was streamed in from the
hastily drawn curtains, a few slits here and there to scatter the
sun and add to the chaos. Moving slowly, Xander approached
the desk, lifting his case up toward the one area free from
clutter.

"Don't touch anything," whispered Sarah, her tone direct,
enough to stop him in midmovement.

The case swung back to his side as he turned. "Look at this,"
he said. "What happened here?" He needed an answer, some
way to explain away the mayhem they had discovered. Sarah could tell he was not, as yet, willing to admit the obvious.

"You were right to be concerned." She turned and closed the
door, shutting out the paltry light from the corridor.

"Damn it!" Xander continued to look around the office.
"This wouldn't have happened if--"

"If you hadn't come to Florence?" Sarah shook her head as
she moved beyond him to the window, angling her head so as to
peer through a thin strand of light. From the little she could
make out, there looked to be a second courtyard behind the
building. It was empty. Still, given the state of the office, she
knew they would have to be careful. And quick. She turned to "


110


Jonathan R.abb

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in






him. "It wouldn't have made any difference. They knew he had
the manuscript and they wanted it. Most likely because it could
explain what they have in mind after the dry run in Washington.
As you said, that would make it a very powerful document." She
began to look around the room. "The question is, Did they find
it?"

"I don't know." He sounded somewhat dazed. "I... can't
imagine it would have been that hard, if they knew what they
were looking for." Xander watched as Sarah dropped to a
crouching position behind the desk. He then glanced about the
room, still trying to piece things together. "According to Carlo's
article, it's about seven inches long," he added, "and about an
inch wide, bound in old leather, with the Medici seal--six balls
on a shield."

"It obviously wasn't that easy to find. Otherwise, why the
mess?"

"I suppose." He shook his head in disbelief. "Carlo's stubborn,
but he's not stupid. If someone wanted something that desperately
--"

"He would have given it to them." Her voice rose from behind
the desk.

"Exactly," he nodded. "What are you doing down there?"

A long silence passed before she answered. "He might not
have had the chance." She stood and brushed the dust from her
knees.

"And what exactly does that mean?"

"There are streaks of blood on the floor and on the leg of the
desk. The carpet's ripped." She stared directly into his eyes.
"There was a struggle."

"Wait a minute." He began to shake his head, his words uncertain.
"What are you saying? That's impossible. Why would
anyone--"
"Because they needed to get the manuscript."

They stared at each other for a moment. "That's not possible,"
he said, struggling to find something to convince her, himself, that the suggestion was ludicrous. "It would be like
Eisenreich's story replaying itself four hundred years later. They

kill him before he has a chance to explain?" The impact of the
single word seemed to strike at Xander. For nearly half a minute,
he said nothing. Then, in a near whisper, he said, "He's dead,
isn't he?" The words seemed to roll out, almost of their own
will. "Isn't he?"

"I don't know."

He looked at the books scattered about the floor. "Because of
a few pages of theory." Standing quietly, Xander suddenly felt
shaken. There was a fragile quality to his voice. "He wouldn't
have done anything, said anything. At least I don't think ..." A
hollowness rose through his body. Choosing to ignore Sarah's
warning, he sat on the lip of the desk and placed the small case
by his feet, his arms folded about his chest as he began to sway
back and forth. Sarah watched him drift farther and farther
away, lulled by the gentle movement of his own body. Stepping
through the papers, she drew up to him and placed her hands on
his arms, tightening her grip until his eyes met hers.

"But you don't know them." She could see he was beginning
to question his own motives, his own culpability. She'd seen it
too many times not to recognize the expression on his face--an
indulgence she could not permit. Him or herself.

"You know, I don't get you. I don't get you at all." No rebuke,
merely a statement of fact. "You're able to look at all of
this with ... I don't know ... such detachment." He shook his
head. "I wish I could do that."

Sarah peered into his eyes. Another innocent. Another
choice. "I don't think you mean that." She held his gaze for a
moment, then added, "The manuscript. Is there anywhere Carlo
would have put it?"

"Just like that."

"Like what?" she answered.

"Back to the hunt." She said nothing and released his arms. In
an attempt to get his mind working again, he rubbed his hands
down his face. "Right." He began to look around the room. The
simple movement seemed to rouse him from the moments of
self-recrimination. "The manuscript." He nodded. Brushing by
her, he moved to the center of the room.

112


Jonathan rood


"Put on your gloves," she insisted.

Without stopping, he did as he was told, already focused on
a large pile of books at the base of the shelving. "Now think," he
began. "If he's as clever as you know he is, where's he going to
put it?" Kneeling, Xander slid his fingers across a number of
spines, the titles eliciting only shakes of his head, until, with a
sudden burst of insight, he shot up. "Of course. In another
book." Sarah watched as he looked up to the remaining bookshelves
and then to the floor, all signs of panic and whatever else
momentarily forgotten. "So where did you keep it, Carlo?" His
eyes darted about. "And where would they have tossed it?"
Sarah could do little but wait. The researcher had returned.

Impatient, she prodded. "Kept what?"

For the first time in the last minute, he seemed to remember
she was in the room. "This might sound strange, but my guess
is that somewhere in this mess is a rather old volume of Saint
Augustine's Confessions."

"Saint Augustine? "

"Book twelve, section twenty-four, I think." He was back,
and at full throttle. "It's the chapter where he explains the vitality
of interpretation. It's actually a very eloquent, and quite
forward-thinking bit of writing on the freedom of thought." As
he spoke, he continued to look about the room. "It's all about
Moses, and how no one really knows the word of God, and
how we're not allowed to insist on one reading because of our
ignorance, and so forth." Sarah watched him pace the length of
the wall, his head tilted to one side so as to read each binding.
"Rather ironic for the man who set down all those strict rules
of Catholic dogma." Xander might have been giving a lesson
in theological history, but his eyes and fingers were now lost
in the shelves by the door. "Basically, it's a diatribe against
dogmatism. 'Don'/ tell me what to believe'--that sort of thing.
Carlo always thought it was one of the more important statements
Augustine made. Talked about it all the time. It's exactly the sort of thing he felt he confronted every day of his life-- the struggle against narrow-mindedness. Everyone dismissing
what he was doing with Eisenreich." Looking up to Sarah, he

r^


113


the overseer


added, "Well, evidently they were wrong." He turned his focus
again to the books and added, "my guess is that he would have
put the manuscript in his copy of Confessions. Where his interpretation
would get the respect it deserved." Finishing with
the books by the door, Xander moved out into the middle of
the office. "Look for something big, and dense. A good fourteen
or fifteen inches long, maybe two and a half inches thick,
with the word Confessiones in Latin on the spine." He knelt
down.

Joining him on the floor, Sarah began to sort through the
stacks in her corner. Within a half minute, her eyes caught the
faded gold inlay on the spine, the large C almost entirely lost.
She picked up the book.
"Is this it?"

Xander looked over his shoulder and immediately sprang to
his feet; he took the book from her as he moved back to the desk.
"Bingo. Now, let's see if I know him as well as I think I do."

Clearing a wide-enough space on the desktop, Xander laid
the tome down and slowly opened its cover. A long dedication
by someone named Teggermann was scrawled in almost unintelligible
handwriting. Xander lifted the thick yellowed page,
expecting to find the small manuscript staring back at him. All
he saw was the table of contents.

"Dead end?" asked Sarah as she watched from the side of the
desk.

Not bothering to acknowledge her, Xander flipped to about
three-quarters the way through the book. Scanning the tops of
each page, he flipped farther and farther back. About forty pages
from the end, he stopped.

Sarah looked down and saw the small leather-bound volume
placed neatly in the center of the page.

"Book twelve, section twenty-five. I was off by one." He did
little to hide his pleasure. As he picked up the manuscript, however,
his expression of triumph quickly turned to one of utter disbelief;
the front and back covers came together in his fingers.
There seemed to be nothing in between. Tearing open the small
volume, he could do nothing but stare at the centimeter-wide


f


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Jonathan Rabb

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115







edges still clinging to the spine, the only remnants of pages razored
out. The discovery was too much. "Jesus Christ.' It's not as
if they haven't done enough. They have to destroy this as well?"

"I doubt they destroyed it," said Sarah, her own disappointment
less apparent. "They probably didn't want some customs official asking questions about a book with that crest on it.
That's why they left it here."

"Then why put the binding back in the Augustine?"

"So as not to draw attention. I don't know."

Xander tossed the leather casing onto the desk. "So now
what do we do?" She saw the determination begin to fade from
his eyes, the recollection of Pescatore's death slowly return.

"What about files? Anything that might give us something on
the contents of the book." She was trying to draw him back in.

"Files ... right." Another task. Another distraction. "Knowing
Carlo, he would have been very careful. They wouldn't just
be lying around." Again, Xander glanced around the room,
lighting on a section of the floor directly behind the desk.
"They'd be in there," he said, pointing to the large computer
wedged into the corner of the room, a thick link chain locking it
to a steel hasp extending from the wall. "The problem is," he
added as he knelt by the keyboard, "how do we get inside it?"
Sarah reached over his shoulder and flicked on a switch at the
back of the console. The screen lit up, casting a pulsating glow
about the room.

"How about that?"

Xander didn't bother to look around. "Yes, thank you. You
know that's not what I meant. He's going to have some sort of
code to get in." A small flashing key appeared in the top-left-hand
corner of the screen.

"If it's like the ones at State, it's probably nothing more than
a simple software block," suggested Sarah. "You get three shots
at the password before the entire system shuts down."

"Or worse, before it sends out a signal to the main frame and
calls in the local security. I have that feature on mine as well."

"And your friend Pescatore didn't happen to mention the
password to you at any point, did he?"


"Carlo? You've got to be kidding. To be honest, I'm amazed
that the Augustine panned out. That was blind luck. Not that it
got us anywhere." The two of them stared at the screen for a
minute.

"What's your password?" she asked.

"Niccolo. Why?"

"Why Niccolo?"

"Machiavelli. Are we going someplace with this?"

"Well, who was Pescatore's favorite? Augustine."

Xander peered at her over his shoulder, a skeptical look in his
eyes. "Isn't that a little obvious?"

"Do you have any better ideas?"

He turned to the screen and typed the word Augustine into
the keyboard. He pressed the enter button. A small x appeared on
the next line, followed by another flashing key.

"One down. Two to go. Any other suggestions?"

Sarah thought for a moment. "What about his first name.
What was Augustine's first name?"

"Saint." Xander glared over his shoulder, an even more incredulous
look in his eyes. "I don't think he had a first name."

"You're not being very helpful."

"Sorry. It's just--" His eyes suddenly froze, an expression
Sarah had seen before, an instant of recognition struggling to
find expression. She watched as a grin began to creep up his
cheeks.

"What? What?"

"No. That would be crazy." He paused. "What the hell."
Turning to the computer, he typed in a few letters, pressed enter,
and watched as the system engaged, the software beginning to
boot itself up on the screen. A guttural laugh emerged from his
throat, the grin now a broad smile.

"Well, what was it?"

Continuing to watch the system come on-line, Xander
grinned. "Monica. Augustine's mom. Freud would have had a
field day with that."

The screen transformed several times--meaningless instructions
and patent warnings flying by in quick succession--before

116

Jonathan Raoo

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117





a small cursor appeared to initiate the word processing. Xander
typed in a few more commands, and a long list of files began to
race by. "The software's familiar enough. I just hope my technical
Italian is up to snuff." Sarah looked on as her new partner
typed furiously, every so often stopping to read the screen--list
after list of files--before moving on. He tried to explain to her
as he bolted along. "He's evidently placed the files deep within
the system, and I would very much doubt that he's given them
friendly names like Eisenreich One and Two. He might have
been clever again." Xander shifted his weight, the strain on his
knees beginning to take its toll.

Three minutes later, his eyes lit up as a new group of files slid
by. A list of about twenty names stood in a neat line across the
top of the screen, for some reason worthy of special attention.
"The right size and the right time frame," he said, and pulled his
hands away from the keyboard. "The question is, Which are the
important ones? Knowing Carlo, any number of these, if not all
of them, could be meaningless. Or worse, he might have set a
few of them up as booby traps, triggered to shut the system
down and bring in security if they get called up. Carlo is famous
for these things."

"Wonderful." Sarah nodded, pondering the man who had
gone to such lengths to safeguard a few files. Xander, hands
resting in his lap, eyed the screen with caution; a moment later,
his head tilted back and his eyes squinted closed. He began to
clench his fingers in slow intervals. "What are you--"

"Shhh." The strange ritual continued for about half a minute
before he slowly opened his eyes. Sarah had moved to the window,
her gaze again on the courtyard; it remained empty. "My
guess," continued Xander, "would be these two." His finger
landed by the words Ternistato A and Ternistato B. Again, his
mysterious thought process left Sarah at a complete loss. She
knew that whatever raced through his mind at those crucial moments
had to spring from some logical source. What that might
be, though, was beyond her. Still, it was keeping him occupied.
He in his element, she in hers. Each with its own rules of engagement. Hostile arena--know the surroundings. Anticipate


the contingencies. "If you recall," he explained, "the name
Eisenreich translates to 'iron state.' If I'm right, Carlo was very
much aware of that." He pointed to the first part of one of the
words on the screen, Sarah more interested in the figure emerging
from the eastern archway to the courtyard. She nodded distractedly.
"Terni is one of the few remaining centers of Italian
iron production. And I think--now I could be wrong--that it
was also one of the main targets of Allied bombing during World
War Two for that very reason." She had heard the last bit and
wondered if all academics had access to such trivial information.
"You know ... Laurence Olivier on PBS... World at
Wart "The furnaces of Terni'?" He was off in his own little
world. Again she nodded. "Stato simply means 'state.' Ternistato
--'iron state.' Eisenreich."

She turned to him. "That's incredibly farfetched."
"I know, but that's exactly the way Carlo's mind works. Plus,
I can't for the life of me think what he would have been working
on that would have had anything to do with the town of
Terni. I mean, it really is obscure."

"And yet you seem to be familiar with it."
'True. But I happen to be as nutty as Carlo."
With that, Xander called up the first of the files. Sarah waited
for the screen to go black, or for a siren to go off, or for some
deadly gas to pour from the console. Instead, Italian filled the
page, densely packed notes on what she assumed was the manuscript.
The smile on Xander's face, his eyes racing through
each line, told her that his logic--based on a television show-had
maneuvered expertly through Pescatore's defenses. Evidently,
this was the stuff of academic insight. Not terribly
inspiring.

As he continued to read, she again peered through the cracks
in the drapery so as to get a better view of the courtyard behind
the building. Her lone figure was now seated on one of several
benches perhaps twenty yards away. The man, in a heavy dark
overcoat, seemed well protected from the cold, his gloved hands
peeling back the pages of his newspaper, cigarette smoke cascading
through the air from under his wide-brimmed fedora.



. I



118


Jonathan Rabb

r


the overseer


119







Sarah maintained her gaze, making sure to keep far enough from
the curtains so as not to draw unwanted attention. From this distance,
she found it difficult to make out any distinct features.
Save for the beard. She inched closer. Xander had mentioned a
beard.

One minute later, a second man appeared. He was exceptionally
tall, his broad shoulders and thick arms squeezed mercilessly
into the sleeves of the straining coat. He wore no hat, the
sun reflecting off of his shaven scalp, a pair of thick hands menacing
at his sides as he strode toward the bench. Within half a
minute, the first man was on his feet, making his way slowly, casually,
toward one of the building's side entrances. The second
remained at the bench, and, for the first time, Sarah realized that
his gaze was fixed on Pescatore's office window. She stepped
back.

"Have you gotten everything?" she asked. At first, Xander
did not reply.

"This is absolutely incredible." He was transfixed by the
screen. "I mean incredible."

"We should get going."

"Why? We--"

"We've been here long enough. No reason to press our luck."

He was too wrapped up in the notes to offer much of an argument.
"All right, but I'm going to have to copy these. That
might take, a minute or two."

"Do it." Sarah now moved to the door as Xander reached for
his case and pulled out a disc. She watched him slide it into
Pescatore's computer and type in the appropriate commands; the
computer began to hum and click while he sat back and waited.
Leaning against the hard wood and listening for any noise in the
hall, Sarah asked--more to keep him preoccupied than anything
else--"So what's so incredible?"

"It's really mind-boggling." His eyes remained on the screen.
"Remember I thought there were two original versions of the
manuscript. One Eisenreich sent to Clement, and one for himself.
Well, when we found the pages ripped out of the binding, I
thought that was it." He stopped and looked at Sarah. "According


to Carlo's notes, however, there are three versions. Three. One in
Latin, one in Italian, and one in German. For various reasons--"
He suddenly noticed her odd position at the door. "Is something
the matter?"

Sarah's hand shot up in the air to silence him, the sound of
footsteps in the hall prompting the reaction. Both waited the uncomfortable
half minute until the pitter-pat moved beyond the office.
Still holding his breath, Xander flinched at the sound of the
computer clicking a final sequence of copying. Two seconds
later, he retrieved the disc and placed it in his case.

"Erase the files." Another order from the operative.

"That would definitely bring in security," he said, getting to
his feet.

"Which might not be such a bad idea." Again she moved to
the curtains, motioning for him to join her. She pointed through
a thin strand of light to the courtyard and asked, "Do you recognize
him?" Xander's eyes widened. He started to lean closer,
Sarah quick to pull him back. "I'll take that as a yes. That's why
we might want to call in security."

"That's the man from the station."

"We can be out of here in less than a minute; no security
works that fast. It might be enough, though, to get in the way of
our two friends."

Five seconds later, Xander typed hi the erase command and
watched as a small red dot appeared at the top-right-hand corner
of the screen. He switched off the console and grabbed his
case. Sarah was already in the corridor.


chicago, march 3, 2:14 a.m. -- Chapmann watched
as the area beyond his glassed-in office continued to swirl with
frenzied activity, the lights on his phone flashing in an equally
manic rhythm. It had been like this for the past eleven hours--
since yesterday at 3:07 p.m., when the computers had reached
2.5 billion, the gambit having drawn in three other investment
houses during the run. By 3:14, hints that something was
wrong had elicited the first calls from the other houses. " What
the hell is going on! There's no indication the market..."



120


Jonathan Rabb

the overseer

121







When Helpurn's computers had crashed two minutes later, revealing
the betting strategy as nothing more than an enormous
software glitch, all hell had broken loose. Helpurn naturally
was beyond salvation; having to sell two weeks' worth of bad
trading positions would finish them.

That, however, was nothing compared to the grain market itself.
Overinflated, it was now highly volatile. Prices would fluctuate,
then dive. By tomorrow morning, farmers would begin to
hoard the grain that they had held on to, the few reserves that
had not fallen prey to their greed. And with hoarding would
come the question of distribution. The supply lines out of the
United States would be pulled back. Cargill and ConAgra would
be sent reeling. The tremors would be felt at every level.

Just as Sedgewick had predicted. A week when the world
would have to reconsider the stability of a major American
market.

All in the cause of an experiment.

Chapmann continued to stare. And wonder. Had he really understood?


sarah ushered Xander out into the hallway, pulled the door
shut, and once again maneuvered the lock with the two strips of
metal. As before, a dull glow hung about the empty expanse.
The bolt engaged just as the echo of footsteps rose somewhere
off to their left; the main entrance was no longer a possibility.
Sarah led him down the corridor, Xander inclined to glance over
his shoulder every few seconds, ready to find a large angry figure
hurtling toward them. About fifty feet from Pescatore's office,
the hallway took a sharp right-hand turn, sending them
farther away from the central courtyard from which they had entered
the building. Behind them, shouts cascaded throughout the
corridor, voices confounded by the locked door Sarah had left.
A hand pounded against the door's frame, its thumping in counterpoint
to the rapid patter of their own feet racing silently along
the stone floor. Another turn and they pushed through a thick
swinging door, its metal hinges letting out an excruciatingly

high-pitched shriek. For a long moment, all sound seemed to
vanish. Then, with a sudden explosion of voices, the clatter of
running feet erupted.

Xander, visibly shaken, looked to Sarah, who was now scanning
the small alcove in which they found themselves. To their
left, a broad stairwell lead up, its wide oaken steps flanked by an
ornate banister with elaborate carvings for support. The voices
grew in volume as Sarah moved toward a large curtain hung curiously
underneath the rising steps. She yanked it back and
found a second set of stairs leading down, stark by comparison,
narrow stone slabs, smooth and uneven from centuries of use,
with only a thick piece of rope extending along the wall for support.
The clamor nearly upon them, Sarah motioned for Xander
to follow; she grabbed at the railing and started down. The
heavy draped material swung back behind him, shrouding the
stairway in near darkness.

The last few steps were less hidden, leading to a series of underground
tunnels. Together, they stood in an open area, eyes as
yet unaccustomed to the series of bare bulbs, each one dangling
on the end of a frayed cord.

And then, for a frightening moment, Xander watched as
Sarah's eyes become transfixed by the glare of the light, her
head twitch almost imperceptibly, her breath shorten. He
thought she might pass out, her face suddenly ashen. He grabbed
her. Their eyes locked, hers so distant.

"Jessica?"

The word was barely audible. He knew the bulbs had triggered
something--something he wanted to understand, something
he needed to tear her away from.

But there was no time. The swinging door screamed again,
the sound of angry voices pouring into the alcove not fifteen feet
above them. Xander froze. Everything seemed to stop. His forehead
felt as if it would burst, the blood thundering through,
pounding with abandon. Every breath, each word from above
rang in his ears as if spoken directly to him. And still Sarah
stood motionless.

With a sudden flurry, the voices began to fade, grow more

122

Jonatkan R.abo


distant. They had decided on the second floor. Not taking the
time to consider their good fortune, Xander pulled Sarah toward
one of the tunnels, its curved ceiling forcing him to slouch as
they darted along. Dazed, she followed, but with each passing
second, he saw her sense revive. After several snakelike turns,
they arrived at another open area, another set of stairs, another
thick piece of rope leading up.

Now it was Sarah who took control. She grabbed his arm and
flattened him against the wall. Before he could respond, her
hand was over his mouth, her eyes screaming at him to keep
silent. She listened intently, all memory of the recent episode
clearly forgotten. Faint at first, then louder, the sound of a lone
pair of feet shuffling along the tunnel floor began to rise in the
distance. Urgent and controlled, the monotonous beat of the approaching
steps provided an eerie backdrop to the sound of Xander's
stifled breath. They continued to stare at each other, fully
aware of who was in pursuit. Whichever way he had managed
it, the man with the beard had somehow slipped through the
chaos on the floor above, discovered the curtained stairway, and
chosen expertly which path to follow. With a quick jerk of her
head, Sarah motioned for Xander to move up the stairs, bringing
her finger to her lips to make certain he maintained absolute silence.

Half a minute later, both stood within an alcove identical to
the one in Pescatore's building, the only difference a rectangular
window that offered a welcome view of the front courtyard.
Somehow, they had arrived only a few yards from the arched entryway
that had originally brought them from the main street.
Xander started for the swinging door, stopped in mid-movement
by Sarah, who grabbed him by the coat. She would not tempt the
squeal a second time. Instead, she held him motionless, both
waiting to hear the sudden cessation of steps, the rapid ascent of
the stairs.

But none came. Nothing but the sound of footsteps racing by,
tracking past the staircase and deeper into the maze of tunnels.
There had been no shift in pace, no silence to indicate a change
of direction, not even a momentary pause to consider options.

the overseer	123


Their would-be pursuer had plodded on without a thought for
the stairs. Sarah knew they had little time to make their escape.
Two minutes at most before the man below would recognize his
mistake and double back. They could only hope he was not in
radio contact with his comrade at the bench.

With her hands still enmeshed in Xander's coat, Sarah waited
until the sound of the steps receded entirely. Then, positioning
herself by the window, she unlatched the lock and slowly
pushed the window out, this time no screaming hinge to bring
unwanted visitors. The courtyard was empty. No signs of inner
turmoil from the building directly across from them. No security
men perched by the main entryway to apprehend the suspected
thieves. And no sign of the bearded man's companion. They had
been lucky again. Hoisting herself up onto the ledge, she swung
her legs out into the cold and let herself fall the five or six feet
to the clump of frozen bushes nestled against the building's facade.
Turning back to Jaspers, she reached up to take the case
from him and watched as he-deftly maneuvered the ledge and
leapt to her side. His agility surprised her.

Adjusting clothes, brushing off dried leaves, they moved
swiftly to the archway, back through the redbrick passageways.
They said nothing. It had been ten minutes. Ten minutes of
choked-back breath, of small pools of perspiration gathering
under their heavy coats, of unspoken fear and exhilaration. Ten
minutes running from shadows, allowing the game to play them,
and all for the single disc that lay innocently within an unassuming
leather attache" case. As they moved, the murmur of voices,
the appearance of others no longer caused alarm. Still, Xander
clutched at Sarah's arm, aware that she was in control again, he
happy to acquiesce, follow along, vest her with all responsibility.
He had found the files. She would find them a safe place.

Emerging to the street, they cut across the square and opted
for the wide avenue of the Via Cavour, its crowds now a safe
haven from the two men who they knew would not be far behind.
Blending gracefully into the flow of bodies, the Fabrizzis
walked arm in arm, his knuckles growing whiter by the second
from the nervous strain of the case in his hand. His mind was fo-

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Jonathan Rabb

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125






cused anywhere but on the bustle all around them. Xander was
shaken, but, for the first time, he felt neither confusion nor disbelief.
Instead, he felt only outrage--outrage at the destruction,
at the callous indifference to a colleague's life, at the abuse
rained down upon him and his work. And, perhaps most telling,
outrage at the men who could transform the woman at his side
into someone--something--so petrified within the world they
had created. He would not soon forget the hollow terror of her
eyes in the tunnels. He would not let himself.

Still lost in his thoughts, Xander found himself standing in
front of a small building, its central wall a single sheet of glass.
It took a moment for him to recognize the building for what it
was--a small cafe, packed with locals and tourists taking a
morning cappuccino. A bell jangled as they pushed through the
door, Sarah leading the way to a table nestled in an ideally cozy
corner--far enough from others for discretion's sake, close
enough to warrant no special attention.

"I seem to go in circles with you," she smiled, a casual lilt to
her expression, which Xander found impossible to mirror. She
seemed entirely at ease. He sat amazed.'

"Really?" He nodded, then stopped. "I don't understand."

"Hotel rooms, cafes. It's become a pattern." She adjusted her
coat and added, "And try to look a little more comfortable. We
are in Italy."

He brought the case to his lap as a waiter approached. "Whatever
that's supposed to mean." Countering with something that
barely resembled a smile, Xander asked her, "Cappuccino?"

A grin accompanied her reply. "SI."

"Due, prego.". The waiter nodded and moved off to another
table. "Your Italian is improving."

"Grazie, hello. Your mood isn't."

"Funny that, but I'm expecting two large men--"

"They won't come in here." She leaned across the table, as if
explaining something rudimentary. "It's too obvious. They'll
have expected us to keep running. That's why we didn't." A
knowing smile creased her lips. "So enjoy the coffee when it
comes."

Xander accepted the rebuke. Of course she knew what she
was doing. It was foolish for him to think otherwise. It was simply
a bit unnerving the way she managed every situation with
such ease, such composure. Perhaps that was why the episode in
the tunnel remained so vivid. "What happened back there?"

"We got away." She pulled the scarf from her neck and laid
it across the back of her chair.

"No, I don't mean that. I mean in the tunnels. You
seemed--"

An almost imperceptible tension rose in her shoulders to cut
him off. "I seemed gone?" She turned back to him and stared
into his eyes. "Is that what you were going to say?"

He waited before answering. "I... suppose. Yes."

"No need to suppose. It's a very good way to describe it."

Xander could tell it was not a point to press. "Yes. It is." His
fingers began to play with the edge of his napkin. "I felt a little
... gone there myself. I guess one never gets used to any of
this. Whatever this is."

"For now, this is the manuscript and the files. And three men
in the States who are just getting started." She saw her words
register. "Isn't that what you said differentiates this from Machiavelli--one
city wasn't enough?" The cappuccino arrived.
Sarah waited until they were alone before continuing. "Whatever
happened in those tunnels, whatever you might have felt in
that office, you have to remember that those men and those files
are the priority. The focus. I'm sorry if that frightens or upsets
you, but there really isn't any other alternative."

He let the words sink in. "You're right--I... shouldn't have
asked."

"It's not about right or wrong. I appreciate your concern--I
do--but neither of us has the time for it." She waited, then
smiled. "So, there are three versions. That's helpful."

"Yes... it is." It took Xander a moment to gather his
thoughts; he sipped at the piping hot coffee. "According to the
files, he found the German one about three months ago in a
small archive in Belgrade. The whole thing was misfiled and
mistitled; no one had ever..."


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His words faded to the background as she continued to stare
at him. His concern had been so genuine. So gentle.

What had happened in the tunnel? It was too easy to explain
it away as a flash of memory--the bulbs, the swaying body, the
life she had not been able to save. The sacrifice.

"/ can take General Safad's men out now! End this here. If I
don't, we risk losing the girl." Static filled the receiver as a message
appeared on the computer screen.

DELAY. MAINTAIN POSITION.

Another delay! There was no reason. She could kill them all
and end the threat. But delay... she'd never be able to get
through. And she'd told her, promised Jessica she would be
there, but now ... What choice would she have? What choice
could she make?

"... the interesting part is that, in its preface, it mentions that
it's the final version of the manuscript, and then makes reference
to the two earlier copies. Ergo, three in total." Xander stopped,
noticing Sarah's eyes on his. "Are ... you okay?"

For a moment, she said nothing. "Yes." She offered a smile.
"Three copies."

Still unsure, Xander returned the smile. "You know you said
something back there ... in the tunnel... a girl's name. Jessica."

The reference momentarily caught Sarah off guard. "Really?"
She looked at Xander. "Jessica Conlon. The ambassador's
daughter." Xander remained silent. "It was a long time ago." For
several seconds, neither said a word.

Finally, he nodded awkwardly. He knew it had been a mistake
to mention the episode again. Still, she had seemed so lost.
"Right.... Anyway, Carlo's convinced that the Italian one is
still somewhere out there. From the little I read, it sounds as if
he'd recently started looking for it."

She took a sip of her cappuccino. "Any luck?"

"I haven't read enough to know. We have to assume that the
Italian was the first because it would have been the one Eisenreich
sent to Clement. And there would have been no way for it
to have made a reference to any other versions because, at the

time, there wouldn't have been any other versions. The Latin-- the one I'm assuming our favorite threesome have had for quite
some time--must have been the second version and would have
made references only to the first. It follows, then, that whoever
found that translation believed for years that there were only
two versions--the Latin and the Italian."

"And now, because of the razored-out copy--the one in German --they'll know there are three."

"Right. The only difference is that I have Carlo's notes. They
don't."

"And you think the notes will lead you to the Italian version."
He nodded. "That raises the stakes considerably."

It took him a moment to answer. "I guess that's true."

"Don't guess."

"All right... so what am I supposed to do now?"

"Exactly what you would have done if none of this had happened."
She pushed her cup to the side and leaned across the
table, her hand cupping his as she spoke. "They won't do anything
to you. In fact, they'll want you to find the manuscript."

"And when I do, they'll want to kill me. Even / can figure
that out."

"I'm not going to let that happen."

Sarah stared at him, aware of how much she needed to believe
her own words, how much more they meant than mere reassurance.
In some strange way, Eisenreich was offering her a
chance at redemption, a way to put Amman behind her. Perhaps
more. Nothing expendable. Nothing sacrificed. But only by diving
back in. She continued to stare at him. Was there really any
other choice?

"For some reason," Xander said, "I actually believe you."
Her hand felt very solid in his. "So I just get on a plane for
London."

"If that's where Pescatore's notes tell you to go." London. That would complicate things. She needed to get back to the
States, to the men of Eisenreich. Whatever Pritchard had set in
motion, the game was now hers. Alone. COS had betrayed her
once. Not again.

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Jonathan Rabb






It was time for her to find out how unified Eisenreich really
was, create a little chaos of her own. Do what she did best--rattle the foundation and make those men question their own commitment
to one another.

But to let Xander go--even if she knew he had to go--she
would have to find a way to keep him safe, to protect him. She
squeezed his hand.

"Stay at the Lowndes. Knightsbridge." She saw the question
in his eyes. "Trust me." She began to gather her scarf. "We
should be going."

He nodded and stood. "What about you?"

"Me?" She slipped the scarf over her shoulder and looked up
at him, a smile. "Don't worry about me."

Before she could turn for the door, he reached out and pulled
her close to him. It seemed to catch them both by surprise. So
sudden, his arms cradling her back, her hands and head gently
pressed to his chest. Only a moment. When he stepped back, his
arms fell awkwardly to his sides.

"I, uh ... sorry." He tried to find his gloves in his pockets. "I
guess it must be all the excitement. I... I just don't think I'm
going to have much of a choice--not worrying about you, I
mean."

Again their eyes locked. For a reason she could not explain,
she wanted to reach out to him. Don'/ do that, Xander Jaspers.
Don't take that kind of risk. But she knew it was too late. She
could see it in his eyes. Sense it in her own.

What she couldn't see was how much he would be willing to
sacrifice, how much of himself.

And that, above all else, frightened her.


1




-- «BVj 	part II 	j/BSB"--


"^


r
i

i


Hatred, if directed properly, is a powerful tool.... [It]
makes the people docile and unimaginative.


-- On Supremacy, chapter XV


oenator schenten watched as the tea bag spun gently
above his cup, drops of liquid splashing to the creamy brown
surface below. He had never been one to tie the string around
the helpless bag, strangling the leaves for what little tea remained.
Nor was he terribly good with bare fingers on the boiling
pouch, having always suffered from a certain sensitivity.
No, he simply let it drip, his eyes caught in the endless twists,
the rapid butterfly flutter that would reach near standstill before
reversing on itself for the winding flight back. With each series,
the bag seemed to gain added weight, the turning less and less
animated, until, with a final release, the little sac swung limp
and cold at the end of its string. Schenten tossed the lifeless bag
into the wastebasket at the side of his desk and lifted the cup to
his lips. The tea had already passed from unbearable to piping
hot.

Outside, a near-perfect winter morning stung the Washington
skyline, raw and fine. A brilliant sun cascaded in all directions,
promising warmth but providing little more than hollow
protection against the chill that rolled off the water. The open
expanse seemed timeless, frozen in a postcardlike sterility
under a thin blanket of distilled air. Schenten could almost feel


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the cold on his neck as he lifted the cup for another sip of the
searing liquid. At that moment, he could concentrate only on its
pulsating heat. For that single moment, his mind was free.

The freedom he enjoyed, though, was not the simple release
from the grind of weekly demands. Over the last forty years, he
had become inured to the patterns that defined his hours on the
Hill. His affiliations, express or tacit, created a neat sort of web
that demanded a highly structured approach to daily activity.
And, if pressed to admit it, he enjoyed the regularity, the opportunities
his breakfast meetings or midmorning conferences
afforded him to preach more of the gospel, to confirm his place
as the "iron-willed senator," a reporter's onetime reference to
Bismarck that had caused not the least bit of resentment in the
feisty politician.

Given his rather public persona, the German terrier (often
misprinted terror) knew only too well what his constituents had
come to expect. A bulldog approach to government that ensured
a strict adherence to free-market economy and strong national
security, all in the name of "progressive stability"--a phrase he
himself had coined, unaware or unconcerned with its apparent
inconsistency. An inconsistency that had brought Reagan to the
fore and had launched a grassroots conservative thrust sustained
for eight glorious years. Heady days indeed, when everything
had come together with a Sense of urgency, promise, only
to be lost in the mismanagement of skeptics and incompetents.
Those who did not understand, had never understood, who had
faltered under the preposterous challenge for change. To be so
close and to have it all dashed away infuriated the old man.
Such fumbling had clearly called for new tactics, new approaches --strategies to bypass the usual channels. No, it was
not the accustomed requirements of his official duties that
transformed a simple cup of tea into so powerful an elixir. More
was at stake.

"I have no appointments until eleven, is that right,
Amanda?"

"A Mr. Davis from SEC at ten, lunch with Senator--"

"That's fine, dear, thank you. See that I'm not disturbed until

then." He released the button, unconcerned with the reply from
the outer office. He had given himself an hour to scan through
the little book hidden within the safe behind his desk. It was all
he could afford this morning.

He had shown little imagination when they had installed the
safe nearly thirty years ago, directly behind his desk and covered
by an oil painting of the Montana home that had become
the focus of some rather intriguing meetings of late. Swinging
his chair round, Schenten pulled the frame back and set to work
on the lock. That he had replaced. Several times. No longer the
spinning dial and click, click, click of a tumbler; now a digital
input and voice command opened the safe. It was better that
way, given what was inside.

He pushed aside various legal papers, some cash, and a
small box before finding the little book. He paused for a moment,
his eyes glued to the box, a happy but painful reminder
of a time gone by. He often asked himself why he hadn't destroyed
them--a few letters, a young passion. An affair. He had
kept them all, never rereading them. Margaret had never
known. Or if she had, she had never let on. He knew it had been
foolish to keep them. But even iron-willed old terrors had their
weaknesses. Jean had been his.

Safe and painting back in place, Schenten settled into the
leather chair and began to read. As always, he took notes. He
would burn them before ten. .


the reception at the Lowndes had been anything but warm.
So unlike the Italians, thought Xander. So like the English. He
had spent the better part of two years in London for his postgraduate
work, always the perfect American--not one to assume
the idiosyncrasies of his hosts, embarrassing both them
and himself in the process. He recalled with a smile an old
friend from high school who had spent a semester at one of
those snottier public schools and who had returned to the States
with the air of a royal, an affectation only slightly less ridiculous
than his accompanying accent. Xander had vowed never to



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fall prey to any of that. Even so, a little something had rubbed
off. At least enough not to raise any questions from a typically
decorous concierge, a man who had been more than happy to
print out two copies of Carlo's files. Xander recalled the twenty
minutes he had spent convincing Sarah that the first copy
should be sent to Mrs. Huber in New York--a nod to academic
superstition. Reluctantly, Sarah had agreed.

Now, after an early lunch, he found himself tightly packed
within a thick clutch of bodies all bound for the Russell Square
station. It was a familiar route, one he had taken almost every
day during the years of unencumbered research. He had always
referred to those months as such, that brief period free from the
demands of a dissertation or the watchful eye of Lundsdorf.
Free to choose his own course, to explore at will within the environs
of a slightly crumbling academic setting. It was the only
way he knew how to describe the Institute of Historical Research,
a self-contained building tucked neatly into a large university
complex at the edge of Russell Square, far enough from
the British Library to keep the toughest rigors of academic life
at arm's length. Even within the cramped air of the tube,
Xander couldn't help but smile at the images of that past: the
little alcove he had made his own on the third floor, the desk
wedged into the single window overlooking a few barren trees
and a silent walkway, the smell of ancient tomes hovering about
him, his solitude disturbed only now and then by the shuffle of
an equally ancient academic in search of a long-forgotten book.
He could recall nothing but pleasure from those days. Nothing
but the sheer joy of every morning, every evening, and the true
contentment they had engendered.

But it had been more than the work, more than the camaraderie,
even more than the sense of purpose that now colored
the memories with such fondness. As much as he tried, Xander
couldn't convince himself that all those distant comforts had
been anything more than mere reflections, echoes of a deeper
sense of peace that he had found with Fiona. At first so dangerously
assertive, so much more enticing than coy, so slender-framed
and fine-boned, she had made everything lovely and

real. Lulled by the familiar beat of wheel on track, Xander
began to slip back. Memories impossible to keep at bay. Impossible
to deny. Why England? Why did the notes have to lead
here? A faint wisp of lilac filled his breath, his eyes closing to
the clawing tightness of a longing caught between self-pity and
delight.


They had met at one of those parties, where everyone seems
to know one another except for the strange American--always
a novelty--who gets dragged along by a recent acquaintance
who insists that everyone will simply love hearing about whatever
he's doing at the Institute, rapid-fire conversations with
the young absentminded academic, cheese and wine, and men
with ponytails, and on and on. And so he had gone, well aware
that he wouldn't fit in--everyone a bit too trendy--with
"smashing" drinks and "beautiful" food and "darling" hors
d'oeuvres. And he had found a domestic beer instead of wine
and had been happy enough to play the wide-eyed American for
the record executives and literary agents who swarmed about
the party, ever eager to foist their opinions of "the grand old
US of A " upon him.

And she had saved him. Thoroughly out of his element, unable
to fend off the cutting probes, he had turned to her, a moment's
break from the jabs masquerading as questions. Against
the backdrop of contrivance--the noise of young culture--she
had appeared real, genuine, and somehow approachable.

"Is it always like this for you?" she asked. "I mean, at parties.
Do they always pounce on you as the Yank?"

"I don't know. I haven't been here long enough."

"Fiona Isaacs." Her handshake was firm, a clasping of
wirelike fingers.

"Xander Jaspers. Conspicuous American."

And with that, they had spent the entire evening talking,
laughing, the obvious trappings of instant attraction. Both had
given in without a thought, something so new for him, something
she would help him to accept. The phone calls, the long







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walks, his total disbelief that things were actually working out
well, his writing never better, and the hint of lilac that was always
there even without her. Month slipping into month, and a
growing need for her that somehow felt right, perfect for the
simplicity of it all.

"I can't fall in love with you. You know that, don't you?"

"And why's that?"

"You're far too beautiful. Dad told me never to marry a
beautiful woman."

"I see. Well, your loss, then."

The wedding had been simple, a small ceremony in a garden,
suit and white dress, drinks and finger food, two weeks in
Greece. No one had quite understood the speed of the whole affair.
And yet, they had all understood.

When she began to feel ill, sudden headaches and overwhelming
fatigue--early signs of the cancer that would take her
within the year--his heart broke and he cried. And she held him,
because she knew he would have to live beyond it.

The day she died, she was again cradling him, allowing him
to bury himself in her, until her hands no longer had the
strength to rest on his shoulders.

She had died in the afternoon, which was somehow even
more unfair. Not even the cover of darkness to comfort.


The car pulled to a sudden stop, sending several people into
Xander's back, and forcing him to steady himself with a hand
to the ceiling. His eyes glanced around, a slow realization that
the station had arrived, that he would have to push his way
through the throng. Stepping to the sticky heat of the underground
platform, he quickly rubbed away the wet patch clinging
to the edge of his eye, allowed himself a deep breath and the
welcome relief from the cramped, if pungent, subway car. The
English were not famous for their rigor with a shower and soap.

Fiona had always recommended the bus. Too slow, he had
always answered. Too slow.


the bag of cheese balls sufficed as breakfast. Bob Stein
licked at the neon orange on his thumb, dabbing his moistened
fingers into the plastic for what few pieces remained. He was
looking for somewhere to toss the empty bag when he noticed
O'Connell just the other side of the reflection pool. Bob opted for his coat pocket, then began to brush the grit from his hands
as O'Connell neared the bench. A pair of National Guardsmen
--ubiquitous since the recent turn of events--ambled
along in front of the Lincoln Memorial, hardly taking notice
of the Irishman. Their arrival had brought an uneasy serenity
to the city, a furtiveness Stein found unnerving. Still, they
were there to serve and protect. Normalcy at a price.

That is, if one could ignore the aftershocks. The news this
morning had been filled with stories of the tremors, no saga
quite so devastating as the deaths of the forty-three children
from Spain, killed in a midair crash over Dulles. Cut adrift for
nearly twenty minutes due to the tower shutdowns, the plane
had circled into a thick cloud cover, colliding with a 727 out of
Miami. The group of twelve-and
thirteen-year-olds--a church
choir--had been scheduled to perform at the White House,
their names and pictures once again in the news.because of a
letter from King Juan Carlos to the Post. Overwhelmed by the
tragedy, he was insisting that he accompany a special envoy to
retrieve what remained of the bodies; the State Department,
however, was advising otherwise. As yet, they could not guarantee
his safety.

Bob recalled several of the names, faces on a screen. Heartbreaking
as the news was, he had no time for it.

"The last contact was Milan," he said as O'Connell sat.

"She knew we were there?" asked the Irishman.

"As far as we can tell, yes."

"Wonderful. That means we won't find her again unless she
wants us to."

"We still have people in Milan--"

"Trust me, Bob. We won't find her. She gets in very deep.



" ^

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139







It's her special talent." He paused. "It's why she was so damn
perfect for Amman."

Stein removed a second bag from his pocket and pulled it
open. "I've never actually been all that clear on what happened
there."

"Join the crowd." O'Connell let out a long breath. "No one
has. It was supposed to be a basic op--for her. Infiltrate Safad's
inner group, get comfy, then pull the rug out from under them.
It was all going according to script until Safad told her he
wanted Ambassador Conlon's daughter eliminated--a show of good faith. Sarah'd done that sort of thing before, but never
with a kid. We told her we'd get the girl out. Never happened.
Something with the timing. Sarah showed up with two of
Safad's men, expecting to find no one, but the girl was still
there. Sarah had no choice but to kill Safad's boys; after that,
things went a little crazy."

"And that's how we lost the girl?"

O'Connell nodded. "The pickup never happened. No one's
ever been quite clear on that--whether it was Sarah's fuckup
or something else. In the end, it came down to stopping the
coup or saving the girl. Not much of a choice, really. The girl
was dead before Sarah could get back." He stared off at the
Lincoln Memorial. "I was the lucky son of a bitch sent in to
retrieve our Miss Trent when it was all over." His eyes remained
distant. "Not a pretty sight." He shook his head
slowly, then turned to Bob. "We have no idea why she's in
Italy, do we?"

"We have no idea why she's doing this at all," answered
Stein. "Why didn't she just come in?"

"Why indeed. I just hope to Christ she can keep herself together.
She crashes again, who knows how much of her would
be left to come in?"


the entrance to the Institute hadn't changed a bit. He had
stayed away for obvious reasons, but he had expected at least a
little something different in four years. Nothing. Even the

porter looked the same, the all-too-familiar tap of the cap as
Xander walked past the gate. Reaching the long outdoor com-,
dor that connected the University of London library to the Institute,
Xander paused. The logical choice would be to the left
and the larger building with its impressive stash of books.
Where better to start the search than with the card catalog or
computer, if they had finally put everything on-line? Instead, he
turned right through a pair of swinging doors, again right, two
more doors, until he nearly walked into a small table, a guard
at his station, the final barrier between Xander and his old
stamping grounds.

Digging into his coat pocket, he pulled out a rather ancient-looking
identification card, the signature too faded to make out
the name. Even so, the Institute's crest was clear enough, the
dates evidently irrelevant; the guard asked him to sign in. Xander
scribbled something illegible and proceeded through yet another
set of doors, finding the old stairs and the slow mount to
the third floor.

The smell of scholarship met him at once as he pushed
through into the European history wing. Like wet cardboard
sprinkled with dust, the air had a definable taste. Taking in a nice
whiff of the familiar, he nearly ran into a young woman, her brisk
stride the sure sign of academic administration. Only his ability
to flatten himself against the wall saved him from the open field
tackle. He smiled and pressed on. Few lights were on, the rooms
surprisingly empty. There was no reason to question his good fortune.
He was distinctly less inclined, since Florence, to presume
any sort of security within the walls of academia. Carlo's office.
The mad dash through the subterranean tunnels. Lessons well
learned. He had even gone so far as to alter his appearance. Sarah
had mentioned a few things--in New York, they had seemed
silly--but he was now serving caution rather than his own
nai'vet6. He had moved the part in his hair from left to right,
shaped several days of growth into the semblance of a beard, and
worn two extra T-shirts to give his slim frame some added bulk.
Certainly nothing that would deceive a professional, but enough
to make him seem unfamiliar to a colleague of a few years ago.


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Moving down the hall, he arrived at the second door on the
left. Placing a finger to the glass, he watched as the room
opened up in front of him. Three neat columns of shelves, along
with the ceiling-high wall brackets, housed several hundred
books, some the recent beneficiaries of long-needed care, others
crumbling toward a slow and painless death. A sense of
home. Of place. As ever, the little sun that managed its way into
the room bobbed atop his old desk, the light from outside
caught in the trees as it cascaded through the window. Books
everywhere, yet all he could see were the alcove, the desk, the
chair. And for a moment, caught by the flickering light, he was
back, sitting, her small hands gliding over his shoulders to his
chest, her cheek sliding by his.

His head flinched, the room suddenly darker, airless. She
was not there. No soft caress, no scent of lilac to dispel the
longing. Xander stared into the open space and slowly moved
toward the alcove. He began to trace his finger along the hard
edge of the wooden chair. Two years. He had lost two years of
his life after Fiona. Not in the usual sense. There had been no
wandering off, no extended holiday lost in self-pity. Instead, he
had given himself entirely to his work. Machiavelli had once
again taken focus, only to become his springboard to the New
Right. A sudden obsession. He hadn't bothered to ask why. It
was enough to be distracted. Even Lundsdorf had approved. Ironic, he thought. Tieg and Sedgewick. They had brought him
full circle, back to the Institute, back to the alcove.

The fluorescent lights flicked on and Xander spun around,
his eyes momentarily at odds with the sudden change.

"Sorry. I did not mean to startle you." A small man nodded
in Xander's direction, his eyes darting about the room before
settling on a shelf along the far wall. Xander watched him sidle
along, thumbing his way down the long row of books, every so
often stopping, humming before moving on. The pattern continued
for several minutes until, with a long "Aah," he pulled
the sought-after volume from the shelf and rested it on a nearby
table. Examining a few pages, the man seemed so typical of the
place--the weathered jacket, the slight hunch in the shoulders,

the utter disregard for anything and anyone within a hundred
feet. Save for the slicked-back hair. That seemed an odd touch,
a hint of vanity unusual within the hallowed halls. The man
looked up and caught Xander's eyes. There was nothing kind in
the stare, nothing of the cheerful nod hello. And then suddenly
a smile. Thin lips curling through sunken cheeks.

"It is not what I am looking for," he said, his accent northern
European. Dutch, Swiss, German--Xander couldn't tell.

"Pity."

"Yes." He shut the book and placed it on the shelf. He then
ran a hand through his hair. "Wrong room, I suppose."

"Yes." Again, they stared at each other, the man's eyes empty
of all response. "Sorry to have disturbed you." He moved to the
door, tarned for a final nod, and then stepped into the hallway.
The door closed behind him.

Xander's hands were trembling as the sound of the footsteps
receded, a reaction, he knew, driven less by the man's appearance
than by the place itself. He had allowed himself an indulgence.
It was something he knew Sarah would never have
permitted.

On the steps down to the main floor, his mind was already
turning over the pieces of information he had begun to decipher
from Carlo's notes. A brisk wind greeted him as he picked up
his pace through the colonnade, its rush providing a much
needed shock to his system. Lock it away; leave it up in that
room. The numbness returned, all too familiar, all too reminiscent
of the same distance he had seen only yesterday--in Sarah,
in her eyes.


chicago, march 4, 5:14 a.m. -- Janet Grant clamped
the man's lifeless fingers around the gun, positioning his hand
on the pillow as she had been told. She had never taken a life
on her own, the deaths in Washington rationalized as something
beyond her control. This morning's activities, however, could
not be so easily dismissed. The old man had called it "her
penance." For Eggart.

She scanned the room, the computer still purring away,


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screen after screen of files melting away to oblivion. She had
not been told why it was necessary to erase everything; it was
not her place to know.

She sat in a chair and waited, staring at Chapmann's lifeless
corpse on the bed. An apparent suicide. A man who had questioned
the process.

It was a lesson Janet Grant would not soon forget.


sarah had flown in late from London the night before, but by
6:45 a.m., she had already had a very productive morning.
Finding her old friend Tommy Carlisle--head of the Criminal
Division at Justice--at the Old Ebbitt Grill had been easy. The
6:00 breakfast of kippers and strong black coffee--made ready
at so early an hour for the Grill's special clientele--was a part
of his daily routine. As was his perfectly tailored suit and crisp
bow tie, famous among certain Washington circles. He had
been the obvious choice, given what she was after.

"I need to see some files," she began.

"And naturally, you've got clearance from State."

Sarah smiled. "Tommy ... I said it was a favor, not business."

He paused, then nodded. "I see. And what kind of files
would they be?"

"Old ones."

"How old?"

"The type they don't put on the computers." Now she
waited. "The ones stored in D-five."

His eyes showed a moments reaction. "D-five," his own
smile distinctly strained. "And how would you know about
that?"

Sarah said nothing, her eyes on his.

After a few seconds, he began to shake his head. "Sorry,
dear. That's slightly out of favor jurisdiction. Not to mention
the mess this past week; security's been punched up everywhere
around town. We're all being rather cautious."

"I won't take a thing, Tommy, I promise. All I need is a
level-seven--"

"I don't think we're having this conversation."

"You've got the clearance, don't you?" She waited, studying
his face. She then spoke very deliberately. "You've got it o'n
you right now."

Their long hug good-bye had given her ample opportunity to
lift his ID from his pocket and replace it with a well-crafted
fake. With Tommy out of town for a few days--her source of
information on Carlisle had been top-notch, worth at least another
thousand--she'd known he'd have no reason to use it, no
way to discover the forgery. That she was about to breach the
State Secrets Act was another matter. The boys at Justice
would no doubt want an explanation; she was banking on the
aftermath of Eisenreich's first trial to keep them busy for a
time. At some point, though, she knew they'd be sending out a
few friends to... convince her to come in and chat. It would
make things a bit more complicated, but it was a risk worth
taking.

Now, she stood outside a nondescript door, one of only two
along an isolated corridor tucked deep within subbasement four
at Justice. The plaque on the glass read d-five. Thus far,
Carlisle's card had maneuvered her through three separate
checkpoints, each manned by a marine in full uniform. Recent
additions. She had not bothered to ask. None of the young men
had said a word, relying on various scanners to confirm her
clearance. She had known before coming just how lucky she
was; Justice remained a little behind the times--no retina scans
as yet. Then again, she couldn't imagine who else would want
to see the files on Tempsten, or, more to the point, who would
have taken the time to track them this far. Sensitive, but outdated.
That's what Tommy had said. Evidently, the combination
was making her visit possible.

She placed the card on the unmanned scanner; six seconds
later, the door clicked open, and Sarah stepped through, nearly
bumping into a shelf no more than two feet from the door. Fluorescent
lights immediately came on overhead, revealing D-

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five as nothing more than a very long hallway, files piled deep
in ceiling-high shelves along the entire length of the corridor.
She closed the door and noticed a small chart affixed to the near
wall, arrows and boxes designating different years for every
shelf. Nineteen sixty-nine stood three from the end.

It took her less than five minutes to locate the two thin folders
on Tempsten, each filled with no more than five or six
sheets, some of them handwritten, others hastily typed, smudge
marks in evidence throughout the files. It was clear that no one
had taken a look at them in a very long time.

The explanation for their placement in D-five was summed
up in a few short sentences at the bottom of the first page. Sarah
read:


The tragedy known as the Tempsten Project remains
problematic. Those affected by it are between the ages of
eight and eighteen; to subject them to further scrutiny in
a public forum would no doubt have serious repercussions.
It is, therefore, the judgment of this commission
that all records of names, dates, and any other personal
data be sealed for a period of no less than fifty years.


It was the next few lines, however, that put the commission's
apparent concern into proper perspective.


We also believe it vital to maintain a close eye on the
progress made by those children. From time to time,
these pages shall therefore be updated with information
relevant to that purpose.


Monitoring in the guise of caring. A classic ploy. The rest of the
file was a detailed rundown of the events that had taken place
in 1969.

the overseer


At approximately 3:00 a.m. on the eighteenth of August,
two children (estimated at ten and twelve years of age)
arrived at the Tempsten Sheriff's office, bloody and
beaten. Neither spoke for several hours, no explanation
for their appearance. In response, the sheriff sent three
deputies to retrace the boys' tracks; they led to an isolated
compound, consisting of four cabins and a small
house, three miles inside the Highridge forest. Arriving
at daybreak, the sheriff described the scene as "beyond
imagination, children running rampant, knives, bats, anything
they could find for weapons." This was confirmed
by several others in the party. By 6:00 a.m., they had
rounded up all of the children, two of whom were dead,
victims of apparent head injuries sustained prior to the
arrival of any of the sheriff's deputies.

On inspection, the men discovered the cabins to be
empty. Only the single house held anything of interest.
Inside, they found two adults who had been gouged to
death. Several documents were also found, included
herein.


Sarah flipped through to the next pages. Whatever they had
meant to include had obviously not made it to the files--nothing
that might explain why the children had been there in the
first place, or what might have triggered the violence. Instead,
the file simply detailed the events of the next few weeks, the
subsequent hospitalization of the children, and the attempt to
track down Anton Votapek, whose name had appeared on several
of the documents they had recovered. Failure to find
Votapek had left the commission no choice but to label its efforts
"a continuing investigation." The last page was dated
January 9, 1970, various signatures underneath.

Sarah quickly turned to the second folder. Opening it, she
was greeted by a list of fourteen names, ages, and phone numbers.
The children at Tempsten. She read the list. She was about
to flip to the next page when her eyes froze on a name three from


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the bottom. For a moment, she stared at the letters, not quite sure
what she was reading. That's not possible, she thought. At first,
she wanted to explain it away as some bizarre coincidence--it
was, after all, a common enough name--but her instinct knew
better. She had found the name here, locked underneath seven
levels of clearance, a place she was never meant to see. That she
had no idea why his name had appeared mattered very little. She
had found it, and that, somehow, was confirmation enough. It was him. The name, the age.

Walter Pembroke, sixteen.

Pembroke, the golden boy, third youngest VP in history. Somehow, he was a part of Tempsten.

There had to be more. She turned to the next page, hoping
for further confirmation, but found only the updates the commission
had so diligently prepared. Paragraph after paragraph
on each child--each new address and number carefully noted,
but nothing on Pembroke. Nothing. She read more closely and
discovered that the paragraphs described only those children
who shared one disturbing trait: they were all dead--some
from injuries sustained at the compound, but most from car accidents.
Checking the dates, she realized that only four of the
fourteen had survived beyond his or her nineteenth birthday.

Sarah quickly scanned the names of the survivors. It took
her a moment to make the connection. There was something familiar,
something recognizable in the last two names ... Grant,
Eggart.

And then it hit her.

The shooting of the Dutch diplomats during last week's
mayhem. Eggart, the assassin--gunned down at a farm in Virginia; Grant, the state trooper who had killed him, and who had
then lost his own life.

Eisenreich's/irrf trial confirmed yet again.

The simple facts she had wanted, the facts that would tie
everything together, were staring her in the face. And yet all she
had were names. Disturbing names to be sure, but still...

Sarah looked at the last name on the list. Alison Krogh. Next
to it, a ten-digit phone number. No update. No change. No ap
parent
connection. A six-year-old girl now in her mid-thirties.
Somewhere.

Sarah wrote down the number and placed the piece of paper
in her pocket. She then returned the folders to the shelves and
walked back to the door.

Alison Krogh--that was where she would start; that was
where she would begin to put the pieces together.


xander had opted for a once-familiar tea shop near the library.
He needed to take some time with Carlo's notes, and perhaps,
more honestly, to distance himself from the Institute. The
memories had all been a little too real, too vivid. He needed a
few minutes of release. To that end, he had bought a copy of the Trib. The puzzle. Certainty in a fifteen-by-fifteen grid.

But he never made it beyond the front page. Walking along
Store Street, he glanced at the lead article, the grain debacle-- the panic that had hit the streets of Chicago sometime in the
early hours of the previous morning. Sources described farmers
in Iowa already arming themselves to keep government assessors
from determing levels of available stock. In response,
Cargill Agricultural had issued a statement: All shipments of
grain from the United States were to be halted for an undetermined
period of time. Xander scanned the piece, not wanting to
admit to its connection with Eisenreich; he had no choice when
a single name forced him to stop in midstride. Martin Chap-mann.
Dead, suicide, the investor responsible for the fiasco.

Xander stared at the words, recalling the files he had read
in Florence. Chapmann. Sedgewick's cabal: "What he intends
to do with them is left to the reader's imagination." Not anymore*
The only question remaining was how far the first trial
would extend. More frightening, if Washington and Chicago
were merely experiments, how devastating was the chaos
Eisenreich meant to unleash? How many other markets would
Sedgewick send his associates to destroy?

The answer, Xander knew, lay in the manuscript. First,
though, he had to understand it as it was, not as three madmen


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r


the overseer


149







were using it now. That meant understanding its context, its lineage.
And that meant Carlo's notes. He tucked the paper under
his arm and proceeded to the shop.

Within minutes, Xander was deep into the manuscript's
history.

"Eisenreich titled his manuscript On Supremacy. But who
was to know that this innocuous little title was the beginning
of something so daring, so bold?" Evidently not one eighteenth-century
cataloger who had placed it among a group of fourteenth-century
diatribes on spiritual supremacy. Not exactly the most
likely spot for a document bent on redefining the nature of
power. "Had this Ludovico Buonamonte taken even a moment
to read the letter of dedication, he would have seen the mistake,
and the manuscript might not have been lost for another
two hundred years." Reading his friend's comments, Xander
sensed both the elation and the frustration. There were a good
four paragraphs on the incompetence of Signore Buonamonte.

Not surprisingly, the path Carlo followed to the German version
of the manuscript had been anything but simple. In fact, it
had taken him almost eight years just to find the name of the
original. The difficulty was that what few references there were
to the manuscript had invariably been either to the Science of
Eisenreich or, more disparagingly, to The Swiss Delusion. "The
second," the notes fumed, "is of no help. And the first--any
child knows this is useless." No mention of On Supremacy.

As fate would have it, Carlo had come upon the title by
dumb luck. While checking a few citations from a student's
thesis on church courts during the Inquisition, he had run
across a correspondence between two Spanish bishops, one of
whom, rather intrigued by an unknown short tract, had described it as "an uncanny theory that describes how best to
place full temporal authority in the hands of the Church." At
the time, it had meant nothing to Carlo, until he had read the
second bishop's assessment, describing the manuscript as
"nothing more than a piece of Swiss intrigue." Its name, On
Supremacy. Its author, evidently Swiss. A bit more digging, a
few more letters, and Carlo finally located the author's name.

One Eusebius lacobus Eisenreich. "Today," the entry concluded,
"we drink champagne,"

Finding the name, though, had provoked greater difficulties.
Why would two Catholic bishops have had access to the
manuscript? And how could they have possibly thought it had
anything to do with church supremacy? It was about power
and chaos, authority and manipulation. "The pieces do not fit
together. The church and Eisenreich? This makes no sense to
me. No sense at all." The notes charted two shattering days,
Carlo sitting and drinking cup after cup of coffee, nearly convincing
himself that he had run into an insurmountable dead
end. Nonetheless, three days later, the entry in the notes began,
"This cannot be coincidence. I will not let you beat me again."
Xander wondered how many times his friend had written the
same challenge to himself, how many times he had forced
himself back into the fray. So, taking time away from the university,
Carlo had spent over two months combing through the
endless volumes of archival listings at the Vatican Library.
"Naturally, the idiots who compile these roles of paper find it
too much to offer a single author's name. Only titles! When
will these clerics learn?" The omissions had caused Carlo no
small amount of inconvenience; they were a relief to Xander.
No names, no cross-references. No cross-references, no easy
access to a manuscript tucked neatly within the pages of a medieval
collection.

Carlo had ultimately found six manuscripts on church policy
titled On Supremacy. One had been the German version he
had discovered in Belgrade. That volume, however, had been
damaged considerably, water stains and torn pages leaving
only bits and pieces from which to decipher the theory. Carlo's
enthusiasm at the discovery had naturally been tremendous,
but the book's condition had left him far from satisfied. "It is
as if you are testing me, seeing how far you may stretch my
will. But have faith, my Eisenreich. I will find you." Unfortunately,
none of the next four On Supremacy titles from the Vatican
list had proved to be by the Swiss monk. Three were
eighteenth-century treatises, the other a tract on divine inter

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the overseer


151







vention. Carlo had found the last in Milan four days before
Xander's arrival in Florence. "There is only one left. It must be
the one. Of this, I am certain."

The sixth waited in the Danzhoeffer Collection, buried
somewhere in the dark recesses of the Institute of Historical
Research.

That it was now a reasonably simple task to find those documents
and extract the manuscript had at first excited and then
alarmed Xander. By his third cup of tea, he had begun to wonder,
If it was all so clear, wouldn't it be the same for Tieg and
his cohorts? They had found Carlo's copy, why not this one?
And they had the name. Had had it for years. A quick search at
the Vatican ... The answer had struck Xander in midswallow.
Tieg had only learned of the third copy a few days ago. There
would have been no reason for a quick search at the Vatican,
because they wouldn't have known there was something to
search for. Even aware of the third version now, Tieg would
never be able to draw the connection between Eisenreich and
the church documents. That had been a fluke. Even Carlo had
described his discovery of the bishops' letters as "a gift from
God. I will thank Him in full when I have the manuscript in my
hands."

Those playfully irreverent words were the last Carlo had
written. The lightness of style, the little jabs, the digressions on
the best cappuccino in Florence--all reminded Xander of the
man he had known since his first days with Lundsdorf. "That
emotional Mediterranean," he had often called him. "Wonderful
mind, but it gets all cluttered with... too much enthusiasm."
If there had ever been a phrase to define the difference
between the Teutons and their neighbors to the south, Lundsdorf
had found it. When Xander had told Carlo of Lundsdorf's
remarks, the Italian had at first dismissed them with a wild hand
to the air, as if sweeping away an annoying bee. Then with a
shrug, he had smiled, "Of course, he is right. Then again, what
marvelous clutter it is." A quick wink, the slightly nasal laugh.
Vintage Carlo.

More telling, though, was the detail. For a man who had

seen only small pockets of a damaged version of the manuscript
(selections of which were scattered throughout the thirty-odd
pages of notes), Carlo showed an uncanny sense for its totality.
Even more so, he allowed Xander to see Eisenreich in a light
that challenged the stereotype that too many scholars had accepted.
Granted, the theory of power and supremacy (from
Carlo's extrapolations) made Machiavelli's approach look
tame, even inviting, but Xander couldn't help but marvel at the
apparent genius. If Carlo was right, Eisenreich displayed an understanding
of statecraft that was at least two centuries ahead of
its time.

The notes offered so much. It was now time to see how well
the manuscript lived up to that promise.


sarah had expected to find a disconnected number, or, at
best, a forwarding address. What she found, however, came as
a complete surprise.

She called from a phone on the corner of Eighth and D.

"Hello." The voice on the other end was a woman's, quiet,
hesitant.

Sarah waited, uncertain.

"Hello... Anton, is that you?"

The question was enough to force another silence. "Alison?" Sarah asked.

Again nothing. "Who's speaking?" The tone carried no mistrust,
no hint of insecurity, only a kind of innocent curiosity.
"Hello?"

"Yes, hello. This is ... Sarah."

"Hello, Sarah."

"Am I speaking with Alison ... Alison Krogh?"

Another pause. "Yes.... Yes, this is Alison. Sarah who?"

"Sarah... Carter. Were you expecting to hear from Anton?"

"He has the number." Silence. "Did Anton ask you to call?"

Again, Sarah waited before answering. "Yes. He asked
me ... he wanted me to come and talk with you. Would that be
all right?"


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"I see." Another silence. "Anton gave you the number?"

"Yes."

"He said he wanted you to come?"

"Yes," replied Sarah.

"Then ... it must be all right." She remained, however, less
than forthcoming with the address. "Didn't Anton explain
everything?" she asked.

"No." Sarah waited, then continued. "He said you would tell
me, but only if you wanted me to come."

Another few moments of silence. "All right."

That conversation had taken place an hour and a half ago.
Since then, Sarah had caught the first flight to Rochester, New
York, rented a car, and driven to Tempsten. As much as she recognized
the necessity of the trip, she had grown more and more
uneasy at the prospect of meeting one of the last of the survivors.
Still there. Still so close. She wondered why they had allowed
her to live.

The small cottage, no more than three or four rooms--a
screened-in porch at the front--stood along a quiet lane. Sarah
pulled up to the curb and stopped the car. She noticed a shuffling
at the curtains as she moved up the path, someone anxious
to meet guests. Even before she could reach for the bell, the
door opened; there, in a simple print dress, hair tied at the back,
stood Alison Krogh. For a woman in her mid-thirties, she
looked surprisingly young. Thin, elegant, a long trail of thick
red hair flowing down her back.

"You must be Ms. Carter," she said, stepping back and ushering
Sarah down a short hall to the living room. The place was
sparsely furnished--sofa, two chairs, bookshelves, and television.
Two glasses and a pitcher waited on the coffee table. "I
hope you like lemonade," she said, taking Sarah's coat and
hanging it in the closet. "I made it myself."

Sarah nodded and moved to the sofa. "Yes, very much." She
waited for Alison to sit and then took a seat by her. "Thank you
for seeing me."

Alison nodded, keeping her eyes from Sarah's.
"Do you live here alone?"

"Yes," she answered. "Except when Anton comes. Then I
don't." She smiled and took a sip of the lemonade. The frailty
was even more apparent in person, thought Sarah.

"Does he come often?"

Alison shook her head and took another sip. Still, her eyes
would not meet Sarah's. "Why did Anton tell you to come?"

"He said I should talk with you."

"Like the others?" For the first time, Sarah heard an edge in
her tone.

"Others?" she asked.

"The doctors. Who want to talk about... the school." Alison
stared, saying nothing more.

"And that bothers you."

"I don't like to talk about it." There was no reprimand in the
answer, only a simple statement. "I don't remember very much.
Isn't that funny?" She tried a smile and took another sip of the
lemonade. "I have some fruit. I grow it myself, in the greenhouse.
Would you like some?" Not waiting for Sarah to answer,
Alison stood and disappeared through a swinging door.

Alone, Sarah studied the few pictures hidden among the
trinkets on the shelves, wondering what lay behind the frightened
eyes of the woman she had just met. Beach scenes, a
younger Alison wading waist-high in the ocean, an older man
at her side--Votapek no doubt--smiles from ear to ear. But the
eyes remained the same, distant, uneasy. Even in a fading picture.
Something so familiar.

The door swung open.

"You have some lovely things," Sarah smiled.

Alison placed a tray on the table and nodded. "Gifts. From
Anton."

Sarah waited, then spoke. "Do you ever talk about the school
with him?"

Alison kept her eyes from Sarah, her expression completely
blank; she then sat, her eyes now focusing on the bowl. For a
few moments, she seemed totally unaware of anything else in
the room. Finally, she looked up. "Would you like some fruit?"
she asked, the smile tighter than before.

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Jonathan Rabb


Sarah shook her head. "I was hoping to talk about the
school."

Again, no reaction until Alison's eyes darted to the corner of
the room, her struggle to maintain control evident in the deep
breath she took. She turned to Sarah, eyes damp, the smile trying
to hold back the tears. "I don't like to talk about that." A single
drop glanced down her cheek.

Gently, Sarah pressed. "Then why did you ask me to come?"

"I don't have many visitors." Alison brushed the tear away.
"It's ... nice when people come."

"Is that the reason?"

For the first time, Alison looked directly at her, Sarah seeing
something behind the stare; Alison quickly pulled a leg to her
chest, her head resting on one knee, eyes again on the bowl.
"The school was a long time ago."

"I understand."

"No, you don't." Again, nothing combative in the tone, only
a statement of fact. "No one does. Not Anton. Not Laurence.
No one." She looked at Sarah, eyes swelling. "Everything was
fine, you know, just the way it was supposed to be. It
was ... such a good place." Tears began to trickle through the
smile. "We all belonged; we all learned--that's why we were
there, you know. How to be strong, how to take what was ours."
Her eyes darted back to the corner, the smile dropping, "and
then, everyone so angry ..." Her words trailed to a near whisper,
tears caught in her throat. She looked as if she might give
in, let the torrent come, when she suddenly stopped. One long
breath, and she turned back to Sarah. "Would you like some
fruit?"

Sarah stared at her for a moment, her own emotions rocked
by the outpouring, ever more familiar and so desperately real.
Alison, locked in a stare, her eyes betraying nothing of the last
minutes--only a strange tension, distancing herself from the
memories.

"Do you mean the boys?" asked Sarah quietly.

Another moment of recognition, then nothing. Frail, quiet,


155


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struggling for control, Alison shook her head. "The boys? I
don't understand."

"The boys who died," answered Sarah. "At the school."

The tears flowed freely; still, there was nothing in her expression
to hint at the slightest reaction. Only her hand clenching,
releasing, clenching. She shook her head, even as the drops
began to slide down her cheek. "I don't remember any boys,"
she answered.

But Sarah knew. She knew because of her own memories--- weeks, months denying the lives she had taken. Hands clenching,
releasing, clenching--unconscious mechanisms implanted
through a doctor's hypnosis to allow her a release from the horror.
Memories erased until she could learn to accept them. How
long, Sarah wondered, had Alison hidden behind those same
devices? How long had the men responsible for them forced her
to remain a victim of her own self-loathing?

"It's all right," said Sarah, her voice quiet, caring. "I do understand.
You don't have to remember."

"It was a good place." Alison nodded, her eyes still distant.
"And then it went wrong."

"How?" she asked. "How did it go wrong?"

Alison shook her head. Without warning, she looked up, her
eyes suddenly focused. "It was wrong to try again, wasn't it?"

The reaction surprised Sarah. "Try what?" she asked.

"They'll go wrong again, won't they?"

Again? Sarah sat motionless.

"Anton doesn't think I know," continued Alison, her eyes on
some faraway spot, "but I know. Even though he promised.
Even though he said it would be fine, that he could stop it from
going wrong." She looked at Sarah. "It was bad to do it again.
I know. I've seen it."

Sarah forced herself beyond the shock. "What have you
seen, Alison?"

The tight smile. A shake of the head. "It was bad to do it
again. That's why I told you to come. You have to tell him it
was wrong."

n

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"Do what again?" Sarah knew the answer, but she needed to
hear it from Alison.

They stared at each other. Alison then stood, walked to the
bookshelf, and pulled several volumes from the bottom shelf,
uncovering a single videocassette. "I took this from Anton. I
took this so I would know." Fifteen seconds later, she was at the
television, sliding the tape into the VCR.

Before Sarah could ask, the screen flashed blue. In large
black type, the words prefect release--nondisclosure priority appeared. A moment later, they were replaced by a thin strip
at the bottom of the screen, a time counter spinning off the minutes
and seconds. The date of the filming, April 7, 1978. The
place, Winamet, Texas. Nineteen seventy-eight, Sarah thought. My God, it had never ended.

The picture came alive with a cluster of young children, no
more than six or seven years old, seated around a woman in the
middle of a room, an area called "the Learning Circle." A sign
hung from the ceiling in a crescent arc, each letter a different
shade of colored paper, the evident work of tiny hands. The
woman was in her late forties, with a tenderness essential for
those who mold the very young. She was reading to them. After
a few seconds, she placed the book in a pile and looked out at
the children.

"Poor Cinderella," she began, "so many people who were so
unkind. In fact, I can't think of a nice thing to say about her sisters.
Can you?"

"They weren't nice at all," piped in one tiny charge, so eager
to please that her words flew out in a rapid burst of syllables
and gasps. "When the prince came to see their feet, and Cinderella
had the right shoe on her foot, but her sisters were mean
and angry because they couldn't go." The slight roll of the
head, the coy smile, each an indication that the exegesis had
come to an end.

"I quite agree," smiled the teacher.
"I hated them," remarked a small boy lounging off to the
left, his head resting on an elbowed hand, not even the slightest
bit of menace in his voice. Simple. Straight. To the point.

"Hate's a very strong word." The teacher seemed to be waiting
for an answer. The boy shrugged as only little boys do,
shoulder high to the cheekbone in unintentioned exaggeration.
"But I think you're right. I don't think the word is too strong."
She scanned the others' eyes. Sarah sensed that the woman had
been waiting, even hoping for the response. Clearly, the Learning
Center taught a very specific type of lesson. "Let's try and
think of all the nasty things those sisters did," she continued.

In quick succession, the children shouted out a long list of
infractions, the most poignant from a shy boy who had waited
until all the others had quieted down to speak.

"They made her feel very bad and said that nobody liked
her."

A silence filled the room, several heads turning toward the
boy as the teacher, in her most motherly tone, added, "And
that's probably the worst thing, isn't it? To make special people,
like Cinderella, feel that they don't belong, that they've
done something wrong." The boy stared at the floor, nodding as
he continued to play with a small tuft of carpet in his fingers.
"And people who do that," she continued, "shouldn't be our
friends, should they? And we don't have to like them, do we?"
A chorus of nos. "In fact, sometimes it's all right not to like certain
people. People who scare us, or hurt us, or make us feel bad
about ourselves--"

"Like strangers," yelped one ponytailed girl.

"Like strangers." The teacher nodded. "But other people as
well. People like Cinderella's stepsisters, who knew how special
Cinderella was, but who did everything they could to hurt
her. It's important to know that you have to watch out for those
sorts of people. And you shouldn't feel bad if you begin to dislike
them. Dislike them so much that you begin to hate them."

"I hated them, too." Several children, once given the official
go-ahead, were happy to voice their ardent disapproval.

"They were bad people," said one little boy. "Some people
are bad and you hate them. And that's it." The no-holds-barred
tyke leader of the hate patrol. Our Gang in SS boots. Sarah continued
to watch.



\



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"Some people are bad," continued the teacher, "and they're
not just in stories. Sometime, you might run into someone like
Cinderella's stepsister, and you'll have to know what to do,
how to behave, how to treat them."

"I wouldn't let them make me do all the work in the house,"
one voice piped in. "Or make me stay at home when they're at
the palace," offered another. The teacher seemed to encourage
the whirlwind of enthusiasm from the children, most pleased
when one little girl, shouting above the rest and in full lather,
screamed out, "I'd make them do all the bad things and be
mean to them!" The final crescendo--the little girl springing to
her feet, jumping nervously, arms pulled tightly to her little
chest at the attention and prodding from her tiny peers--thrust
the little band into shrieks of excitement. The room seemed to
explode in a cackle of delight as several others hopped up,
trembling wirelike fists boxing the air in full release of emotion
inspired by the near-glowing teacher. Catching the wave at its
crest, she slowly began to quiet the children in firm but gentle
tones. "All right, all right, let's find a calm place. Let's find a
calm place." Code words which, within a minute, had the children
once again in obedient order.

The screen faded to black; a moment later, it filled with
snow.

Sarah looked across at Alison. The young woman stared
unimpassioned at the television, her eyes again distant.

"Where are those children now?" asked Sarah. Alison did not
respond. Before Sarah could ask again, the screen slid to black;
a moment later, another group of children materialized, these
older, perhaps twelve, thirteen years of age. The strip at the bottom
read "October 14, 1981, Brainbrook, Colorado."

No one spoke, a class in martial arts, each child showing extraordinary
proficiency in any number of techniques. But it was
their eyes that Sarah watched--focused but empty, personality
absent from the cold precision of the movements. The scene
quickly faded to black.

Twenty minutes later, Alison reached forward and pulled
the tape from the machine. Throughout, Sarah had sat mes
merized
as ten other segments had come and gone, each from
a separate school, each from a different year, each with its own
skewed vision of schooling. The common lesson, blind obedience;
the underlying theme, a cultivated hatred. Fifteen-year-olds
taught to hunt out the weak; eighteen-year-olds taught to
demonize in the name of social cohesion. A constant dosage of
venom to focus the children's aggression and turn it into a
zealot's passion.

Most troubling, though, was how they had been groomed to
express that passion. The sniper's gun, the demolitionist's explosives,
the computer hacker's manipulations--all vividly
documented.

The blueprint for Eisenreich's assault on Washington. The
blueprint for the world beyond the first trial.

Alison remained silent. She looked at Sarah.

"Now you see the process," she said. "Now you see why I
asked you to come. You have to tell Anton to stop it. He must
stop the process."

Sarah waited before answering. She looked into the frightened
eyes, aware for the first time that perhaps Alison understood
far more than she had let on. "How did you get a hold of
this?" she asked.

Alison stared at her, then spoke. "You have to tell him to
stop it."

Sarah nodded. "I'll tell him to stop... the process." The
mention of the last word seemed to calm Alison. "May I have
the tape?"

Alison stared into Sarah's eyes for several seconds, a penetrating
look, something Sarah had not expected. "What makes you so sad, Sarah?" Alison held her gaze for a moment longer,
then leaned over and placed the tape on the table. "Maybe you
do understand." She picked up the tray and stood. "I'll get some
more lemonade."

It took Sarah a moment to recover. "Actually ... I should be
going."

Alison stopped at the swinging door. When she turned, a

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strained smile creased her lips. "You're welcome to stay. I have
other--"

"No," smiled Sarah, now standing. "I should be going."

A momentary pause; Alison placed the tray on the sideboard.
"You're not a doctor, are you." Again, no accusation,
only statement. Sarah said nothing. The smile tightened on Alison's
lips as she moved to the closet and retrieved Sarah's coat.

A minute later, they stood at the front door, Sarah no more
easy with her newfound confidante than she had been half an
hour ago. The look of tender helplessness in the eyes was too
long ingrained to find release in the gentle squeeze of a hand.
"Things will be all right," Sarah heard herself say.

"Will you come back for me?"

The words tore through her, a simple request, but it was all
Sarah could do to find an answer. "Yes ... I will come back for
you."

Again, Alison stared into Sarah's eyes. A moment's recognition
and then a nod. Sarah squeezed her hand and turned for the
garden path.

Halfway down the block, a sedan slowly began to inch its
way toward the house, Sarah immediately aware of its presence.
Gradually, she quickened her pace. A man in his early twenties
--a broad-shouldered boy stuffed into a plain gray suit--appeared
from behind a tree. He remained still, hands crossed at
his front, eyes lost behind a set of dark sunglasses. Requisite
Justice attire. Sarah stopped. Tommy had evidently been more
careful than she expected. And quicker. The sedan pulled up behind
her car as the man in the glasses started toward her.

For an instant, she considered running. The thought of Alison
alone, however, made the idea of escape impossible. Sarah knew
the woman was too fragile for the scrutiny to which the men from
Washington would subject her, too close to the men of Eisenreich
not to be held accountable. Another life drawn in. Another
life Sarah would not allow herself to dismiss so easily.

She slowly turned toward the house.

What she saw took her completely by surprise. Alison was


standing next to a third man, the smile wide on her face, her
hand resting in his. Sarah froze, the scene strangely serene.
"Look who's here," cried Alison. "It's Willy and John."
Before Sarah could react, the man from behind her slipped
his hand tightly around her arm. In a whispered voice, he said,
"Mr. Votapek doesn't want Alison upset in any way. Do you understand?"
His grip tightened. Votapek. Sarah could only nod.


after two and a half hours of misdirection and incompetence,
Xander held the essential pages in his hand, ripping them
from one of the library printers. The odyssey had begun at the
desk of the assistant librarian, who, at first, had sent him
halfway across town to an annex; there, he had been told that
the books he was looking for were never permitted to leave the
main library. Wonderful. He had returned to Russell Square,
only to receive a somewhat embarrassed apology--"I thought
you wanted the Dillman Collection"--and another hour's
worth of ineptitude before he had insisted on seeing the head librarian.
Mrs. Denton-Fiss, far more apologetic than her cot-league
for the "unfortunate mix-up," had then taken him to the
back office and the private computer files. Now, ten minutes
later, Xander scanned the few pages he had been looking for all
along.

The Danzhoeffer family had been quite generous, according
to the list, donating four filing cases of documents, each with
perhaps forty listings--letters, pamphlets, manuscripts--in no
specific order. That meant he would have to plow through each
case individually in order to find Eisenreich. Any sense of annoyance
from the further delay, however, quickly disappeared
as Xander's eyes came to a stop about a third of the way down
the page, where two small words stared back at him: On Supremacy. He passed his thumb over the print. Caught up in the
chase, Xander felt the same sense of exhilaration he had sensed
in Carlo's notes. A slight tingling licked at his throat.

It was only then that he noticed the asterisks on the page.



-s


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Some ten to twelve entries, including the manuscript, sported
little stars alongside their listings. He quickly flipped to the bottom
of the second page. No note to explain. The asterisks simply
sat there, causing a momentary tightening in his stomach. What now? There was only one way to find out. Xander picked
up his briefcase and headed for the stacks.

Three minutes later, his eyes took a moment to accustom
themselves to the dimly lit area of the fourth floor. Typical of
so many research libraries, the books lay hidden within dark recesses,
pale screens of light slanting this way and that from the
few overhead lamps. Directly in front of him, a long, thin alley
ran the length of the floor, its black-speckled tiles crisscrossed
by shadows cast from the row upon row of shelves on either
side. Each row stood within a wall of black, waiting for that one
passerby to switch on its private light and break through the
somber pall of the place.

Slowly moving down the corridor, Xander read each of the
catalog numbers tacked hastily to the topmost shelf brackets.
Once or twice, he checked the number he had written down just
to make sure he hadn't missed it. Two rows from the back wall,
the listing 175.6111 CR-175.6111 FL brought him to a stop. He
shoved the piece of paper into his pocket, and with a quick
click, ignited the narrow tunnel in light, his eyes racing by the
numbers printed on the books' spines. Halfway to the wall, he
nearly tripped over four large cases protruding from the edge of
the bottom shelf. He looked down and read the inscription, the
tingle once again in his throat. He then squatted to the floor and
pulled the Danzhoeffer Collection from the shelf.

The state of the documents was far better than he had anticipated.
Granted, no one had done a thing except catalog them
and then place them back in their respective cases, but at least
care, if not logic, was evident in the ordering of the small
stacks. Xander began to read.

The fifteenth and sixteenth centuries commingled in the first
case--some rather forthright letters from a Cardinal Vobonte to
several Popes, demanding dispensations for various French
aristocrats. Tax cuts for his constituents, mused Xander. Some

things never change. Next, he found a collection of poems by
an Italian court musician, homage to Boccaccio's Decameron. Flipping quickly past it, Xander lit upon a large assortment of
pamphlets on religious practices--guides to proper observances
for any number of saints' days.

At first glance, the second case seemed equally unpromising.
More poems, more pamphlets on the saints. Two-thirds the
way through, though, the titles took a dramatic turn away from
saint-day rituals to the heated topic of papal authority--someone's
idea of a natural progression from fifteenth-century
primers to sixteenth-century treatises. Whatever the rationale,
Xander knew he was close--very close. Sifting through seven
or eight dreary tracts on church jurisdiction, each with endless
counterarguments to Marsilius' Defensor Pads, Xander finally
uncovered a small leather volume, the Medici crest still discernible
on the weathered leather binding. For a moment, he
stared at the little book resting comfortably among the various
other papers. Nothing to distinguish it. Nothing on its surface to explain the sudden rapid-fire pounding in his chest. Letting the
other manuscripts drop into the case, he brought the book up to
within two inches of his face. Its edges long ago frayed, a
strange smell of apple vinegar rose from its pages. Gently, he
pulled open the front cover and saw the simple Italian staring at
him:


From Eusebius lacobus Eisenreich to His Holiness,
the Most Holy Father, Pope Clement VII


The dedicatory letter--written in thick sixteenth-century
script--continued on to the next page. Xander ever so delicately
turned the page, less taken with the text than with the
tangible reality of the book in his hands. It was here, in front of
him, the key to the riddles, the answer to the skeptics.

Almost of its own will, the manuscript moved on to the next
page, the title straightforward, the name in large bold print, the
year 1531 below it, and, for some strange reason, the letters v.j.
in the lower-right-hand corner. It took Xander a moment to ter


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himself from the joy of discovery and try to decode the odd inscription:
v.j. Undaunted, he thumbed through to the next page
and found the table of contents, an ordered outline in twenty
chapters. Machiavelli had needed twenty-six. How like the
Swiss, he thought, to pick a nice round number. But no explanation, v. i. It continued to nag at him as he fingered through the
pages, more so as he neared the middle of the book and had
reached only chapter five. A distinct sense of unease began to
displace the rush of only moments ago. v.i. Volume one? Three
pages from the end, his fears were confirmed. Chapter IX--The
Roads to Chaos. Then nothing. Xander immediately looked
back in the case. No luck. Two volumes--why? The answer
dawned on him as he eyed the little book. Clement. The Italian
version, the one for the Pope, had been the^m version. Eisenreich
had been clever to send only an excerpt, one that included
only the first nine chapters. The other eleven, volume two. A
safety precaution. So where were they?

Xander slumped back against the wall, his mind racing to
find an answer. It made no sense. Why would the library have
only the first volume? And why were the crucial chapters missing?
Up through nine, the headings were daring but not earth-shattering.
Xander glanced back at the contents page: ///. How to Achieve Stability; VI. Those Components Which Make Up a
State; VIII. How a State May Be Made Ready for True Supremacy. Eisenreich would have his own personal prescriptions,
but the titles themselves were only slightly brazen. Ten through
twenty, on the other hand, were extraordinary: X. The Road to
Political Chaos; XI. The Road to Economic Chaos; XII. The
Road to Social Chaos; and most extraordinary, XV. Why It Is Important
to Cultivate Hatred. The shift at chapter ten was clear.
Eisenreich had kept the best for last.

And yet nowhere in Carlo's notes had there been any mention
of two separate volumes. Hope was telling Xander that the
two had found each other at some point in the sixteenth century. So why the separation now? He closed his eyes and began to
rock. Think, damn it. Two minutes into the strange ritual, his
eyes suddenly bolted open. From his pocket, he fished out the

now-crumpled listing he had ripped from the printer downstairs. The asterisks. Quickly, he began to rummage through the
filing cases, glancing every so often at the list so as to find another
name. Fifteen minutes later, he had his answer. None of
the ten marked titles was in any of the cases. Which meant that
someone at the information desk would know why those volumes
were missing. And that someone would be able to tell him
where to find volume two of the Eisenreich manuscript.

Only then did Xander notice the figure standing at the end
of the row, face and body obscured in dim light. Xander froze,
his hand tightening around the manuscript. For what seemed an
eternity, the two men stared at each other, neither moving. His
knees seemed to lock in their crouching position as he gazed up
at the man with slicked-back hair. Slicked-back hair? Xander's
memory flashed on an image of the small figure, the thin,
sunken smile, the hard stare of lifeless eyes. The alcove. My
alcove.

With a sense of raw panic, Xander grabbed his briefcase and
thrust it full force into the shadows. The movement took but an
instant, but, to Xander's eyes, the slow-motion heaving and
thrashing lent the chaos a certain clarity, a precision he had
never before experienced. He could see everything, feel it all as
the case drove up into the man's midsection. Xander pushed his
way out into the long alley, his feet slipping along the waxed
tile. He careened against several of the shelves, desperate to
find his footing. No sounds from behind, no scream of surprise,
no patter of feet in quick pursuit as he propelled himself toward
the bright light at the stairs.

Time began to accelerate again as he reached the stairwell,
his body now in control, turning, eager to fly down the steps.

Instead, he lurched to a stop. There, stepping up to the landing,
came another familiar profile. Completely bald, large
shoulders--the man from Florence. A quick intake of breath
was all Xander needed to draw the man's attention, the glance
immediate, the reaction, however, completely unexpected. The
man stared blankly--no recognition, no anticipated discovery.

166

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167







In that instant of stunned disbelief, Xander leapt to his right,
racing up the steps toward the fifth floor.

A delayed clatter of feet behind him filled the air as he
reached the next landing. Knowing he had only the sixth and
seventh above him, Xander spun away from the stairs and
began to move down another darkened corridor. Away from the
light! Get away from the light! Ducking down the nearest alley,
he stumbled his way deeper into the maze of shelves, trying to
remember the layout of the floors; but his mind was a blank,
straining to hear any sounds of his distant stalkers. A minute
later, the shelves took a sharp turn to the right, forcing him to
scrape along various books, one or two crashing to the floor as
he whisked by. The first sounds of emphatic pursuit rang in his
ears. Finding the central corridor again, he darted across and
into another web of shelved alleys, the light growing fainter and
fainter as he ran farther into the pitch-black of the labyrinth.
With each step, his sense of direction grew more and more remote, until the stairs were but a distant memory, an unknown
port lost within an uncharted sea of metal and books.

And then, with his heart racing, his breath searing to escape,
he stopped. He had to take stock, regain control. He was deep
within the morass of paths, somehow secure under the blanket
of books above him. A fleeting sense of calm swept over him,
enough to grant a moment's lucidness. He crouched and concentrated
all of his energy on the faint sound of darting feet
coming from his. left. It was not a single, even beat, but the synchopated
rhythm of two sets--pat-a-pa-tat, pat-apatat-- jostling their way from shelf to shelf, drawing ever nearer to the
tiny segment of floor Xander had staked as his own. Relentlessly,
the pattern rose, its echo stronger as the seconds flew by.
He snapped his head over his shoulder as if expecting to find
eyes peering at him, through him. But only the staccato menace
of feet, the deafening whisp of panting breath, nearer and
nearer.

And suddenly silence. An eerie quiet descended all about
him, soundless and cold, propelling a surge of nervous energy
within, the books no longer a barrier against what he could not

hear, could not see. Oppressive silence. He sat like a cornered
animal, waiting for the thrust of claws deep within his flesh, the
stealthy gouging he could almost feel, prostrate and alone on
the icy floor. Again, he spun his head round, certain that eyes
were upon him, only to discover the black outline of shelf, the
near-distant fade to nothingness that seemed to isolate him all
the more. The silence began to suffocate, its emptiness draining,
leaving only hopeless terror in its wake. He wanted desperately
to find himself, to break out of the torment his
assailants had so masterfully contrived, but his will was giving
in, his hands able only to clasp the pages to his chest. He began
to rock back and forth, slipping more and more into a numbing
stillness.

A momentary shift in the shadow above broke the trance.
Xander peered up into the lifeless eyes.

"You have the manuscript, Dr. Jaspers?" the voice whispered.

Xander could only stare at the man.

the overseer

169







The demands of each realm are so severe that, for
those who lead, there is no time to attend to anything
but their own tasks.


--On Supremacy, chapter VI


r\o/

3AIN, the man probed. "You have the manuscript, Dr.
Jaspers?"

Xander's eyes fixed on the face above, a narrow oval atop a
thin neck. Had he been standing, Xander would have towered
over the slouching figure. But he was trapped, knees drawn
tight to his chest, a child caught, certain of unspeakable punishment.
There was, of course, the alley of shelves behind him,
the long expanse of shadow with its promise of escape, but
what was the use? No doubt, the bald giant stood somewhere in
the dark recesses, happy to let his more diminutive counterpart
take the first crack at interrogation. The man seemed content to
let his prey make the first move. Xander could offer little more
than a nod to the man's question.

"Good." Again, the cold precision of the northern European
accent.

Xander slowly raised the small leather book toward his captor,
the weight of the tiny volume somehow too much for him.

"Oh, no, you hold on to it, Doctor. I would not know what
to do with it."

Xander's hand stopped in midair. "What?" he whispered,

more reflex than response. The little calm he had managed now
gave way under the impact of the words, his mind racing to find
a rationale, anger replacing fear as one image began to crystallize. Of course. They were playing with him, biding their time
so that the assassin could hand-deliver his prize to Votapek, or
Tieg, or whoever else had concocted this nightmare. And yet, there was something strangely serene, nonthreatening in the
man's candor. Keep it? Where was the sense in that?

"There is no need for alarm, Dr. Jaspers."

"No need for--"

"Ms. Trent sent me."

"You've got--" The name ripped through him, his mind
overwhelmed by words he could not comprehend. "Ms.
Trent?" A momentary flash of coherence. "Sarah? Sarah,sent you--"

"Yes. I am Feric. Ms. Trent asked me to... watch over
you."

Xander locked eyes with the man, the calm, icy demeanor
somehow unreal, impenetrable. "Watch over me?" he echoed.
It took a minute for the words to sink in. And with the first hints
of understanding, the shock gave way to a mounting sense of
resentment, the realization that he was being coddled. "What
the hell does that mean?" Xander hoisted himself up, Feric
mindful not to interfere, no hand extended. He had been told
such gestures would only exacerbate the young professor.

"It means--"

"And that was you back at the Institute." Pictures began to
fall into place. "All that browsing through the books. 'Wrong
room.' Why didn't you say something?" He had regained
enough composure to keep his questions to a loud whisper, his
hands busy brushing off his pants. Suddenly, his head snapped
toward Feric. "The other man. The bald--"

"As I said, no need for alarm. He has been taken care of."

" 'Taken care o/'--what is it with you people?"

"There was no reason--"

"Look, I'm grateful--I think. But... Feric? She never
mentioned--"

170


Jonathan Rabb


"She would not have done that. I can explain all of this later." Words chosen to pacify now gave way to orders. "You
have everything you need?"

Another calm voice to penetrate his confusion. So much
like Sarah's, and in that, Xander recognized he was once again
caught up in their game, playing by their rules. Such questions
were meaningless, answers an indulgence. Concern.. . neither
of us has the time for it. Sarah's words from the cafe. It
took him a moment to respond. "No. I need to speak with a
librarian."

For the first time, doubt crossed Feric's face. "Fine. I will
leave first. You will follow. There is a pub, the Wayward Lamb,
no more than--"

"I know where it is. I'll need half an hour."


twenty minutes later, they were well into their first pint of
beer. "The library sent out a total of ten documents for restoration,"
said Xander, seated across from Feric two-thirds the way
down a cushioned bench that stretched the length of the side
wall. The Lamb had that homey feel rarely found in London
pubs, one of the few to have escaped the onslaught of Anglified
American bars and French bistros. Deeply grained oak walls,
heavy under a dull shine, stood firm but easy on all sides, cluttered
by endless drawings of horses with jockeys, each enclosed
in its own slightly decrepit gilt frame. The world moved
more slowly here, a hospitality extended to those willing to
give in to the easy pace of the surroundings.

"To Germany?" asked Feric, the waitress arriving with
cheese and a basket of bread. He reached out and pulled off a
healthy chunk.

"Yes," Xander responded, his eyes on the man directly
across from him. Up to this point, he had accepted his new friend at face value. Now ...

"You are hesitant." Feric nodded.

Xander watched as the man's strong fingers ripped mercilessly
into the bread, the hunched figure sniffing at his food be-
r


171


the overseer


fore popping a small piece of fondled dough into his mouth.
There was something animal-like about him, the sharp nose,
high forehead only accentuating the cheekbones that gnawed
away in rapid, tight bursts. Disconcerting as the appearance
might be, Xander had to admit that this little man gave off an
aura of self-control, a quiet confidence. Straightforward, with
no hint of pretension. "What do you expect?" he answered. "I
don't know who you are, and you don't seem that eager to fill
me in. All you tell me is that Sarah sent--"

"Monica," Feric said, continuing to chew, his eyes on the
bread.

"What?"

"Monica." Feric looked up and placed the bread on the
table, picking at his back teeth as he continued. "Ms. Trent suggested
I mention it."

Ms. Trent suggested... The word suddenly registered. Of
course. Monica. Carlo's office. Only Sarah would have known.
Only she would have picked so perfect a signal to put him at
ease.

"I see she was right." Feric removed a large wad of chewed
bread, examined it, replaced it, and swallowed. "This book-- this second part--it is in Germany?" he repeated.

It took Xander a moment to respond. "Yes. We've just been
unlucky." Somewhat more at ease, he continued. "The good
news is that they're obviously unimpressed with the manuscript.
Keeping one volume and sending out the other--they
clearly have no idea what they've got. According to the
woman at the desk, library policy is to split up multivolumes
so that--"

"Only what I need to know, Doctor."

Xander stopped, nodded. "Problem is, they won't get the
last eleven chapters back for another month."

"And that is too long to wait."

"If Washington and Chicago are any indication, yes. I'd say
that would be too long to wait."

"And you know of this place in Germany?"

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"It's a small town called Wolfenbuttel, about half an hour
from the old East German line."

"Why there?"

"It's got one of the great libraries of Europe. It's also famous
for an absolutely first-rate book collector and restorer, Emil
Ganz. He's about a hundred and--" Xander cut himself off.
Trivial details.

"You are familiar with this place, then?"

"I've spent some time there. A conference about six years
ago. It's not the sort of place to have changed. My guess is that
the book is already there."

"I see. We should fly tonight, then."

Xander paused, then nodded. "Right. I... could probably
use a few hours to read through it... maybe find something
helpful for Sarah." -
Feric
understood. It was all moving a bit too fast for the academic.
"That is true." He nodded. "All right. A few hours."

"And you know how to reach her?"

"Yes."

"Good." Xander was hoping for a little more, even if he
knew it was in his own best interest to be kept in the dark. "I've
been answering all the questions, haven't I?"

"Yes."

"And I'll learn how not to do that."

"Perhaps."

Xander took a sip of his beer and began to gather his things.
'Then I should probably get back to the library."

"For what purpose?" This time, the question was not for
clarity's sake.

"The manuscript! Remember? I need to spend time--"

"You did not take it with you?"

"Of course not," answered Xander. "You can't simply walk
out of a library with--"

"You--" Feric's tone remained controlled, only his eyes
showing utter disbelief. "Dr. Jaspers, I do not think you quite
understand what this is all about. That bald man would have

been happy to do a great many things one is not supposed to do
in a library in order to get that little book."

"I-put
it in a safe place."

"I am sure that is what your friend Pescatore thought, as
well." The words had the desired effect. "Now, so there is no
more confusion, you and I are going to return to the library and
take the book with us. You will then have your few hours with
it, after which time I will get in touch with Ms. Trent; we will
then find our way to Wolfenbuttel, find the second part of the
manuscript, and remove it to a safe place. Have I made everything
clear?"

The first lesson. Xander nodded. "Perfectly."

Feric rose, leaving a few coins on the table. "Beer is always
overpriced in this country." Xander had no choice but to follow.


pockets of grass and fence slipped by, the New York countryside
blurring against the backdrop of a saffron sky. The limousine
shot along, maneuvering the two-lane road with
surprising ease, only once or twice encroaching the thin line in
its quest for greater speed. The driver seemed unconcerned with
his three silent passengers, each content to stare aimlessly at the
vanishing horizon, to play their assigned roles with quiet resolve.

Sarah's was simply to wait. She knew there was little she
could learn from the two men with her. They were nothing
more than envoys, men sent to retrieve, unaware and uninterested
in the deeper significance of their quarry. There was no
reason to upset the stilted calm with unnecessary chatter. She
would take the time to plan. A bit more information from
Jaspers would have been nice, but she would have to make do
with what she had.

The thought of him brought a smile to her face. It had been
difficult to let him go to London by himself. Choices. Always
choices. And even though she knew Feric would be there to
protect him, she couldn't forget the concern in his eyes as they



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had left the cafe. And the embrace. A surprise to be sure, yet
one more inviting than perhaps she was willing to admit.

The limo slowed and turned off the highway onto a road
running parallel to the outlying fence of a private airstrip; fifty
yards down, a solitary booth rose from the wire fencing, a separate
entrance reserved for the airport's special clientele. Once
again, the car slowed to turn, no exchange as the guard recognized
the plates and waved the black Lincoln through, nodding
at the smoked glass as the limo bumped its way up onto the tarmac.
A hundred yards to the left, a private jet waited, two red
lights flashing under each wing. Sarah's attention shifted to the
man sitting directly across from her. He continued to peer out
the window, aware of her gaze, happy to ignore it. She would
find no answers there.

Five minutes later, she sat belted comfortably in one of six
chairs in the plane's main cabin, her two companions at either
side. She wondered if her exploits in New York were responsible
for their caution. Unknown and out of control. Capable of
anything. They would watch her, but from a distance. It was a
long drop from six miles up.

The quick acceleration of takeoff helped to relieve some of
the tension in her shoulders, g-force strapping her against the
soft cushioning of the upright chair and allowing her back to realign
itself from the sheer physical pull. Even as a child, Sarah
had loved the moment of explosion, the engines revving beyond
all measure, and then the slight uplift as the nose broke
free, the soft climb that seemed to stretch an unseen rubber
band, drain it of its elasticity, until, with a final surge, all
thoughts of a ground below would disappear in the soft blanket
of clouds and sunlight. Now, as the plane leveled off, Sarah
turned her head to the left and peered out the small oval window.
A yellowed mist dusted past them, a cold sun bathing the
wing in a metallic glow. They were heading southeast. She had
always had an uncanny sense of direction. She closed her eyes.

Votapek. A first line of attack.

stein was managing on very little sleep. They had picked up
Trent through Jaspers, then lost them both somewhere in Florence due to "unforeseen complications" near the San Marco
monastery. The on-site analyst had been unclear as to the snafu,
even less helpful as to why the two had visited a Professor
Pescatore in the first place. Of course, there hadn't been time to
set up full surveillance in Europe, which meant that Jaspers had
slipped conveniently out of the picture. Luckily, they had
reestablished Trent at Dulles sixteen hours later, solo and on her
own passport. Her message clear: Follow me; leave him alone.

Bob had done just that, even though some rather alarming
news had begun to float in from Italy several hours later. Pescatore
was missing, thought dead, his office in shambles, bloodstains
in evidence. Early Italian news reports made no mention
of the two unlikely visitors, but the police were playing everything
close to the chest. Even well-placed Committee sources
had been unable to unearth specifics. Bob found it very difficult
to believe that either Trent or Jaspers had had anything to do
with the disappearance; then again, he was having trouble understanding
why a virtually unknown Italian political theorist
would be linked with Schenten and his associates. Too many
variables were bouncing around to prompt any meaningful conclusions.

Those sorts of twists and turns, however, were par for the
course. What was causing trouble was the way he had been instructed to handle the op: the breakfast meetings with O'Connell--all
off-line--the hedging whenever Pritchard asked for
an update, the sudden overuse of his office safe for materials he
would have happily left on his desk only a week ago. He
couldn't be sure if he was getting caught up in some high-level
power play, or if there was reason to suspect an internal breach.
And to add to it all, O'Connell had become tightlipped,
mulling over reports, never inviting the usual dialogue that
brought meaning to the otherwise-lifeless words on the page.

For some reason, the Irishman was pulling back. Bob had
lived through similar mood swings--the worst after Amman.

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Then, Stein had chalked it up to a strange sort of empathy.
O'Connell had been too close, too much aware, the onetime
operative seeing himself reflected in the lost expression of a
woman fighting her way back from the edge. He had retreated
into himself---a two-week vacation, far longer than the usual
two-day binge. Bob hadn't asked; O'Connell hadn't discussed
it. And now Stein had to wonder: Would the Irishman slip away
again?

That was why Bob had shut himself in his office, staring at
his computer terminal for hours on end, bags of cheese balls littering
the area around his wastebasket. Not that concentrated periods
of seclusion weren't the norm, but this time he felt
completely isolated, all links to the two other offices on the sixth
floor severed with a strange sort of finality. Rattled by the recent
shake-up, Bob had allowed himself to get lazy, step away from
the information, consider the personal side of it all. Now, he was
trying to find his customary indifference to turn the real-world [
intrigues into an insulated and anonymous game. He was letting
too many factors compromise his capacity to play.

The answer had begun to fall into place about forty minutes
ago when he had decided to refocus the search. Instead of tying
everything into Schenten, he began to trace even the most remote
connections among each of the central players. The cross-referencing
had provided one very bizarre possibility:
Eisenreich, a hypothetical manuscript that Pescatore had spent
half his life researching and which seemed to unravel the girl's
dying word in Montana. Somehow, the connection among Tieg,
Sedgewick, and Votapek was wrapped up in a little book that no
one had ever proved to exist.

Uncharacteristically, Bob had decided to keep things to himself.

The price for such resolve, however, was the burden of responsibility
--the onus to piece together information that somehow
explained the probable death of one academic, the
disappearance of another, and the reemergence of an operative
so fragile that she might not come back this time round.

It was a role he was not accustomed to playing.


177


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the gentle drop of descent woke her, the slight shift in her
stomach enough to unsettle a light sleep. She hadn't dreamt-- at least nothing to get in the way--but she knew her subconscious
mind had continued to sift through the pieces that had
begun to come together. Always sifting. Always alert. She
maintained a curious faith in her subconscious, recognizing that
she, like everyone else, used no more than 3 percent of her
brain at any one time. She trusted the other 97 percent to get the
job done if left to itself. That's why sleep had always been so
important.

The trouble was that, most of the time, her subconscious
kept the answers hidden, so much so that she would have to rely
on instinct to reveal the necessary truths at the appropriate moments.
That meant working on her feet, trusting herself to tap
into the arsenal waiting just below the surface.

It was the way she had always worked. She recalled Berlin
nine years ago, an arctic night when she had discovered one
Oskar Teplic, a diminutive lieutenant in the East German Stasi,
a man who had slipped through, evaded the Soviet net drawing
in its faithful as the wall came tumbling down. Even then, Teplic
had given the empire only two years. He had tracked her, told
her he needed a way out, but not to the West--just out, to a life
he could control on his own. And he would be grateful. Sarah
had seen the possibilities at once. Three days later, Teplic had
died at her hands, and Feric had been born. A plan of simplicity
in the abstract, of pure instinct in practice. Invented intrigues, official papers--information revealed at crucial moments to
confuse the easy dupes of a crumbling East German secret police. Facts--incomplete as they might be--with which to prod,
surprise, weaken her opponent. They might be only distant reflections
of a greater truth, but they were enough to convince an
adversary that he stood at a disadvantage. Enough to create fear
and self-doubt.

Enough from a miserly brain that liked to hoard the discoveries
of the subconscious ninety-seven.


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xander rubbed the back of his neck, the touch of icy fingers
to tender skin a jolt to his system. His hands had always been
that way, reduced to frozen pincers when lost in the turning and
scribbling of pages. The dim glow of the lounge's overhead
lights was making the notes a bit difficult to read, more so
given Xander's impatience to board Lufthansa 202, the 5:35
flight to Frankfurt. He was tired, but satisfied, having managed
all but two of the twenty-four pages, the Italian quite readable.

The first volume of the manuscript had come together far
more quickly than he had initially thought, Feric granting him an hour before shuttling them off to Heathrow. At first, he had
simply given himself over to the novelty of discovery, the excitement
of first view, but his enthusiasm had been shortlived.
Had there been nothing to distract him from the easy
fascination of scholarly analysis, he might have enjoyed the
reading. But his thoughts returned again and again to Votapek,
Tieg, Sedgewick--the men who meant to violate the theory by
channeling it into practice. It was all too easy to see how
Washington had been merely a dry run, a twentieth-century
extrapolation of a sixteenth-century theory. No longer a missing
link in the neat canon of political thought, On Supremacy stood apart as a manual of manipulation and dominance, its
modern ambition coloring every page with a dark reality that
corrupted Eisenreich's daring and savvy.

Once or twice, Xander had allowed himself to look beyond
the theory to the man. And each time, he had been forced to
admit that there was something compelling, a certainty in the
way the monk had organized his ideas. As if he truly believed
it was God's will that he set it to paper. Xander had to hope that
no such divine inspiration was driving the most recent trio of
disciples.

More troubling, though, was the reference to a fourth man,
someone behind the others--someone who pulled the strings.
What he read made Xander all the more wary, not just for himself,
but for Sarah. He knew she had stepped into something
more dangerous, more immediate than either of them had imag
ined.
"Don't worry about me." He was finding it more and
more difficult to do.
"They are opening the gate," piped in Feric. "Put the papers
--"

"I know ... put them away." Xander had heard the phrase
perhaps half a dozen times in the last hour, Feric insistent that
the manuscript remain out of sight. So be it.

"I hope they have something other than the peanuts," mumbled
Feric as the two men joined the line for boarding. "Very
messy. Pretzels are so much neater."


new york, march 4, 12:18 p.m. -- The view from
the Brooklyn Bridge was splendid, lower Manhattan rising in
clipped angles from the concrete. Traffic was light, the single-lane
detour causing only minor delays. Behind the cones, three
men worked with purpose on a huge tear in the tarmac, an
emergency repair before rash hour. Strangely enough, the men
had anticipated the call. Perhaps it was because they had been
the ones to create the gash two hours earlier--a small device
dropped from a speeding car. Two of the men had been with
road repair for over three months. Somehow, their schedules
had made them the most logical choice for the bridge maintenance.
The last of die trio had flown in this morning. Demolitions
expert.

They had carved out a neat sliver of road--four feet wide,
two feet long--with a two-inch gulley running from it to the
center of the bridge. No more man six inches deep, the hole
now held four briquettes and a tiny black box, a rubber antenna
stretching from its side to the surface. The gulley oozed with a
yellow liquid resin, already beginning to gel. Slowly, the men
began to spread a thick mixture of tar and gravel over everything,
careful to keep the antenna flat along the rising surface.
Within ten minutes, they had completed die repairs, only a tiny
nub of antenna--nestled just below the guardrail--evidence of
their work.

The demolitions man picked up his bag and started for the
car parked at the entrance to the bridge. He knew it would be a

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long day. After all, Manhattan had so many bridges and tunnels
in need of such repairs.


1

they had changed planes somewhere in the Carolinas for the
hop to Votapek's island, a double-prop aircraft fitted with water
skis that now bounced along the surf toward the waiting pier.
The single house, flat and wide along the bluff, seemed to rise
from the rocks as the plane coasted in. A gentle rap of metal on
wood told all that they had come to the end of their journey;
thick air invaded the cabin as the door opened, a peach swath
of sun angling its way* onto the curtain that separated passengers
from pilot. Once outside, the rocking of the dock helped to
propel the three arrivals along, the even roll of wood and water
sending them from side to side. Above, a steep incline of jagged
rock climbed toward a grass plain that spread like thick
swirling carpet in front of the house. The only access, a funic-j ular that waited to the left at the end of the dock.

It was close quarters on the ride up, sounds of cable straining
under the weight. As the car jolted to a stop, the smaller of
the two men slid back the glass-paneled door and directed
Sarah toward a gravel path. The house, perhaps thirty feet back 1
from the cliff, eyed her silently as she moved along the narrow
strip that seemed unwilling to break either in or out, content in
its mindless circularity. As the front of the house disappeared to
her left, an open gazebo came into view, a man-made jetty extending
beyond the cliff.

There, between two far columns, stood a lone figure, his
narrow shoulders rigid as he peered out at a tranquil sea. He
turned. His eyes seemed to convey a certain restraint, his body
unnaturally stiff as he moved to greet her. He was a far cry from
the Anton Votapek Sarah had expected.

"Good evening, Ms. Carter," he said, pointing a wiry hand
toward the two floral-print chairs--thick plastic with overstuffed
backs--that stood on either side of a small metalwork
table. Sarah noticed a pitcher and two glasses at the ready.
"Won't you have a seat?" he asked.


She nodded and moved to the chairs. Carter, she thought. He
must have tapped the phone when I called Alison. A second
man appeared and pulled the seat out for her; she sat as he retreated
to a shadowed corner. Votapek remained standing,
clearly uncomfortable with the preliminary introductions. His
suit and tie, though out of place in the tropical surroundings,
were perfect for his slight frame, a body ill-designed for polo
shirts and Bermuda shorts. She could tell he disliked the
scrutiny. "I trust the trip wasn't too difficult?" he asked.

"Not at all."

"A bit unexpected, I would imagine."

"The location perhaps." Sarah settled into the chair. "We
needed to meet. Where and how weren't all that important."

He stared at her; he had not anticipated her candor. "I see."
He sat and poured himself a tall glass of the lemonade. "Can I
offer you some?"

"I've had my fill for the day," she replied.

"Yes, of course." He placed the pitcher on the table and sat
back, content to gaze out at the clouds. "Alison is very fond of
lemonade. Mine is a bit sweeter."

"I'm sure you didn't bring me all this way--"

"True," he broke in, his tone haltingly casual. "I brought you
here because... I'm somewhat concerned about your visit
with Ms. Krogh."

"Somewhat?" Sarah replied. "You've gone to a great deal of
trouble for something you're only somewhat concerned about."

"Perhaps," he answered, adjusting his jacket. "Perhaps more
than that."

"As I recall, you were far more than only somewhat concerned
during our first encounter in New York. Granted, it's
more pleasant here, but I'm sure the message is the same."

Votapek turned to her, a creasing of his brow. "Excuse me?"

"Your first warning," she answered, "in the alley. I trust
those men have recovered."

He continued to stare at her. "You have me at a loss, Ms.
Carter."

Sarah returned the stare; Votapek looked genuinely per

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183







plexed. "And I suppose you're equally unaware of events in
Florence."


His expression had not changed. "Florence? ... Is this leading
somewhere?"


Again, she waited. "You have no idea what I'm talking
about, do you?"


He blinked several times. "None." He brought the glass to
his lips.

Sarah watched his movements; they remained stiff, but no
more so than before. She had learned long ago to detect even
the smallest traces of deception--the subtle shift in the eyes, in
the choice of words, even in the angle of the body. But Votapek
displayed none of the telltale signs. It was as if he truly knew
nothing of her two run-ins with Eisenreich. "I find that hard to
believe," she said, suddenly far more wary.

"What you believe is not my concern. Nor is your private
life."

"So you flew me down here--"

"I've told you why I brought you here," he continued, his
gaze far more pointed as he turned to her, an impatience in his
voice. "I'm interested in Ms. Krogh. I'll ask again--how did
you find her?"

Sarah had to make sense of the last three minutes. Florence,
Pescatore, New York--could they actually mean nothing to
him? Could he possibly...

Out of the loop. The phrase broke through, a flash of the subconscious
ninety-seven to lend order to the questions stumbling
through her mind. Out of the loop. A lifetime ago, she had described
herself in the same way in order to distance herself, remain
a free spirit disentangled from structures and systems. Amman. An operative secure only when autonomous. For
Votapek, though, it made no sense. He was a vital part of the
Eisenreich structure. Separation would only blur his focus; lack
of communication would only open him to attack. So how was
it that he could remain unaware of the mad scramble that had
been the last week of her life? How?

The man in the shadows shifted, a stretching of shoulders

that drew her attention. He had a strong upper body, thick neck,
though his head seemed too small for his large frame. Oddly
serene, he stood off to the side, oblivious to the cat-and-mouse
game playing out in front of him. The perfect disciple, she
thought. The perfect tool.

Sarah glanced back at her host, his lips pursed at his glass.
And in that look, instinct and fact joined together to offer one resounding
answer: Votapek was no different from the man in the
shadows. In that instant, Sarah saw the world of Eisenreich as it
was, as it had to be: designed to keep each man insulated and
thus protected. Tieg, Sedgewick, and Votapek. Men who were
isolated; men unaware. Votapek didn't know about New York or
Florence because he didn't have to know. Someone else had
managed that.

It was a weakness she could exploit.

"You'll have to be a bit more specific than that," she said,
far more casual than only moments before.


feric was finishing off his third bag of pretzels, a cup of beer
perched at the edge of his tray as his fingers dug angrily into the
helpless little bag.

"The rest is a bit more complex," said Xander, nibbling at
some cheese.

"Then simplify." Feric wet his fingers and dabbed at the
crumbs on the tray. "Anyone can make something complex,
Doctor. The mark of real genius is to make the complex simple."
He swallowed.

"I suppose. But I'm no--"

"The mark of genius," Feric added, "not genius itself."

Xander smiled. Six minutes later, he summed up as best he
could. "It's a clever theory. He's not describing a cabal of political
conspirators; he's talking about mass manipulation of the
three dominant spheres within the state--the political, the economic,
and the social. Considering how well he understands
state structure, it goes a good deal beyond simple deception."

"Spheres? I don't follow."

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185






"He's rethinking the way states are put together," Xander
explained. "In the sixteenth century, the state was discussed in
terms of its political role. Eisenreich expands that definition
and includes the other two spheres as equal partners. That idea
doesn't really get developed for another three hundred years.
Even then, the idea of controlling the spheres is beyond most
people. The breakthrough with Eisenreich is that he recognizes
that to control the state, the leadership has to control each
sphere independently. One man to one sphere. And he takes the
word independently very seriously. They stay virtually unconcerned
with the goings-on in the other spheres. Theoretically,
they remain blissfully unaware of one another."

"But that would only create confusion," said Feric.

"That's what makes it so clever," smiled Xander.


new orleans, march 4, 11:35 a.m. -- Pushing off
from the underwater pilaster, the young disciple of Eisenreich --scuba equipment having replaced the coveralls from his
jaunt to Dulles just over a week ago--swam to the far side of
the pier and attached the explosives to a shallow girder. As he
had done with the previous thirty-eight packages placed
throughout the underbelly of the industrial wharf, he affixed a
small black box to its side; a light flashed green, then yellow. A
moment later, the detonator on his belt flashed red. The relay
was secured, the frequency established. He then checked the
gauge of his air tank--sixteen minutes. Plenty of time to place
the remaining four devices and calibrate their frequencies. He
flipped on his side and dove deep toward the next pier.

He did not, however, take into account the sudden roll of the
current, the wake from a ship somewhere above that threw him
against the pier's jagged ridge. His air tank was the first to hit,
the immediate squeal of puncture echoing within the water. A
moment later, a second wave slammed him into the cement and
steel, again his tank taking the full force of impact. The squeal
now turned to a groan, the loss of air instantaneous. More troubling,
though, was the release of pressure that sent a burst of

water to the surface, a signal to draw the attention of anyone
above.

He had no choice, though. He would have to surface.

Releasing the tank from his shoulders, he watched as it sank,
a moment later the pack in his hands following, four sets of explosives
drifting aimlessly to the deep. He then glanced up to
the surface. The reflection of a lone figure undulated in the
water above. His only choice was the pocket of air beneath the
pier. Slipping through the girders, he made his way up, breaking
the surface without a sound. He stifled his breath. And listened.

He would wait for the dark before venturing out.


"No," Votapek answered, no less on edge. "I would like to
know how you found Alison. I would also like to know why
you made up all that rubbish about my sending you to talk with
her. Naturally, Alison believed you."

"I mentioned your name," Sarah said as she reached for the
lemonade, "because I knew it was the only way she'd see me."

"And how did you know that?"

Sarah stopped pouring. "It's what I'm paid to know, Mr.
Votapek."

"I see," he answered. "And who pays you to know' such
things?" He placed his glass on the table. "The governmentT

Sarah allowed herself a smile as she shook her head. "The
government couldn't afford my services."

" 'Couldn't afford ...' " He began to press. "How did you
get that number?"

"How?" she said softly, knowing it was time to offer a glimmer
of the truth. "It comes from a list," she continued, her glass
now finding the table, "a list that names fourteen children, ten
of whom are dead." She paused. "Actually twelve of whom are
dead. The last two are recently deceased." She looked directly
at him. "But you knew that, Mr. Votapek, didn't you?"

Far more wary, he answered, "Again, you have me at a loss,
Ms. Carter."



. I



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187






"I'm sure I don't, Mr. Votapek."

He waited before speaking. "Clearly, you are with the government,
otherwise, how would you have that information?"

"Let's not be naive. Do you think anyone in Washington has
any idea who Grant and Eggart are? Or how the vice president
is connected to all of this?" Again she paused, waiting to see the
concern register in his eyes. "If they did, you and I wouldn't be
having this conversation."

His jaw tensed. "Those files ... were sealed."
"True," she answered, "but they aren't the only source of information,
are they?" A mode of attack began to form in her
mind. Before he could answer, she added, "The files never
mentioned Brainbrook, Colorado, or Winamet, Texas, yet we
both know that they're far more interesting locations than
Tempsten, New York." She let the words settle before continuing.
"How did I get the number, Mr. Votapek? I think that's
something you already know."

He looked at her for a long moment. "No one would have
given you that information."

"Then how do you explain my having it?"
Votapek began to speak, then stopped.
"Don't let that concern you," she said, eager to discover how
isolated he was. "What should concern you," she added, reaching
into her bag and pulling out Alison's videotape, "is this." Again, Votapek said nothing.

"It's a tape that makes clear why Brainbrook, Winamet, and
several other sites are so important. A tape, Mr. Votapek, that
charts a rather interesting history. You're familiar with the
tape, aren't you?" She waited for him to nod. "Certain people
want to know why Alison Krogh had a copy of it."

Votapek's eyes grew wide, a look of disbelief etched across
his face.

"This tape," Sarah continued, placing it in her bag, "shouldn't
have been in Ms. Krogh's hands at all. She should never have
had access to a Prefect Release." She paused. "From a certain perspective, it looks very sloppy."

" 'From a ...' " his eyes shot up to her. "That tape was se-

I


f

cured. I don't know how--" He stopped. "Whose perspective
are we talking about?"

"Another question for which I'm sure you have an answer."
Sarah glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the second
man. "I think it would be best to leave it at that."

Votapek stared at her. What had been apprehension at first
now bordered on distraction. She had struck a nerve; the hint of
self-doubt, his shoulders slow to settle on the soft cushion of
the chair. Almost to himself, he asked, "Alison had a tape?" He
then turned, his eyes on Sarah, his voice flat as he spoke. "That
will be all, Thomas." Without hesitation, the second man
started off along the gravel path; a moment later, Votapek stood
and walked toward the lip of the gazebo. He stared at the water
below, waiting for the man's footsteps to fade, then turned.
"Who are you, Ms. Carter?"


why?" asked Feric. "Such realms would inevitably come
into conflict. You would have the worst of the old Soviet empire."

"Theoretically," said Xander. "Unless one man stands behind
the three prefects--Eisenreich's term for the heads of
each sphere--and monitors them. That figure is his overseer. The basic structure looks a little like this." Xander picked up
three crackers and a roll and placed them on the edge of his
tray. "Let's say the three crackers are the prefects. To you and
me, they seem totally separate. The roll," which he held about
six inches above the tray, "coordinates the crackers without
letting on that all four are actually working together. In other
words, all we see are the three crackers, and we believe they're
autonomous. They themselves know that they're not, but they
have little idea what's going on in the other spheres. That's
where the roll comes in, hovering above to make sure everything
else runs smoothly." He flipped to a page in the stack and
read. " 'In this way, republican virtue will blanket the government
because power will seem divided among the many. The

188

Jonathan Rabb

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189







neat appearance of checks and balances ... will satisfy the
whim of the people.' "
"How wonderful."

"That division," added Xander, "ties in perfectly with what
Eisenreich sees as the state's need to alter its appearance from
time to time."
"Explain."

"Well, depending on what the people want at a given
time--democracy, aristocracy, or even tyranny--one of the
spheres asserts itself to appease that whim. The structure
never changes, just the surface. So, you have a core group--
the prefects--who determine policy within their spheres. You
have one figure outside their spheres--the overseer--who
makes sure that the prefects don't step on one another's toes.
Meanwhile, the people are convinced that they're not being manipulated,
because the three spheres appear to be acting independently.
The people become happy dupes, and the four boys
at the top run the show, taking the state in whatever direction
they want." A look of concern crept across his face. "If the last
few chapter titles are any indication, that direction is not terribly
inviting."

"And these spheres are controlled by our three friends."
"Who else? Plus, the whole thing rests on the assumption
that the people believe everything is fine. That means you have
to manipulate them. And that's where a highly developed system
of education comes in."

"Votapek." Feric finished off his beer.
"Exactly." Xander paused. "They're following this thing to
the letter."

"There is, of course, an obvious weakness," Feric added.
"Cut off the head--get' rid of this overseer--and the whole
thing falls apart."

"Theoretically... The problem is, they're not working theoretically.
What they did in Washington and Chicago coordinates perfectly with the last few chapter titles. Those episodes
last week were a perfect test run for creating political chaos.

And what just happened with the grain market, the economic
chaos." He paused. "Imagine when they try it on a larger scale."


actually, it's Trent," she replied.

"I see," said Votapek, his disquiet more apparent. "So many
surprises."

"It was a precaution. My role, however, isn't important. The
point is, I'm here because several people have a great deal at
stake."

"Several people? ... Now, you 'II have to be more specific,
Ms. Trent."

"Jonas Tieg and Laurence Sedgewick," she answered.

He raised his eyebrows slightly and then nodded. "I see."

Sarah waited for more of a reaction; when none came, she
said, "But those aren't the interesting names, are they?" She
knew she had no choice but to play the final gambit. "Eisenreich is." She paused to give the word its full force. "Does that
answer any questions?"

Votapek stood frozen, his small frame silhouetted against a
backdrop of sea and sun. "Where did you get that name?"

"Assuming that there are only a select group of people who
understand its relevance," she replied, "the where doesn't seem
all that important."

"Humor me, Ms. Trent. Where?"

Sarah stared at Votapek and then reached for her glass. "I
was approached," she answered.

"Approached? By whom?"

She slowly brought the glass to her lips and took a sip. "By
someone who cares about the manuscript." And, recalling a
word from her conversation with Alison--a word uttered as if
a coded signal--she added, "By someone who cares about the process."

Votapek's reaction was immediate. His head snapped toward
her, eyes wide. "The process?" he whispered, clasping his
hands together and moving slowly back to the table. "You say
he approached you?"

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The question carried none of the authority of only moments
ago. Instead, Votapek seemed to be asking more for himself
than for her. He approached you? she thought. Not Tieg, not
Sedgewick--their names had prompted only a raise of the eyebrow.
No, something else was responsible for his reaction.
Something ... or someone else. It suddenly struck her. A. fourth man?

"That's unimportant," she added, "unless you have doubts
about Sedgewick or Tieg?"

"Doubts?" he answered, still recovering from the onslaught.
"That's what you were doing in Tempsten--the extent of my loyalty, the depth of my faith."

"Alison raises some very difficult questions, especially
given how much she knows." Sarah's tone remained even.

"How much she knows?" The words again were half-whispered.
"Alison is a child. I don't know how she got the
tape--" He cut himself off and looked at Sarah. "The man who
approached you, Ms. Trent--would he have a name?"

Sarah stared directly into Votapek's eyes, no sign of hesitation.
"As I said--Eisenreich. That was the name I was given."
"The name you were given?" An impatience colored his
tone.

"Clearly, it's not the man's real name." She knew it would
be dangerous to press the advantage. Confirmation was enough.
"And I would prefer to keep it that way. I'm not being paid
enough to take that sort of risk."

"I see. And why would this Eisenreich want to hire your services?"

"Because I'm very good at what I do, Mr. Votapek."
"And that would be?"

Sarah sipped at her glass. "Given your access to State Department
records, I thought you would know exactly who I am."
"Clearly not, Ms. Carter. And since we're alone, there's no
harm in you bringing me up-to-date."

A single white gull appeared and perched on the low wall.
Sarah kept her gaze on the bird as she spoke. "Five months ago,
I was contacted by a researcher at the State Department--"


"Ah, then you are with the government," Votapek broke in.

"If you dig deep enough, you'll find that, until seven years
ago, my status was quite different." Another glimmer of the
truth.

"Meaning?"

"I was in the field."

Votapek paused. "In the field. So you were some kind of--"

"The term is irrelevant," she interrupted without raising her
voice. "Until 1990,1 split my time between Europe and South
America; during the Gulf War, I was in Syria and Jordan. I'm
surprised you were unaware."

"Don't be." Votapek's patience was growing thin. "Syria
and Jordan--in what capacity?"

"My expertise was infiltration--political and military
cliques whose aim was to subvert American policy. My job was
to create internal chaos so as to destroy them. My last assignment
was General Safad in Jordan."

"Safad?" Votapek had stopped, his eyes riveted on Sarah.
"You mean--"

"The coup attempt." Her face showed no emotion. "Yes."

"You don't strike me as the James Bond type."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You can take it any way you like." Votapek was doing little
to hide his anxiety. "And then what happened? A breach of
trust, the rogue spy waiting to return to the field? The story's a
little dated, don't you think?"

"It is, and it's not mine," her words precise., spoken without
feeling. "My career ended when I lost my hold on reality." A
strange emptiness washed over her eyes as she looked up at
him, "I went over the edge, Mr. Votapek. In my department, it's
called 'dropping.' Sorry to disappoint you, but judging from my
visit with Alison, I suspect you're familiar with what I'm talking
about."

Votapek let a long moment pass before speaking. "I see," his
tone a mixture of uncertainty and self-reproach.

"There's no need for concern. I've recovered."

"Yes." Votapek was clearly uncomfortable. "Evidently."

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tempe, march 4, 9:40 a.m. -- The smell of freshly
brewed coffee lingered in the air, the telltale sign of a change in
shift at the operations center. Thirty computer terminals, subdivided
into rows of five, defined the various sections of the cavernous
room. Samantha Doyle, an employee of six weeks, sat
in front of one of the screens, waiting for the call she had been
told to expect at 9:50:45. The light on her screen flashed green.

"I'll take this one, Karen," she said, adjusting her headset.
"Good morning. Southwestern Bell. This is Samantha. How
may I help you?"

"Yes, good morning," came the reply, "I've been having
trouble with my phone. I keep receiving calls for a Mr. Eisen."

On time to the second. "All right, sir. I do need to ask if you
want this call to be recorded by my supervisor?"

"No," was the answer. "I'm sure we can handle this ourselves."

Samantha moved her laser pen to the red recording icon on
the screen; a moment later, the icon vanished. It was to be a private
call. Immediately, she double-clicked her mouse and
watched as a grid of the region's phone lines appeared, each of
the central relay points flashing its routing code beneath. Without
waiting for confirmation, a series of input commands
streamed from the voice on the other end of the line, Samantha
quick to enter them, uncertain what any of it meant. Every so
often, she glanced up at the supervisor's booth to her right. No
one was paying any attention. Within a minute, a small box
opened in the lower-left-hand corner of the screen, zeros and
ones racing by at breakneck speed. She continued to type as she
was instructed until, in a sudden shift, every routing code for
every relay point on the grid changed. The voice now asked her
to confirm the new sets of numbers. Half a minute later, she had
checked each one. A final string of commands followed.

"Now enter."

Samantha watched as the original codes appeared again on
the screen; it was as if nothing had been changed. "The routing
is back," she replied.

"Excellent," said the voice. And with that, the line disengaged.


it was time to lend the story greater reality. "There isn't a
great deal to expect after endless months of recovery. You don't
simply ask to be reassigned. Not that I wanted a new station. To
be honest, I didn't know what I wanted." Sarah let her eyes drift to Votapek, a hint of a smile on her lips. "There's the cliche
you've been looking for. Another? I was angry, confused--not,
I'm told, unusual for someone in my situation. After everything
we'd done, Hussein was as powerful as ever, and Jordan was a
nightmare ready to explode. You can imagine how that might
have made me .feel. Everyone said it was natural to be angry,
that I'd work through it. Their idea of work was rather vague.
The man who approached me gave that work direction. How he
knew to approach me, I don't know--or why, for that matter.
I'm no zealot, Mr. Votapek--and I don't care to know who is-- but things in that manuscript made sense."

"You've seen the manuscript?" He could do little to hide his
surprise.

"Bits and pieces. Enough to spark an interest. Remember,
chaos is my expertise." The reaction, though slight, was there,
in his eyes, and Sarah saw it. "Not to mention that he knew a
great deal about me."

Votapek nodded, placed his glass on the table, and moved
back to the wall.

"The first meetings were casual, harmless--"

"All right," he said, turning to her, "let's assume that you are
who you say you are. You still haven't told me what you were
sent to do."

"Confirmation."

"Whatever that might mean." He did little to mask his resentment.
"So you did expect this meeting. You were planning
on it."

"In so many words, yes."

He nodded, his eyes scanning the horizon. After nearly half

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a minute, he asked, "What exactly happened in New York and
Florence?"

"The first, as I said, was some kind of warning. The second
... is a bit more complicated."
"Explain."

She knew he would find out eventually. "Have you ever
heard of a Professor Alexander Jaspers?" Votapek shook his
head. "He was in Florence looking for the manuscript."
"The manuscript was in Florence?"

"Not the original. The German translation. It's been recovered."

"The German? "

"I assumed you had that information."
Ignoring the barb, he asked, "What happened to this...
Jaspers?"

Facts coupled with instincts. Sarah spoke. 'Two men arrived
to make it very clear they didn't want Jaspers to get near the
manuscript."

"I don't see the problem."

"/ had been sent to monitor Jaspers, and I had no idea who
they were."

Votapek looked confused. "You're telling me that these
two--"

"Appeared out of nowhere. We have no idea who sent
them."

Votapek took a moment. "You're sure this had to do with the
manuscript?"

"No question. A day and a half later, a man named Bruno
Feric contacted Jaspers, and the two of them disappeared."
"And you say you have no idea who these two men were."
"None whatsoever."

Another pause. "This Feric--why is he of any concern?"
"Bruno Feric was a lieutenant in the East German Stasi--a
highly skilled assassin with links to several political groups in
Europe and the Middle East. After the Soviet collapse, he began
to hire out his services."

"You're certain it was this Feric who contacted Jaspers?"

"I know the man." Now she paused. "I was the one who got
him out of East Germany in 1989."

Votapek's jaw again tightened. "The question remains--
why should any of this concern me?"

"Clearly, someone is very eager to keep me from doing my
job."

"Youry'ofo, Ms. Trent, remains somewhat unclear."

"Does it really, Mr. Votapek?"

The momentary look of puzzlement on his face quickly gave
way to an icy stare. "You thought that someone was me?"

"It still might be."

"Please, Ms. Trent. Are you implying that someone
within--"

"I'm not implying anything." She now paused for effect.
"But it would seem that someone, or some group, is making up
their own rules."

"Explain."
Sarah spoke deliberately, measuring each word. "The first
trial. Maybe someone's getting a little overanxious. Maybe
someone wants to accelerate the process." She let the words
settle before adding, "Or maybe that's been the idea from the
start. It's One of the things I was sent to find out."

"One moment," said Votapek, his eyes fixed, controlled.
"You're saying that someone, someone like Jonas or Laurence
--"

"Your names, not mine."

"Is attempting to move ahead of schedule?" He shook his
head, the idea gaining clarity. "That's impossible, given the
need for coordination. Ludicrous. I know these men, Ms.
Trent."

"Twice, Mr. Votapek. Twice someone has tried to stop me. In
New York and in Florence. So I must be getting in someone's
way. The fact that I'm here tells you that I'm not the only one
concerned." She waited. "Eisenreich wants to make sure we're
all on the same page." Again, she paused. "That's what I'm here
to confirm."

Votapek remained silent as he sat on the low wall. He

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stared out at the lapping water below. He then turned to her. "I know these men, Ms. Trent."

Sarah could see him losing focus; she knew the conversation
had run its course, the seeds planted, Votapek having taken the
bait. "I hope you do." She stood. "Which, as I see it, leaves very
little else for us to discuss. I will, of course, pass on the information."

He did not bother to answer. The gull flapped its wings in a
flurry of motion, disappearing below the cliff almost instantaneously.
"You will, of course, keep me apprised of your...
analysis."

His request caught her off guard. It was nothing less than an
admission of concern, a hint of suspicion of his fellow players.
"I don't know if we'll be in touch again." Sarah smoothed out
her skirt and reached for her bag. "This meeting is to be kept
strictly private. No external confirmation." She smiled. "That's
what I was told. He said you would understand."

"Of course," nodded Votapek. He stood. "My pilot will fly
you back." Sarah started toward the gravel path. "Ms. Trent,"
Votapek interrupted; she stopped and turned. "You still remain
something of a mystery."

Sarah looked directly into his eyes. "As it should be, Mr.
Votapek. As it should be."


my friend and I are taking a few days to visit some family,
and then on to the south and the Zugspitze. Maybe some climbing."
Feric's German showed no traces of the usual accent and
instead lilted along with the thicker singsong quality of Austrian
Hochdeutch.

The official continued to examine their passports. "And you
were in England for . .."

"Business." Feric continued to crane over the high desk in
the assumed pose of a harmless, if anxious, traveler.

"Yes," answered the guard, flipping through the weathered
books, only once looking up to match pictures with faces, "and
you return to Austria in..."

"A week. Ten days at the most."

A few moments of well-practiced silence, a quick burst of
mechanical stamping, and the two holidaymakers were on their
way. Xander had been to Frankfurt only twice and had forgotten
the impressive layout of the self-contained monolith. He
continued to stare up at the vaulted dome as they headed down
the central escalator. Car-rental booths lined the walls below,
each staffed by a garishly togged attendant, the glaring yellows,
blues, and reds of the international competitors vying for attention.
Feric moved to one of the indistinguishable carrels and
placed his case on the counter.

"A car, please." Feric's German had now become stained
with a northern Italian accent. Xander couldn't help but stare at
him, the stance, the head cocked to one side, even the easy posture
of the hands a far cry from the nervous Austrian of only
minutes before. He watched as Feric dug through his pockets
for a half-crushed pack of cigarettes--from Milan. Xander had
to smile at the precision, no less so at the simple gesture with
which the little man brought the cigarette to his mouth, only to
be reprimanded by the rental agent, a finger pointing to the
large no smoking sign on a nearby wall.

"Ah, si." A casual shrug, the cigarette remaining unlit between
his fingers as he smiled up at Xander, pouring forth in
impeccable Italian, "What can you do?" A knowing smile. "At
least the Spanish let you have a good smoke while you wait for
them to bang away at their computers." He turned back to the
agent, and again in labored German added, "We have now just
been within Spain, and in there they have smoking allowed."

The German continued to scan the screen. "This is not
Spain, sir." Feric nodded affably. "Your passports, please."

Without a blink, Feric looked up at Xander and nodded for
him to give the man the documents. Xander stood frozen until
Feric, in a sign of apology, placed the cigarette in his mouth and
fumbled in his jacket. A moment later, with a short laugh, he
pulled two new passports from a pocket, handed them to the
agent, and said, "No, me, I am having them."

Xander continued to watch the performance; the agent, cool


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against the backdrop of Italian noise, typed away. Within a
minute, he placed an envelope and a set of keys on the counter,
Feric nodding and shrugging, penning indecipherable initials at
all the appropriate marks.

"Sind wirfertig?" Feric's extended roll of the r and the aspiration
on the final g forced a pained smile from the agent.

"Yes, all is complete."

Pulling his case to his side, Feric placed the documents in
his pocket, nodded again to the agent, and said, "First, some
food." Then, hooking his arm under Xander's, he led them off
into the underground maze. Five minutes later, they were in
front of an Italian restaurant, the sign above in deep red curves,
the name lost to letters in the shape of the seven hills of Rome.

"I always make it a point to eat here if I have the time. Excellent
manicotti. You will not find another like it outside
Rome." The old Feric had returned, the precision of the English
the telltale sign, but somehow softened by a surprising remnant
of the buoyant Italian alter ego. With jaunty step, he moved
through the glass door 'and into the empty dining room. Forgoing
three perfectly acceptable tables, he settled on a fourth
along the near wall, dropping his bag to the floor as he sat. Xan-der
joined him as the maitre d' placed the menus on the table
before ambling back to his perch by the door. Ceiling-high mirrors
lent the thin strip a well-contrived girth, the clever placement
of lamps and candles adding to the illusion. Feric watched
himself tear off a thousand pieces of bread.

"That was quite a performance." Xander placed his elbows
on the table, his back uncomfortable against the straight edge of
the chair.

"You are too kind." There was a hint of self-satisfaction in
the way Feric gnawed away, betraying an unexpected delight in
his own bravura. "A boisterous Italian. He sees far too many
every week to remember us."

"You enjoyed it nonetheless."

"Naturally. That is why I can be so convincing." A waiter arrived,
took the order for two manicottis and a bottle of the
house red, and vanished as quickly as he had appeared. "That

expression on your face, Doctor, when I asked for the passports
--now that I truly enjoyed."

The waiter returned with a carafe, Feric maintaining his uncharacteristic
playfulness, eyebrows raised in anticipation of an
Italian wine served by a German restaurateur. Both he and Xander
were pleasantly surprised by the rich flavor that washed
down the stray pieces of bread.

"I'm impressed," nodded Xander. "An excellent choice."

"Yes. It is at that."

" 'In the midst of the hunt,' " piped in the academic, " 'find
a place to refuel--a good meal, some wine.' Lesson--what are
we up to?"

"If that is the way you want to see it, yes. All of that can be
very useful." Feric took a long sip of the wine. "However, at
this particular time, it is much simpler than that. We have
twenty-six minutes before we must leave, and I am hungry.
They prepare the food here in record time."

The precision in the answer was a bit much, even by Feric's
standards. "Twenty-six?" asked Xander. "What difference does
it make?"

"The train to Gottingen leaves at seven twenty-seven,
twenty-six minutes." Good to its billing, the food arrived, Feric
quick to sprinkle heaps of cheese on the already-hidden tubes
of pasta; he stopped when he noticed Xander's expression.
"You did not think we were actually going to use the car, did
you? It is the easiest thing to trace." When Xander did not answer,
Feric continued. "If they are not that clever, then we have
merely wasted fifteen minutes. On the other hand, if they are
better at this than you think, they will eventually discover who
rented the little Fiat. They found you at the library in London;
why should they not be as successful here?" Feric dared a large
forkful of the manicotti. He continued, teeth splattered with
marinara sauce. "Which brings up a question that has been troubling
me since this afternoon." He wiped the sauce from his
chin. "How did they know where you were going?"

The question caught Xander off guard. How Eisenreich had
found him in London seemed slightly less important than the

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fact that they had found him. And the manuscript. "I have no
idea. I assumed--"


"There are only two possibilities. Either Eisenreich has vast
resources with which to trace a man--highly unlikely, given
their obvious inability to keep track of you--or"--he reached
for his glass--"you have not been as careful as you might
think." He looked up to measure Xander's reaction.

The young scholar sat motionless, pasta frozen between
plate and mouth. Not sure whether he had just been accused of
stupidity or something worse, Xander momentarily was at a
loss for words.


Feric saw no reason to press the point. "I do not think you
have been aware of how it might have happened, but you might
do well to consider the days since Florence. Perhaps Milan."

"Milan?" Images from the last week raced through his mind.
"I didn't know about London until I'd read Carlo's notes. And I
didn't get those until Florence. Nothing about the Danzhoeffer
Collection--"


"Fine," Feric interrupted, seeing the mounting concern on
his companion's face, "then you can dismiss Milan."

"And until I met you, I was flying under my own passport.
It's not that difficult to trace someone."

"Granted. But why did they appear at the library? Certainly that was not in your passport. Why not the British Museum, or
Cambridge, or any number of other places? Why London, and why that library?"


"Well... it wouldn't be that difficult to find out that I'd
done most of my work at the Institute four years ago."

"Where is the logic in that?" Feric shook his head and again
embarked on a slab of pasta. "Pure coincidence. Working at the
library four years ago has no relation to the manuscript being
there now."


"Couldn't they have had someone waiting at the Institute?"

"For what purpose? And even so, you yourself said the bald

man looked utterly surprised to run into you. Am I mistaken?"

Xander had to think. "He did seem... shocked. Then again,


I


I could be wrong. I was running from you; I'd just found the
manuscript--"

"All of that is true. Does it change your impression of the
man?"

Xander slowly shook his head. "No. He was genuinely surprised."

"Exactly. And from the description Ms. Trent gave me, I
spotted him before your encounter. It seems quite clear that he
was there for the manuscript, not for you." Feric nodded and
ripped off a piece of bread. "No. There must be something
else--or someone else who knew where the manuscript would
be. Someone who had access to Pescatore's notes and who
could send our bald friend to London, regardless of your presence
there--past or present."

"Someone else!" The words made no sense. "There were
only two people who knew what those notes said--myself and
Sarah."

"And"--Feric paused, his eyes fixed on Xander's--"the
person to whom you sent the copy in New York."

A sudden tightness crept up through his neck. "That's different,"
he answered, recalling how long it had taken him to
convince Sarah to let him send the notes to Mrs. Huber. "The
copy went to New York the day I left for London. There's no
way it could have reached there the next day. Even if it had, I
can assure you that the person on the other end is completely trustworthy."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes," an edge to his tone. "No question."

"Let me determine whether--"

"I said no."

A set of eyes Feric had not seen before peered at him from
across the table, no warmth, no self-doubt, none of the trappings
he had come to expect from the scholar. Only conviction,
perhaps a tinge of anger. He had to admit his new companion
was showing real promise.

"I ask only because it is a possibility."

"I answer because I know it isn't."


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Feric nodded, pleased with the response. "Good." He took a
sip of wine. "That leaves only one possibility. Pescatore."

"What?" The suggestion Was ludicrous. "Carlo?"

Feric removed an envelope from his pocket and placed it on
the table. "There are four people who have had access to the
notes. Your friend in New York, who, as you say, would not
have received them in time to orchestrate the run-in at the Institute.
You and Ms. Trent, who are clearly not at issue. Which
leaves only Pescatore."

"That's impossible. Carlo's ..."

Feric slid the envelope across to Xander. "I found that on
our bald friend at the Institute. Evidently, the professor was not
as reticent as you think. It's a note that details the location of
the Danzhoeffer Collection. No doubt you recognize the writing,
the signature."

Xander stared at the scrawl. Pescatore. He couldn't take his
eyes from the page; it was clearly Carlo's hand.

"One wonders," added Feric, "if Signore Pescatore is as familiar
with the whereabouts of your friend Ganz?"


new orleans, march 4, 3:31 p.m. -- His legs
burned; his arms tore at his shoulders. Several times in the past
four hours, he had let himself sink, his body drift into the current
for as long as his lungs would allow--moments of release --before propelling himself up to the pier. Only once had
he let himself go too far, the sudden realization of consciousness
ebbing, the frantic struggle to find the surface again. In all
the jostling, he had nearly knocked the radio detonator from his
belt. Failing to plant four of the explosives had been bad
enough. Losing the detonator would have been unthinkable.

He had been ready to go half an hour ago. The arrival of a
small tanker and its subsequent unloading, however, had made
escape impossible. Now, as the sound of the last trucks faded to
a distant part of the wharf, the soldier of Eisenreich slowly
drifted out from his lair. He clung to the edge of the pier and
made his way out into the Mississippi. Reaching the end of the
cement wall, he dove deep, using his flippers to send him far
ther
and farther from the light overhead. A minute later, he
emerged to the surface, a good hundred yards from the pier.

The swell was overwhelming. He floated for perhaps half a
minute, trying to find the strength to dive again, when he heard
the sound of an engine no more than twenty yards from his
head. A routine Coast Guard patrol. Fate was not being kind.

He dove, his legs and arms thrashing through the current,
the pier his only chance once again. But his strength had left
him, limbs cramping at the sudden exertion. He felt himself
drift to the surface, the sunlight slicing across his face seconds
later.

He knew what they would expect to pull from the water--a
frightened, grateful survivor. The scuba suit and detonator,
however, would quickly alter that picture. And raise questions --questions he could not afford to answer.

There must always be a place for sacrifice.

The words ran through his head as he slowly let himself
sink. Pulling the detonator from his belt, he entered the code.

He felt nothing as the water around him erupted in flame.


A smattering of stars winked through the cloud cover, intermittent
flashes of light speckling the rutted lane of German
countryside. Sounds of late-night drinking spilled onto the
street as Xander and Feric plodded on. Just ahead of them, the
Schlossplatz, Wolfenbiittel's onetime home to Saxon nobility,
edged its way through the mist, dwarfing th,e no less impressive
Zeughaus, a three-story block of stone and wood that cast an
ominous shadow and seemed ill-suited as home to one of the
great libraries of Europe. Its counterpart, the more elegant
Herzog-August-Bibliothek, stood across a short cobbled lane
and offered a far more majestic profile. But it was in the
Zeughaus, Xander recalled, that the real books were to be found
and where he had spent much of that summer six years ago.

It was there, in the Lesungzimmer--the rare-books room on
the third floor--that he had first met Ganz, a tall, scaly man
with barely enough skin to cover his endless arms and legs.


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Xander had never forgotten that first glance, a pair of ice blue
eyes peering over his shoulder as he had flipped through a manuscript,
the smile that had crept across the older man's face as
he had lured Xander to the small cantina on the lower floor, all the while describing his colleague--long dead--who had been
the last to restore the book now again in need of repair. Xander
had listened for hours, several cups of strong coffee in hand, as
Ganz had relived in painstaking detail some of the more extraordinary
finds of his long career. The exhilaration that had reverberated
in the man's voice had reminded Xander of someone
he knew only too well. It had been a perfect match from the
start.

After that, the two had continued to meet, mostly in the
evenings, for no other reason than to add a necessary splash to
their rather patterned lives, beer or pastry, and once, on a whim,
for a long weekend in Berlin--Ganz's first since the war. Like
many, he had stayed away, unwilling to tarnish his childhood
image. A week of incessant prodding from Xander, and a reminder
that the city was once again whole, had finally broken
Ganz's resolve. Three glorious days in Berlin. The gift of an
early German edition of Machiavelli's Prince had been his way
of saying thanks.

Back in Wolfenbuttel, the two had continued their friendship,
only once, Xander recalled, ever straying from the topic
of books. On occasion, Xander would invite Ganz to his room
at Pension Heinrich Tubing, where the proprietor would manage
to provide a king's feast for his esteemed guests. "Two such
men of learning," Tubing would say. "It is an honor to be of
service."

And now, years later, Herr Tubing was proving himself the
consummate hotelier again. His recognition of Xander's
voice--even given the dreadful phone connection from Gottingen--placed
the innkeeper in a class by himself. No, there
would be no trouble at all setting up Herr Doktor Professor's
room. And his guest, as well? No difficulty at all. The man's enthusiasm
had been hard to miss. Would he be staying for an extended
period? A few shouts back and forth to Frau Tubing (a

woman Xander had never actually seen during that initial three-month
stay), and all was put in order.

Now, bags in hand, they made their way alongside a lovely
covered bridge, past a darkened row of shops. Turning right,
they entered Jiirgenstrasse, home to the Pension Heinrich
Tubing--two floors, with perhaps ten rooms for guests upstairs,
breakfast area and sitting room downstairs--all shrouded
in darkness. Xander checked his watch. Ten to eleven, late by.
Wolfenbuttel standards, but Herr Tubing had insisted that he
would be up to welcome his guests. And, good to his word, a
light from above flicked on before Xander could knock, the
front door pulled back a moment later, revealing the upright
figure of Herr Tubing. He was in bathrobe and slippers, his eyes
trying to adjust to the light.

"We've kept you up," apologized Xander. "We had no idea
the train would take so long."

The older man shook his head once rapidly. "Pah, these
trains are always the same. Viertel vor elf. Prompt. I keep the
lights off for the electricity. Please." He indicated for his guests
to enter the foyer. "I have given you your previous room. There
was a young woman from Bremen staying. She has been kind
enough to move."

"There was no need--"

"For the Doktor Professor, there is always need. She is
merely a Privatdozent." He flicked on the hall lamp.

Xander smiled and followed his host up the narrow staircase,
Feric directly behind. He had forgotten how strictly the
Germans regarded the distinctions within the academic hierarchy.
Doktor Professor, the grandest of the grand, and she merely a Privatdozent. For all Xander knew, the woman was fifty, far
more distinguished than he, and had probably insisted on the
move herself. It was a culture he would never fully understand.
Turning left at the top of the stairs, the three moved along to the
corner room; Herr Tubing unlocked the door and handed Xander
the key. He then reached into his pocket for the spare for
Feric, pausing before transferring the key.

"Ah," Xander quickly said, "this is--"

206


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207






"Signer Caprini." Feric smiled the smile from the car-rental
counter, his head in a gentle nod, cocked slightly to the right as
he extended his hand. Again, the strained German stunted from
his mouth. "I am assisting Doktor Jaspers in investigations for
your magnificent libraries. I hope it is no convenience." He
paused. "Ah, Entschuldigung. /nconvenience."

The German bowed his head and placed the key in Feric's
hand. "There is never inconvenience where the Doktor Professor
is concerned. I trust the room will be satisfactory."

"Belissima," answered Feric, and moved through the door.
He returned a moment later to cany Xander's bag through.
Tubing bowed again, announced breakfast--"Halbsieben
prompt"--and turned toward his own bedroom, his back
straight as an arrow as he disappeared around the corner. Xan-der
smiled and stepped through, closing the door behind him.

The room was exactly as he remembered it. The same blue
towels, the same thick white comforter and pillows on each
bed, even the same brand of soap in the tiny dish at the basin.
Xander recalled having placed the small desk by the window all
those years ago--he preferred natural light--returning it to its
original location before vacating the room. To his surprise, the ,
desk was again by the window, another nod to Tubing's preci- \ sion. Meanwhile, Feric had perched himself by the sill and was
peering through a gap in the curtain at a small yard, a few
shrubs, the beginning of a wood. The orb of a streetlamp glared i
down on the graveled dead-end street, where two cars sat qui- I etly for the night. Feric let the curtain fall back, its thin material
no match for the light outside.

"If I remember," said Xander, "the light goes out just after
three."

Feric nodded and placed his bag on one of the two beds.
Save for the short exchange with Tflbing, he had been virtually
silent since the changeover in Gottingen, his look far more concentrated
than Xander could recall. He had felt compelled to
make a few comments about German railway inefficiency, but
had offered little more in the way of explanation for some of his
directives: that Xander make the reservation at the pension, that

he offer up the exact time of their arrival, that he mention the
"colleague" who would be accompanying him, and that he not ask Herr Tubing if there had been any recent inquiries concerning
the young Doktor Professor. If the men of Eisenreich
had found their way to Wolfenbuttel--a possibility that seemed
less and less remote--their first stop would no doubt have been
his old haunt, number twelve Jurgenstrasse. Or perhaps their
second stop. Ganz lived a five-minute walk from the central
market. They could easily have rummaged through Ganz's material,
found the manuscript, and simply been waiting at the station
to dispense with a few more "loose ends." The fact that
Feric and he had arrived without incident had eased Xander's
mind only slightly.

Settling onto his bed, Xander watched the operative remove
a pair of dark trousers, a sweater, and a black cap from his bag.
Xander adjusted his pillow. "I have to admit, I'm somewhat relieved,
given the way we rolled into town."

"Do not be," Feric answered. "Eisenreich would not have
done anything to this point for the very reason that we did make
our arrival clear to anyone who might be interested." He placed
his shoes neatly by the bedpost. "They are the unknown quantity
here, not you. They must be cautious." He pulled a second
pair of pants, a turtleneck, and another cap from his bag and
tossed them across to Xander. "Put those on." Feric stood and
placed the wallet and passports in his pockets. Then, sitting
down at the desk, he pulled a piece of stationery from the
wooden drawer and began to write.

"What are you doing?" Xander was following orders, his
shirt off, his fingers busy with his shoelaces.

"A note for Herr Tubing. Your apologies at being unable to
stay. Sudden emergency. We will rest for a few hours, then go.
Should something happen later tonight, the word emergency will have the proper effect, more so if the note is in my handwriting
as your assistant. I will leave a hundred marks."

"That's twice what the room costs."

"You are a generous man, Herr Doktor Professor."

208


Jonathan Rabb


sarah had the pilot fly her to Tempsten, Alison now too valuable
to leave in the open; after all, she could tie the men of
Eisenreich together, whether she realized it or not. And, of
course, Votapek would want answers about the tape. Sarah
knew she had to move quickly. To that end, she found
Alison a place to stay and stocked it with food for a week. She
also gave her a gun--a precaution. Alison took it without a
word.

Staring at the weapon in Alison's hand, Sarah felt strangely
detached, aware that she had lived the very same moment before,
once again no choice but to follow through. " You will
come back." "Yes." "You will come for me." "Yes." Alison had to be kept from Tieg and Sedgewick; Sarah had to confront
them, undermine their resolve as she had undermined
Votapek's. Find a way to the heart of Eisenreich and destroy it.
She knew it was the only way to keep Alison safe.

The only way to save Xander.

Now, six hours later, Sarah was in San Francisco's Ghirardelli
Square, her thoughts, though, six thousand miles away.
She phoned into the relay point for Feric's message. They were
in Germany, with only part of the manuscript. He did not elaborate.
More encouraging, though, was his synopsis of the part
they had found. It confirmed everything she had put together on
her own--the isolation, the taboo on contact. And the fourth
man. But it was his final words that brought the smile to her
face.

"The Doctor is doing well. I am actually growing quite fond
of him."

An uncharacteristic admission, but one she understood only
too well.

As she replaced the receiver and stepped out into the flow of
bodies, Sarah became acutely aware of the man following her.
Her first thought was Justice, but he didn't fit the profile.

Needing an answer, she began to drift into the crowds, slowing
so as to pull in her prey. The sound of his steps drew closer,
almost on her, until, with a lunge, Sarah bent over, an instant


1


209

the overseer


later her torso colliding with his, legs and arms lost in a wild
jumble. Before he could respond, her hand was buried in the small of his back, her grip viselike around the base of his spine.
He winced as she prodded him to keep walking.

"You seem to have taken an interest in me," she said quietly.
"Not a very subtle one, I might add."

"It wasn't meant to be subtle," he answered, his gait more
clipped as she dug her fingers deeper into his flesh. "I'm with
the Committee."


five minutes later, they sat in a coffee bar, two cups of caffe
latte on the table.

"Would the Committee man have a name?" she asked.

"Stein. Bob Stein." He smiled uncomfortably, his thick fingers
around the tiny spoon. "I wasn't quite sure how to approach
you."

"Well, here we are."

"Yes." He removed the spoon from the cup, licked at the
foam, and cleared his throat. "I'm with the Committee--"

"You've said that."

"Yes. Well, it has to do with your... investigation."

"Take your time, Bob."

"I've brought some files with me."

Sarah stared at him as he sipped his coffee. "That isn't Committee
policy." Stein didn't answer. "Then why did Pritchard
send you? A sudden pang of conscience?"

"No one at COS knows I'm here."

Sarah watched as he stared into his cup. "That's rather bold,
isn't it, Bob? A bit outside the parameters of acceptable behavior."

He looked up, his unease momentarily forgotten. "It's a bit
outside the parameters of acceptable behavior to send out retired
operatives. But we've moved way beyond that, haven't we?"

Sarah smiled. "Yes, we have."

"Look," Stein continued, his voice now a whisper, "we lost
both of you in Florence. I won't ask you where the good doctor

210

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211






is, because that's not why I'm here. You appear a day later on
your own passport, which I took to be an invitation: Here I am;
come find me. If it wasn't, tell me and I'll be happy to fly back
to my desk, forget about all of this, and hope I haven't made
some sort of horrible mistake. Otherwise, I think I'm here to
offer help."

Sarah had not lost her smile. "Well then, I guess I should be
willing to take it, shouldn't I, Bob?"


A deep black sky had turned to slate when the two emerged
onto Jiirgenstrasse. They had been careful on the stairs, more so
with the front door, and were now maintaining the same posture
on the lane leading toward the center of town. A stoic traffic
light guarded the only large intersection, its amber beam flashing
at a road that drove on for countless empty miles. The stillness
of the night, ideal for their purposes, only compounded
Xander's concern. They were alone, scampering through a town
locked deep in sleep. Xander held his shoulder bag tightly
against his side, the premium on quiet in strict contrast to the
easy gait of their first hike to Pension Heinrich Tubing. Beads
of sweat began to form under Xander's turtleneck as Feric
quickened the pace.

Passing the palace and libraries, the two arrived at the market
center--as in most German towns, a pedestrian area walled
in by shops and stores, too many of them overwrought boxes of
cement and glass staring menacingly down at the roofs of the
older timber buildings. Xander led the way along the wide cobblestone
court, a few arteries crisscrossing the main thoroughfare
in an endless maze of small-town life. Only the sound of
rubber-soled shoes landing in contrapuntal pit-a-pat broke
through the heavy silence. At the end of the promenade, the
sustained green of a traffic light cast a welcome glow on the
street. Ganz's house, another twenty yards beyond, lay in deep
shadow.

Xander stopped and nodded toward the small two-story
home. From where they stood, the two men could make out the

vague outlines of bushes dotting the lawn. As they drew closer,
more of the house came into detail, including the sudden appearance
of a car--from the profile, an ancient Saab--a monster
with a hunched back, standing guard at the lip of the curb.
They cut across the lawn, the grass brittle underfoot, each step
prompting a hushed crunch, impossible to muffle against the
sterility of the open yard. Within a minute, both stood on the
second step of the front porch, the drip under Xander's turtleneck
having grown to a mild trickle, his breath short and
choppy, less from exertion than nerves. Xander gently rapped
his fingers against the thick wood of the door, quickly pulling
his hand back to listen for movement inside. Nothing. He tried
again, more conviction this time, his heart jumping with each
touch of wood. Feric was already by one of the windows, his
gloved hand feeling its way round the wooden frame, his eyes
lost in concentration. After a minute, he looked over at Xander
and mouthed the word alarm. Then, pulling a small metal strip
from his coat, he swept it along the gap between the window
and frame, found the catch, and returned the strip to his pocket.
He pushed the window up and listened; satisfied, he lifted the
window higher and nodded for Xander to join him. The episode
had taken less than two minutes.

Once inside, both men removed flashlights from coat pockets
and began to examine the room. Ganz's kitchen, seen only
through narrow beams of light, proved in far worse condition
than any book he might have been asked to repair--cigarette
burns dotted the tabletop, paint chips hung from the cabinets,
and the smell of cheese filled the place. Xander recalled Ganz
had been a widower for some twenty years, evidently never
having mastered the finer points of housekeeping. Feric quietly
led them across th« room to the swinging door, whose ancient
hinges threatened a squeak but mercifully remained silent as the
two men moved out into the narrow hall. Keeping the light on
the floor, they slipped down the corridor toward the staircase;
Xander tapped Feric and pointed to the second floor. The study. That much he had remembered. If Ganz had the book, it would
be there, next to the bedroom.

212

Jonathan Rabb






Taking the steps two at a time, they arrived on the upper
landing, the sound of a radiator hissing the only accompaniment
to their near-silent strides. Several doors stood ajar; Xan-der
could make out stacks of papers and books in the rooms,
storage areas for a man who had always prided himself on an
unwillingness to throw anything away. The two doors at the end
of the corridor, however, remained shut, the hiss growing
louder as they crept along. Feric pressed his ear close to the first
door, raising a hand for Xander to step back. A moment later,
he pushed the door open, no sound from knob or hinge. Surprising
even himself, Xander stood quite calmly as the entrance
widened, Feric's head disappearing round the door before a
streak of light momentarily caught the edge of a mirror. Even
then, Xander remained composed.

Feric immediately retreated from the room. "He is not here."

The voice was only half-whispered, but the sudden intrusion
of sound was enough to jump-start Xander's heart, his self-confidence
evidently premature. Feric explained. "It is his bedroom.
The bed is made, unused. We have been lucky. He is
elsewhere tonight."

Xander drew in a deep breath and stepped back as Feric
turned to the last door on the hall. With no less precision, he
managed the handle and pushed the door open, this time not
quickly enough to avert a squeak rising from the hinge. Xander's
grip tightened on the flashlight. Following Feric through,
he saw a lamp with fringed shade, the only image to have remained
from his last visit. Somehow, it had a soothing effect.
As Feric moved toward the desk, Xander turned to close the
door.

Staring back at him, the metallic curve of a revolver barrel
flickered in the thin beam of light, a pair of ice-blue eyes above.


6


Education ana aggression work hand in hand to assure stability.

--On Supremacy, chapter /CV


oarah sat in the hotel room, scanning various pages, so
caught up in the text that she flipped past the final sheet, expecting
another. All she found was the back cover, the all-too-familiar
government seal staring up at her. She turned again to
the last page. "This is still very sketchy."

"Nice to see you remembered I'm here." Stein sat down next
to her. "I didn't say it was perfect. I said it would help." He had
spent the last hour watching her, every so often trying to offer
an explanation over her shoulder, only to be rebuffed with a quick hand to the air. Her concentration had been unwavering,
the intensity in her gaze almost hypnotic. It was a lesson in
analysis, in the art of scrutiny from the woman he had known
only as the assassin of Jordan.

"These sections were omitted from the copies I was given.
Why?" The question was tinged with accusation.

"Pritchard thought they were too sensitive."

"That was very kind of him."

"His reasoning," replied Bob, "was that if we gave you the
complete dossiers, you'd have no reason to look beyond them.
You'd be in the same position we were in. He wanted to leave


214


Jonathan Rabb

the overseer

215







the loose ends so that you'd have to start from the beginning-- something, obviously, we couldn't do anymore."

"I don't buy that. I can't imagine O'Connell would have--"

"He didn't," Stein cut in, knowing full well what Sarah was
going to say. "And neither did I. Why do you think I'm here?"
Sarah said nothing. "Look, I know you have no reason to
trust--"

"Any theory on why Mr. Pritchard wanted to play it this
way?"

"No."

"And you're absolutely certain he's shown you everything?"

"Absolutely certain?" Stein shrugged. "A week ago, I would
have said yes. Now I don't know. Absolutely certain
is... pretty absolute."

She turned to him, slightly less edge to her tone. "To be honest,
I was expecting Gael. My invitation."
"I understand--"

"No, you don't." She paused. "You're right, I don't trust
you ... for the simple reason you don't understand this."

"And O'Connell does?"

"Not specifically, no." She stood and moved toward the
French windows and the balcony. "But enough."

"Look, I didn't choose to send you--"

"Of course you didn't." She turned to him. "Let me paint the
real picture. None of you had a clue as to what was going on or
how any of this tied together, so you threw the unknown into
the works. The unknown, Bob, doesn't have to have perfect credentials. In fact, she, doesn't have to have any credentials.
She just has to stir things up so that the big boys can see how
the field is playing." She stared directly at him. "Well, it's playing
a little rough, a little rougher than any of us expected." She
opened the doors and enjoyed the breeze on her face. "So
you're right--I wasn't the best choice for the job, if choice was
ever applicable."

Bob was quiet for a moment. "No, I don't suppose it's Committee
policy to give people choices."

She turned to him. "Is that why you're here, Bob? Is that

what this is all about? They let you get in a little too deep, and
now you're feeling responsible? If that's the reason you're here,
you won't be very useful."

"I'm here, Ms. Trent, because I thought I had something you
needed and because I thought you asked for my help." The
words flew out, a stream fueled by pent-up tension. "Could be
I'm wrong, but I don't think it matters a rat's ass whether I feel
responsible or not. You don't want me to join in your game,
play on your rough field? Hey, then I'm happy to hop the next
plane to Washington. But I don't think that's the case. I think
the information I gave you, coupled with whatever Jaspers has
turned up, may just be the only way to derail whatever these
people have in mind."

The outburst caught her by surprise, genuine emotion from
a man she had pegged as little more than an anxious analyst
suddenly in water over his head. "It's nice to see that blood can
boil under a bureaucrat's skin."
"Bureaucrat? You'd be so lucky."

"Don't worry, no one's got the time to blame you or anyone
else."

"I'm not worrying." He lifted the pitcher of coffee, swirled
around what was left, and poured out a stream of coal black liquid.
The smell was enough to dissuade tasting. "So exactly how
important is Schenten?"
"I'll let you know."

"That's the problem," answered Stein. "I've given you what
/ have. So I think we've come to the part where you reciprocate
and bring me up-to-date on what you and Jaspers have found."
Sarah turned and looked at Stein on the sofa, his paunch at
even length with the armrest. "I thought you were playing the
Good Samaritan? I didn't realize you expected anything in return."

'Two heads are better than one, something like that."
"Perhaps." She sat next to him and produced a lovely, ingenuous
smile. "I need a favor first. I assume you have access
to my files."

"Yes," he replied, the answer more question than response.


216


Jonathan Rabb


the overseer


217


1








"Good. Then you're going to need to destroy a few pages of
them."

"What!" Stein nearly dropped the cup of rancid coffee in his
lap. "You want me to destroy highly classified information that
no one can get his hands on anyway? What the hell for?"

"Confirmation, Bob. Confirmation."


put the gun down, or I shall be forced to shoot Dr. Jaspers
directly in the chest." Ganz's tone was hushed, no signs of his
seventy-plus years in either voice or movement as he rose and
remained by the door. Xander stood silently listening to the
sound of Feric's gun landing on carpet, the movement slow and
deliberate. Ganz stepped to his right--eyes fixed on the two
men--and reached across his body to turn on a standing lamp.
Each man squinted momentarily, Ganz measuring Xander, the
blue stare somehow gentle, even warm, though out of place
given the circumstances.

"Who is he?" asked Ganz.

It took Xander a moment to realize that the question had
been directed at himself, his natural instinct to turn and look at
Feric so as to describe the operative. At the first sign of movement,
Ganz interrupted.

"Do not move, please. I ask again, who is he, Doctor?"

Xander exhaled, barely able to swallow with the pounding
that had reached his neck. His words were muffled, half-asperated
bursts, as a stream of wet nausea rose from his stomach,
the revolver fixed in his stare.

"I am Bruno Feric," came the reply from behind. "We are
here for the manuscript."

"I have many manuscripts," answered Ganz, his voice a
monotone, his hand equally still around the gun. "Your name is
not familiar to me, Herr Feric. How do you come in contact
with Dr. Jaspers?"

"We are recently acquainted."

"I was not aware that he acquaints himself with men who
wield guns."

"Then you might have to question your own familiarity with

him."

"Do not be clever." Ganz,showed no sign of emotion. "This

revolver is purely defensive."

The sound of two native German speakers conversing in English
finally shook Xander from his stupor. "He's helping me,"
he broke in. "I wasn't aware he'd pulled the gun."

"Move away from my desk, Herr Feric," continued Ganz,
choosing to ignore Xander. "The two chairs by the fireplace-- please, gentlemen."

Slowly, Xander and Feric moved through the piles of books
littering the floor, both careful to keep hands visible. At the
same time, Ganz arced behind the desk, stepping gingerly in
front of his own seat in order to turn on the small fringed lamp
that stood atop the crepe blotter, his eyes ever trained on the
smaller of the two men. All three sat at once, Ganz showing
the first signs of strain as he let his arm rest momentarily on the
edge of the desk. Feric shifted in his seat, prompting a sudden
surge of energy from the old restorer, his gun again raised to
chest level. Keeping his eyes focused on Feric's hands, Ganz
spoke, "You were saying, Dr. Jaspers?"
"Emil, this man was sent to protect me."
"And why does a sixteenth-century scholar need such protection?
Your work has always been interesting, but not, shall
we say, dangerous."

"It's not my work that's dangerous, and you know it." A certain
vigor had returned to his voice. "It's the. eleven chapters of
Eisenreich that are somewhere in this mess; otherwise, you
wouldn't be pointing that gun at my friend's chest."

Ganz paused. "Two men break into my house in the middle
of the night and I merely seek to defend myself."

"And you decide to make your bed before dashing into the
study?" Xander surprised himself with his own composure. "I
hardly think so. When was the last time you slept?"
"So you are now a detective, as well?"
"Em//, do you have the Eisenreich?"
Ganz looked at Jaspers, the eyes gentle as before, their



.--TTT


r~

the overseer	-ziy


^	now several days old, his immediate response to place his hand


f« his cheek.

" -~;j Ppric. until now quiet in his


Jonathan Rabb

218

warmth oddly juxtaposed against the cold reality of the gun
barrel stemming from his hand. After nearly a minute, Ganz
slowly lowered the gun, his hand still firm around it, letting his
back release into the cushion of his chair. "Of course I have it."
He rested his free hand on the desk as if to stand. Instead, he
began to rub the wood, his eyes tracing the pattern of knobby
fingers. Looking up from the strangely calming routine, he
said, "And now I ask you the question I have been asking myself
for the last two days: Why is it so important?"

Xander looked at Feric, then Ganz. "It's a great find--" "Don't treat me like a child," he broke in, standing as he
spoke, the first explosion of emotion he had shown. His words
were angry, the movement forceful, strong. "A first edition Dante is a find. No one, though, prowls through your house to
find it. And no one does this." He picked up a newspaper that
had been resting on the desk and tossed it across to Xander, the
sudden burst of activity making the catch somewhat awkward.
Xander flipped to the front page and scanned the articles for an


answer.

"No, the third page." Ganz, too, could be impatient. "At the

bottom. It is from yesterday's Algemeiner."

Xander opened to the page. There, staring back at him was
the face of another old friend, Carlo Pescatore. The words
below the picture were even more devastating. scholar found


IN ARNO--POLICE CONTINUE INVESTIGATION.

"It becomes even more interesting," added Ganz. "The police
say that his office was broken into, that there were signs of a
struggle, his computer discs tampered with, and"--he paused for
effect, resting the gun on the desk--"that two unknown people
were seen leaving the university courtyard the day of the break-in,
one a man with a beard. That seemed an odd detail to me."
Xander started to answer, then stopped.
Ganz continued. "For how long have you had this beard,


Doctor?"

Xander met his gaze, the eyes no longer the warm and gentle
blue of moments ago. He had forgotten the hair on his face,


I


i.ow several uay » ~._,.

to his cheek.

"It is a recent addition," said Feric, until now quiet in his


chair.

"Ah, and I am to take the word of the man with the gun?"

Ganz returned to his chair, choosing not to sit. "Perhaps now
you understand why I wait with a revolver? I receive the Eisenreich--mind
you, only the second half--and a day later, a man
to whom I have written to tell of my discovery--because he is
one of a handful who will truly appreciate it--is dead. But not
dead that day. No, he is dead at least a week earlier, about the
time that London sends me its books for restoration. Coincidence?
Perhaps. I am deeply disturbed by the loss of a colleague --the strange circumstances no less upsetting--but I do


not yet concern myself.

"Then, the next evening, I am informed by our mutual friend
Herr Tubing that the second man to whom I have sent a letter
about the Eisenreich is arriving in Wolfenbiittel--no letter to me to forewarn of the visit--and that he is traveling with a companion.
A companion. Has he ever traveled with an assistant before?
No, not that I can recall, and he has always said how much he enjoys
the solitude of research. Moreover, he calls from the train
station in Gottingen, a last-minute choice for a man I know to be
a meticulous planner." The interrogation continued, fatigue
slowly beginning to show on the older man's face. "And now,
when you do arrive, you break into my house with a man who
has a gun, and you sporting a beard. These things I cannot view
as coincidence." He picked up the revolver and raised it. "You
are an old friend, but old friends do not act as you have. The
Eisenreich is at the heart of this, naturlich. I must know why."

Xander spoke before Feric could stop him. "Because there
are some very powerful and capable men who are trying to put


the theory into practice."

Ganz's eyes locked on Xander's. For a long moment, he remained
still; slowly, the hard stare slipped away, the blue neither
gentle nor unkind as the words took hold; his gaze drifted
to the desk. After nearly a minute, Ganz spoke, his voice con


^


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trolled, direct, "Then it is far worse than I feared." He looked at
Xander. "Trying or succeeding?" When the young scholar did
not answer, Ganz nodded, glancing at Feric. "That of course explains
why you are here. No doubt, you would have killed me
for the book." Feric said nothing. "I understand. Such men must
be stopped, no matter what the sacrifice. I trust you would
agree, Doctor." Xander sat silently as Ganz opened the top
drawer and placed the gun inside. "Very few had the courage to
make those sacrifices fifty years ago. Do not think your friend
ruthless because he accepts the burden with such easy detachment.
I can assure you, those who use the manuscript will act
with equal indifference."

"They already have," replied Xander.

Ganz closed the drawer. "I see. The.. .first trial." He nodded
to himself before looking up. "The manuscript makes it all
quite clear." He held Xander's gaze for a moment, then turned
to Feric. "You may retrieve your revolver. I do not like such
things in the open." As Feric leaned forward to pick up the gun,
Xander found it impossible to tear his eyes from the older man,
the piercing eyes somehow more focused, more determined, a
sense of purpose radiating from within. Ganz continued, his
words equally forceful. "You, naturally, have the first nine
chapters?"

"Yes," answered Xander.

"Which would mean there is another copy of the manuscript."

"Two others," corrected Xander. "One German, one Latin.
The men I just mentioned have them both."

"And they, of course, are eager to have the third."

"That," said Feric, depositing the gun in his front pocket, "is
something that continues to trouble me. Why should they be so
concerned with the other copies? From what the doctor has told
me, the theory is filled with broad suggestions for a process
years in the planning; it does not, however, offer any .substantiating
detail. Only general points: what they intend to do, what
they have been doing, how many men are needed, the spheres
where the chaos is to occur, and so forth. But if it does not tell

us exactly how, and, more important, when they intend to initiate
the scheme, the manuscript is of limited value. It gives an
overview, but nothing tangible, nothing to specify the essential
day-to-day process we must assume they are following. They
know the manuscript is incapable of giving that detail, so why
would-it matter if we should find any of the other copies?"

"You answer your own question, Herr Feric." The first hint
of a smile graced Ganz's face. "Most assuredly, there is something
in the manuscript that gives the detail you seek. Otherwise,
as you say, there would be no reason to take such interest
in the two of you, nor in our dear friend Pescatore, now would
there?" Ganz swiveled in his chair, looked momentarily at
Xander, and then opened a thin drawer at the bottom of the desk.
He pulled out a small book, its color and binding difficult to discern
in the light.

Xander sprang from his chair and took the book from the
collector's hand, flipping open the cover in anticipation. His
heart sank as he saw the words on the page--thick umlauted
script of typewritten German. For a moment, he could only
stare. German ? It should be Italian. And where's the notation of
a second volume? Xander looked at the cover again. No sign of
the Medici seal. "Read the author's name," advised Ganz. "Not
quite what you expected."


wolf point, montana, march 4, 8:45 p.m. -- The
call had come in from New Orleans an hour ago, but it had clarified
nothing; CNN had been airing pictures of the devastation
since six o'clock. The old man had not moved from the television,
both entranced and exasperated by the images filling the
screen.

Too soon, he thought. All of it too soon. Fate, once again,
was testing his resolve. The explosion had been designated as
part of the final stage, not the first trial, its effects mitigated by
its singularity. The events it had been coordinated with would
not begin for another three days, the destruction of the port now
little more than an arbitrary act of terrorism.

Still, it was proving instructive. Via satellite, Bernard Shaw



ri


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was interviewing the trade commissioners from Argentina and
Chile, two men as yet unwilling to speculate on the impact of
the recent disaster.

"As I understand it," Shaw continued, "close to one-third of
all trade in and out of South America finds its way through
New Orleans." Both men nodded. "And with the port inaccessible
to commercial shipping for at least ten days--according
to earliest estimates--that raises some rather interesting questions,
gentlemen. Coupled with the recent crash of the grain
market...."

The old man listened with only half an ear, wondering what
the reactions would have been had a number of key Midwestern
railway and trucking arteries also succumbed within a few hours
of the port's demolition. What kind of questions might that have
raised? What sort of economic panic?

But it was not to be; the timing had gone wrong. The final
stage would now need reassessing, perhaps even a shift in the
schedule.

An acceleration.


'confirmation? What the hell does that mean?" Stein was
the second person in the last ten hours to press Sarah with the
question.

"I need some people to know what happened to me after
Amman."

"You need--"

"They're going to get their hands on my file anyway. Trust
me."

Stein shook his head. "You're telling me there's a leak! At
most, ten people have access--"

"Trust me," she broke in. "The problem is, my recovery assessments are included in those reports, and they contain more
information than I want our friends to have. They're psychological
accounts--"

"I know what they are."

"Good. Then you won't have any trouble finding mine." She
stood and moved to the bed and her overnight bag.

"No problem at all. Yours have been in my office for the last
week."

Sarah's face registered a moment of surprise. "That's convenient.
Should I ask why?"

"I like to know whom I'm dealing with."

Busy with one of the zippered compartments, she asked,
"How many copies are in circulation?"

"None."

"Even more convenient."

"Convenient for what?" he asked, an impatience to his tone.

Sarah turned casually. "There's a list of four passages, date
and hour installments that I need you to ... get rid of. Lose
them."

"What?"

"In their place, write whatever you want. 'Patient incapacitated,'
or 'Needed to sedate. Session canceled.' Whatever they did write down during the days they thought it best to restrain me." Sarah paused momentarily, her eyes locked on an unseen
point. Voices from a past broke through, images of a bed, tethered
wrists, syringes filled with ... "Anything you want just as
long as it looks like mere aren't any holes. Then slip them back
in and return the file." She pulled out a piece of paper. "These
are the dates--"

"Hold on." Stein had twisted round, his eyes following
Sarah. "Not only do you want me to tamper with something I'm
not even supposed to have seen, but you also want me to put it
back so that someone else can get their hands on it?" He shook
his head as he reached for the pitcher of coffee. "You're going
to have to do more than smile to get me to do either one. I need
answers."

"No, you don't." She zipped up the case and started back to
the sofa. "There's information in those assessments that will
make everything I've set up meaningless. These men have to believe I'm part of them; Votapek's already convinced. My
files, as they stand now, would compromise that position."


"**



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"I see. And do I get some idea of what I'm looking for?"

Sarah placed the paper in front of him. "This is the list."

Stein shook his head, easing himself into the cushion of the
sofa. "I'm sure it's fine, but that's not what I asked. Remember,
I've seen the files."

Sarah stared at the analyst, her face devoid of the charm of
only moments ago. "Just follow the list."

"Seven years is a long time to remember the exact dates you
want removed."

"Trust me, Bob," she said, her tone cold, precise, "I won't
have forgotten."

"Oh, I have no doubt that the dates are accurate. I'm just
wondering if something might have slipped out during a different session. As I said, I've read those reports. I think I know
what you want me to take out--"

"Then why all the questions?"

"Because I need to know why. You don't want to tell me
what Jaspers is up to, what this manuscript has to do with anything,
why Schenten is so important--fine. I can almost accept
all of that because for some unknown reason, I actually believe
you know what you're doing. But I won't be an errand boy, and
I won't be a part of this if you don't trust me enough to give me
something to work with. All I want to know is what makes the
rantings of a drugged-up, half-dead, slightly psychotic operative
from seven years ago cause any consternation to men like
Tieg? What's in those files that I'm not seeing?"

Sarah waited, watching his eyes before responding. "Because
they give the complete picture, and I can't have Eisenreich
seeing that."

"Why?"

Again she waited. "All right, Bob	I want them to know

that I was angry, that I felt betrayed, that I was looking
for... something to make sense of everything that had fallen
apart for me. But I can't have them knowing why. I can't have
them reading how much I hated the chaos and the structures it
had led to. Pages of endless rantings. If they find that, they'll
know I consider them--the Tiegs, Sedgewicks, Votapeks, and

Schentens--no better than the Safads, men who think they have
a right to destroy in order to make their vision of an ordered
world come alive. You read the file, Bob. In those passages, I'm
everything they hate and fear. I'm the voice of reason."

Stein sat silently, then spoke. "And these men are capable of
creating that kind of mayhem?"

She remained by the windows. "How's Washington these
days, Bob?"

"What?"

"Last week. Washington. That was their dry run. Any other

questions?"

Stein stared at her for a moment, uncertain, until his eyes went
wide. Sarah said nothing; he reached for the list she had left on
the coffee table, scanning the numbers on the page as he spoke.
"There's a Department jet flying at nine-twenty. I can be back in
Washington in three and a half hours."

"That's quick."

"It flies real high and real fast."

"Thank you." The words were honest, an admission of genuine
need Sarah had not allowed herself in a very long time.
Maybe O'Connell wasn't the only man at COS she could trust.

Stein folded the paper and wedged it into his pocket. "I'll
leave the rest with you." Sarah moved to join him as he began
to shuffle the pages into neat stacks. Halfway to the sofa, she
heard the muted knocking at the door. No more than a tap, the
sound froze them both, heads turning as one.

Sarah lifted a finger quickly to quiet Stein. "Yes?" she answered,
a calm, if impatient, response.

Two more raps.

Sarah looked down at her newfound confidant, his face having
grown ashen, his hands tight around the files. Motioning
him to take them out to the terrace, Sarah walked slowly toward
the door. "Who's there?"

No response as she peered through the peephole, her view
the empty corridor. She stepped back, waited a moment, and
then quickly opened the door. Standing off to the side was a tall,
strikingly handsome man, a shock of white hair combed back,

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revealing a high forehead, clothes impeccably well tailored,
wide shoulders above a trimly built body. The gambit with the
door had worked to little effect, his composure intact, Sarah
only now aware of a second man farther down the hall. The man
at the door glanced at her, then beyond and into the room--a
look of caution masked by a practiced smile.

"Ms. Trent, I'm Laurence Sedgewick. I believe you're in
town to see a friend of mine."


xander stared at the name. Rosenberg. Alfred Rosenberg. Trying to place it, he turned to the next page, saw the date of
publication, and instantly recalled the face. Images of the close-cropped
hair at Nuremberg, the man slightly slumped in the
back row of the dock flashed in Xander's mind. Of course.
Rosenberg, self-proclaimed philosopher of the Third Reich. But
why? Xander stared at Ganz, his own expression sufficient to
prompt response.

"I have had this little book for nearly thirty years," said the
restorer. "It was not, I should say, something I ever really took
much notice of, except that I am virtually positive it is the only
copy." He sat forward, indicating with a nod. "You will see that
it is still in typewritten form, making it a prepublished manuscript
that never quite made it to press. Evidently, Hitler did not
think it worthy of printing, ironic given it is the only thing his
dim-witted ideologue ever wrote that showed even the slightest
coherence. I had not read it in its entirety until yesterday"-- Ganz paused, pulling a second, much larger book from the drawer--"when I remembered this." He pointed to the book in
Xander's hands and said, "Turn to the third page, where Rosenberg
reveals the source of his Nazi wisdom. You, too, will be
quite surprised."

Xander obliged, flipping through the thin pamphlet until,
staring up at him, he saw the all-too-familiar name. Eisenreich. He looked back at Ganz.

"Yes," said the older man, "who knows how, but the manuscript
must have fallen into Nazi hands. If you were to read

Rosenberg's piffle, you would notice that the book is written
as a sort of schedule, a detailed process whereby the Nazis,
not yet in control, could create the mayhem necessary to position
themselves as the only reasonable alternative. Hitler
might not have published it, but he certainly took to heart a
number of its suggestions. One of the last pieces of advice is
the burning of the Reichstag. Hitler obliged in February of
1933, his final act before assuming full dictatorial power."

"A schedule," said Xander almost to himself.

"Pardon?" asked Ganz.

"Something I always thought it would have. A way to set the
whole thing in motion." He turned to Feric. "It's what I told
Sarah in New York. Then it was hypothesis. Now"--he looked
at Ganz--"you're telling me that Rosenberg used the manuscript
to create a how-to book for the Nazi rise to power."

"One possible version of that rise to power," Ganz corrected.
"I do not say that the book details the precise movements between
1919 and 1933. But it is interesting how the first ten pages
of a twenty-page pamphlet are devoted to the first thirteen and
a half years of that association, whereas the entire second half
discusses a period of less than three months. Not exactly equal
space for equal time. The first half of the book is little more than
a glorified history of a thoroughly deranged group of men up to
the point they take control. The second half, on the other hand-- it is those sections that are the schedule to which you refer, and
it is those sections that Rosenberg believed he had taken from
Eisenreich."

"And this other book?" asked Xander, nodding to the volume
in Ganz's hand.

"Ah, yes, this other one." Ganz took a moment to smooth its
cloth cover. "This one, as well as the one you are holding, were
gifts from Pescatore. Years ago." He placed the book on the
desk. "You should know that he was an excellent scholar, but
not one to indulge the sentimentality of the books themselves.
Whenever he finished with a volume, he would send it on to
me. By his generosity, I amassed quite a collection"--he
looked at Xander--"all of which cite Eisenreich as their source.


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This one is a tract written by Ireton, Cromwell's coconspirator
at the Putney debates. He, too, writes a short book on the best
methods to secure the realm, and also sets out a schedule whereby Cromwell may assume full authority. Do you begin to
see the connection?"

Xander nodded to himself, the idea gaining momentum as
Ganz continued.

"Though far more lucid than Rosenberg's feeble attempt, it
was, as you can imagine, also never implemented. Which
brings us to this." Ganz reached into the drawer for a third time
and pulled out a small leather-bound volume, the Medici crest
unmistakable in the light. "I only reread the others after receiving
this two days ago. I believe you have a phrase for what happened
--'something clicked.' It was in the middle of the final
chapter"--Ganz opened the book, flipped to the end, and read
with strained eyes--" 'an exhortation to action.' At first, I did
not understand why the chapter held such fascination for me.
Then I recalled the two books on the desk. In that last chapter" --he looked at Feric--"Eisenreich does give the detail that
so interests you. In no more than a page and a half, with several
examples drawn from his own period, he outlines the methods
best employed during the crucial final stage, before the chaos is
to erupt. A period, I might add, that is meant to last no longer
than two to three months. It is incomplete, but it makes its
point." He glanced at one or two passages. "Rosenberg, of
course, muddled the theory. Ireton was somewhat better. Yesterday
morning, I saw the connection as quite exciting.
Today"--he put the book down--"it is far more unsettling."
Again, he looked at the operative. "That, Herr Feric, is why it
should matter to those men if you were to find any copy of this
book. Given what you have told me, it would seem that they,
who are eager to put the theory into practice, have written their
own schedule as the manuscript instructs, one that they believe
Dr. Jaspers would understand if he were to find the last chapters
of the Eisenreich. You would have your how and your when."

"I imagine that is true, Herr Ganz," answered Feric, "but

there seems a far more likely reason why they would be concerned."

"And that would be?" asked the man at the desk.

"Not whether the doctor can piece together the schedule, but
whether he is aware of it at all."

Ganz paused. "And why would that be so?"

"Because if Dr. Jaspers can draw the connection between their schedule and that of the Nazis, surely it is then easy
enough, with what he has of the manuscript, to expose these
men as nothing more than latter-day fascists."

The room was silent until, with eyes widening, Xander
turned to the operative. "Of course." The point began to come
clear. "It wouldn't matter if it were true, just so long as people believed there was a link. Get hold of their schedule, expose it
as the great-grandson of Rosenberg's schedule, and the men of
Eisenreich become nothing more than another neo-Nazi fringe
element." The idea was picking up steam. "There'd be no need
to explain the subtler parts of the theory--the autonomy, the deception,
the spheres. Just connect them to something people are
terrified of." Again something struck him. "That's why they've
gone to all the trouble to find the extra copies--they know the
link is out there. They know we could set them up."
"Exactly," replied Feric.
"I am still somewhat unclear," said Ganz.
Xander looked at the older man and continued. "All we need
do is produce these few books and link them to the men who
have the manuscript, and the press will do the rest. The media.
Exposure--even half-baked exposure--is a dangerous thing.
These men thrive on .secrecy. By connecting them to these
books--no matter how tenuous that connection might be-- they'll have lost the two things vital to their success: deception
and credibility. We find their schedule, place it side by side with
the Eisenreich and Rosenberg documents, and the entire structure
comes tumbling down."

Ganz picked up the two books on the desk and said, "If you
are right, it means their version of these tracts is their own
Achilles' heel."


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The words were barely out of his mouth when the sound of
a squeaking hinge tore through the darkened house. It had
come from below, a reminder of the kitchen door. Feric immediately
pulled the gun from his pocket and pointed for Xander
and Ganz to turn out the lights. Feric sprang up, grabbed the
long-backed wooden chair he had been sitting in, and pushed
by Xander toward the door. Just as the footsteps reached the
landing, Feric slammed the door shut and jammed the chair
under the knob. The pwit-pwit of a silencer erupted instantly in
the hallway, the immediate burst of lead on wood sending
Feric back, a sharp wincing in his left arm as he fired back, his
own silencer muffling the shot that seared through the now-splintered
wooden door. He looked to his left, to see Xander
moving to the window, the three books safely deposited in the
computer satchel as the scholar stepped halfway out to the
eaved roof. Ganz remained immobile in his chair, a strangely
serene look on his face as the second wave of bullets pelted the
door. Feric quickly covered the old man with his own body, the
tiny explosions bursting all around, tearing through books and
plaster. Turning again, Feric let go with another volley, the
sound of a muted cry from without indication that his shot had
somehow found a target. Feric stepped back, Ganz unharmed
underneath. The old man rifled through the top drawer of his
desk, pulling out his gun and a set of well-worn keys. He
handed the chain to Feric and mouthed the word car, a knobby
finger pointing to the window as he nodded for Feric to go.
The exchange took only a second, but it was clear that the old
man was not going to leave, the blue eyes now fixed firmly on
the door, waiting for the bodies to crash through, his gun leveled,
both hands grasping at the handle. Such men must be
stopped, no matter what the sacrifice. A final act--fifty years
in the waiting--a final moment of true purpose. Feric understood.

He slid over the desk to the window, looked back before
stepping through to the roof; Ganz was locked in position,
strong fingers letting go with a furious barrage, the unsilenced
gun exploding in a thunderous wail as the first assailant


it

smashed through the door, his body lurching backward, bullets
tearing through his head and chest, a lifeless body tripping to
the wall in a heap of crimson flesh. A moment later, a hail of
gunfire strafed across Ganz's chest, bouncing his torso against
the cushion of the chair, his head rolling to the side as his eyes,
sapphire stones, stared off into emptiness. For an instant, they
held Feric, only the sudden crescendo of racing feet in the hall
enough to tear him away.

Firing back, Feric bent through the window, his coat sleeve
awash in dark red streaks, the cold air a welcome relief from the
thick heat of the room. To his right, Xander had managed his
way along the short projection of roof and was waiting for him.
Feric watched as the academic leapt to the ground, rolling to his
side, still clutching the case close to his chest. In a loud whisper,
Feric barked at him from the roof, "The car!" as he himself
turned back, let go another volley, and then jumped, a
return brush of bullets whisking overhead as the sudden intrusion
of hard ground buckled his knees and forced him to roll
onto his shoulder. The pain in his arm was now staggering as he
tore at the dirt in front of him and made his way to the car. "Drive!" Feric slapped the keys into Xander's chest, opened
the door, and slipped into the back. Tossfng the case onto the
passenger seat, Xander slid in behind the wheel; a moment
later, the far window shattered, lights from across the street
suddenly on, all the while Xander fumbling with the chain.
Somehow, he found the key, popped it into the slot, and ignited
the engine.

The old Saab fired into gear, the motor screaming at the exertion
as the car lunged forward, the ping-pang of bullets on
metal keeping Xander's head just below the steering column.
He looked back through the splintered rear window, to see two
men jumping from the narrow roof--old acquaintances from
the university. The bald titan immediately stood and fired after
the car. The bearded one remained on the ground, his hands
clasped to his lower leg in obvious pain. Xander watched as the
standing man turned and fired two bullets into the other's head.

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"Did you see that?" Xander gasped as he turned his attention
to the road ahead, oblivious to Feric's pained expression.

"Just driver came the orders from the back, the sound of
cloth tearing as Feric ripped a piece from his shirt with his teeth
to bind his wound. "Find the highway." A flash of bright light
rose from behind, the high beams of a car quickly gaining,
blinding Xander momentarily as the shock of dazzling white
stared at him from the rearview mirror. "Give me your hand."
"What?"

"Your hand! Give me your hand! "

Xander extended his hand over the seat, Feric quickly positioning
two of the fingers on a segment of the ripped cloth.
"Apply pressure." Xander was leaning over the wheel, his
shoulder contorted in an attempt to help, the tacky warmth of
blood coating his fingers as he spotted the name of a familiar
road, his instinct quick enough to swerve the car and make the
turn, the movement careening Feric--cloth, fingers, and
blood--against the far wall.

"Please! Concentrate on the road." Another order from the
back as Feric continued his repairs.

"This takes us out to the Autobahn. In about ten to twelve
kilometers."

Feric did not answer, knotting the cloth and pulling his arm
away, Xander's hand free to retake the wheel. "You have the
books and computer?"
"Yes."

"Concentrate on the road."

Lights from behind now filled ,the small cabin of the Saab,
Feric gingerly reloading his gun as the driver from the other car
reached out his window and fired off a round. The rear glass
shattered completely, Feric miraculously unscathed by the
shards; Xander, however, felt a jagged edge drive into his right
shoulder. The pain increased as Feric yanked the chip out. Not
bothering to clear away the glass, Feric fired back, claiming the
left front light and forcing the car to snake its way along the
road. "He will now try to draw up next to us. Drive in the middle
of the road."

Without thinking, Xander shifted the car over, the pain in his
shoulder a dull throb, the road beginning to twist as it emerged
from the residential area. He brought the car to eighty, its entire
shell shaking from the strain, the constant swerve jostling Feric
back and forth. Within a minute, the road straightened, a long
expanse cutting through farmland, as Feric again took aim, the
other car now no more than thirty feet behind.

"He will shoot for your tires. Swerve!"

Xander complied, the loping rhythm of the car's movement
in strict counterpoint to the intermittent bursts of gunfire flying
through the night sky. A jolt from behind sent Feric into the
back of Xander's seat, bumper crashing into bumper, a momentary
loss of acceleration but without the conviction to force
the heavy Saab off the road. Xander recalled the last such trip-- the hills of Florence, the black Mercedes. It seemed months
ago. A sign for Kassel raced by, the Autobahn no more than a
minute away. The distant haze of lights came into view as the
two cars jockeyed for position on the narrow strip of highway,
the road widening into four lanes, enough room for the car behind
to draw alongside. As the entrance neared, Xander found
himself forced to drift farther and farther away from the ramp,
his only recourse against the second car now inching its way up
on his left-hand side. At the last possible moment, he downshifted
to third, the car screaming in agony as he spun hard on
the wheel, perfectly timing the maneuver so as to drive through
the entrance and leave Eisenreich no room to follow. Just then,
Feric lunged forward, grabbed the wheel, and turned the car
back onto the smaller road.

"What are you doing?" There was no reason to struggle, the
ramp no longer possible, the road again narrowing, the second
car tucked in neatly at the rear. "We had it. The Autobahn, and
Eisenreich nowhere in sight."

"By now, or very soon, this car will be on police monitors,"
yelled Feric above the whine of the engine. "Plus, on the Autobahn,
he would have drawn parallel, and we would not have
had a chance."

Xander shifted back into fourth, momentarily putting space


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Jonathan R.aoo

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between the two cars; Feric aimed and shot out the second
headlight. Screaming above the wind, Feric asked, "Do you
know this area?"

"No," yelled Xander over his shoulder, "but we're going to
run into another town in about five minutes. That's what these
small roads do." At that moment, the front window streaked
into a thousand fine lines, a stray bullet finding an impact point
just below the mirror. Xander tried not to think how close the
bullet had come to his head as he shifted again, Feric's foot suddenly
thrusting past him, the sheet of glass ripping from its
hasps, sliding along the hood and shattering on the road below.
The burst of cold air smacked at Xander's face, a jolt of energy
as the breath tightened in his nostrils. The sign for Salzgitter
flew past, Xander unsure if the sign had said three kilometers
or eight.

To his left, a shrill whistle blew. His head snapped in its direction,
where he saw a train beginning to slow, evidently its
next stop the town's station. Feric, too, had turned to his left,
now leaning closer to Xander's ear, the wind racing through the
car in violent streams, making communication virtually impossible.
The word station managed to come through as Feric
pointed across Xander at the train. He nodded. The question
was how.

Houses began to appear, the first since Wolfenbiittel, the
town growing around them at unspeakable speed. Feric again
took aim at the car behind; the front-right tire exploded in a flapping
of rubber, the steel wheel scraping angrily against the hard
surface of road. Still, the car came on, the driver undeterred, letting
go an equally debilitating shot at the Saab. The sudden
crunch of the blowout bolted Xander from his seat, his head
smacking against the roof as his hands momentarily left the
wheel. Amid the rough-and-tumble of the descent into Salzgitter,
Feric managed one final shot, its accuracy deadly. The second
front tire burst in a torn heap, the car behind now unable to
maintain the road, its front grille careening to the left, bouncing
off several parked cars before spinning to a stop. Two hundred
yards up the road, the station waited, the whistle of the stand
ing
train mercifully outdueling the clatter of the back wheel.
Within thirty seconds, Xander and Feric had dislodged themselves
and the computer case from the car as the train began its
slow departure. In a dead sprint, the two hurdled a set of steps
up to the platform and, jogging alongside the train, leapt to the
outside edge of die steel landing between two of the cars. Holding
on to the chain link, the two stepped over the swinging barrier
and into the open air.

Within a minute, the country was sailing by at some forty-five
miles an hour. Feric immediately pulled off his coat and
tossed it over the side. Breathing hard, he brought forward the
rucksack, still miraculously on his back, and removed two
windbreakers, handing one to Xander. No words were exchanged
as the two men donned the unstained jackets; within
three minutes, the two were inside the fifth car of the train
headed for Frankfurt, relieved to find themselves alone.

At the station, the bald man, hampered by a strained knee,
limped up to the platform, eyes fixed on the receding lights of
the train. He pulled a cellular phone from his pocket and dialed.


sarah stepped back, an invitation to the room; Sedgewick
nodded and moved past her. The second man, his large hands
clasped at his waist, his suit bunching at the shoulders, remained
in the corridor. His eyes followed her as she closed the
door, a none-too-subtle message that the meager partition
would prove little obstacle should he decide his presence was
necessary inside. The latch clicked shut, and Sarah turned, to
find Sedgewick already at home in the room, an easy smile on
his lips.

"I hope I'm not interrupting, but it was the only time I could
get to this part of town today. No doubt you were expecting
Jonas Tieg." His self-confidence served as a natural buffer
against any awkwardness the situation might suggest. Though
tied to Eisenreich by the same ambition, he was clearly a far cry
from Votapek, less willing to hide his conceit.

"I wasn't expecting anyone."


236


Jonathan Raoo

T


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237







The smile remained. "Jonas doesn't much like going out in
public these days. Difficult, given the success of his television
show." He took in the room, then turned to her, his hands
tucked casually in his pockets. "I didn't expect you to be
alone."

He was wasting no time. Sarah returned the smile. "I wasn't
aware you'd be expecting me at all."

"Ms. Trent," his tone still amiable, "the fact that you were
permitted to leave the island could only mean that your next
stop would be either here or New Orleans. You didn't come to
see me, so I've come to you."

Sarah stared at the man. He was remarkably deft, showing
no caution in the response, no need to dance around with subtle
jabs. In only a passing phrase, he had defined both their positions,
not afraid to reveal his role, along with hers. " You were
permitted to leave the island." Permitted. A word that both
hinted at her status as an accepted minion of Eisenreich, and
made abundantly clear his ease with the threat that those not
granted such privilege would not survive. Votapek had let her
go. Evidently, that was endorsement enough. More startling,
though, was his admission that he was keeping an eye on the
activities of at least one of his compatriots.

Taking in his features, Sarah knew that, with him, it would be
even more crucial to sustain the poise that had so unmanned
Votapek. Sedgewick would need to see his own arrogance reflected
in her. "Considering that contact is out of the question, I'll
have to assume you've been keeping tabs on our island friend?
Not showing a great deal of team spirit now, are we?"

The eyes momentarily flashed, the smile unchanged as
Sedgewick moved toward the sofa. "You'd be surprised, Ms.
Trent."

"How did you find me?" She needed to shift gears.

"It wasn't that difficult."

"Without tailing me?" Sarah shook her head as she sat. "I've
been at this a long time, and either your people are superb or I
missed something."

The smile grew. "I'm sure you missed nothing." Sedgewick

glanced around the room. "The man I expected to find here.
Who is he?"

"That doesn't answer my question. How?"

"Oh, but I think it does." He sat. "As I said, we were expecting
you. What we didn't expect was him--a little frenetic
and obvious, wouldn't you agree? He wasn't difficult to pick
out at the airport last night, and considerably easier to keep
track of than you would have been. He registered here and we
waited." Sedgewick offered a rather condescending smile. "Not
to worry, your talents are no doubt very much intact. Again,
who is he?"

Sarah smoothed her skirt as she spoke, "You surprise me. I
would have thought the who would be quite easy for you. It was
for Votapek."

"It's those sorts of things that Anton and I don't bother to
discuss, Ms. Trent." He crossed his legs, picking a piece of lint
from his trousers. "And by the way, the idea that contact is forbidden"
--he shook his head--"that wouldn't really make a
great deal of sense, now would it?"

"Is sense really at a premium?"

Sedgewick looked directly at her and then laughed, his
cheekbones creasing his eyes to thin slits. "Very good. No, not
initially. Sense is the very thing we seem to be fighting
against, isn't it? But then, Anton would have told you that,
wouldn't he?"

"I knew that long before I had the pleasure of Mr. Votapek's
island hospitality. The manuscript is rather explicit on the topic
of chaos, so, too, I thought, on the restrictions on contact
among--"

"The manuscript," he cut in, "doesn't mention anything
about the grain market, but we managed that." His tone was almost
self-congratulatory. "You have to be able to read between the lines."

Sarah contained her amazement. The grain market. In what to
him was another well-timed phrase, he had revealed far more
than he could possibly know. He had exposed another piece in
the Eisenreich agenda to prove a point and, willingly or not, had



"Aft V


238

Jonathan Raoo

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239






offered final confirmation of her as a part of that process. He had expected her to have such information, had tossed it off casually
because he believed he had nothing to hide. And why should he?
She had played her part masterfully for Votapek and was doing
the same for him. And yet it seemed too easy, too pat. Or was she
seeing the surest sign of their weakness--the male ego desperate
to flex its muscles so as to impress?

"The particulars don't interest me," she replied with the
same even tone as before. "I was talking about the general
theory."

Sedgewick's laugh had eased to an animated stare. "What a
mystery you are, Ms. Trent. No wonder he chose you."

"Votapek?"

Again a muted laugh, his head tilting back as he spoke.
"Anton doesn't have that kind of imagination. No, the man
who..." Sedgewick stopped and looked across at her. "You
call him Eisenreich, don't you?" He waited for her reaction.
When none came, he continued. "A little theatrical, but understandable.
Your exact words, I believe, were, 'I'm not being
paid enough to take that sort of risk.' Am I right?"

Sarah stared back, crafting her own smile as she answered.
"You have been keeping tabs. Any reason I should know why?"

"Who is he, Ms. Trent?" The eyes had lost all invitation.
"The man who asked so many questions about you at the
airport and yet who decided not to stick around and pick you
up. Who is he? I don't much like loose ends."

Sarah paused. "He's unimportant--a source, a connection
from my earlier days at State." She let it stand at that, allowing
Sedgewick to put whatever pieces together he thought necessary.

"Earlier days?" It was the first crack in his mask. "I didn't
realize your affiliation had ended."

"It hasn't. My focus has simply changed, and I'm trusting
that the men for whom I work are equally unaware of that shift.
The man you're so interested in also works for them."

"And his reason for flying all the way out here?"

"Recent events."

"Such as?"

No subtle jabs, only instinct. "New York. An alley. They're
still trying to piece that together."

"That was a simple case of misjudgment." Sedgewick
showed no hesitation in his response, as if, again, he had anticipated
the topic. "I had no idea who you were. And, of course,
there was Jaspers. You understand."

/ had no idea--further confirmation that Eisenreich's right
hand knew little of what its left was doing. "I didn't at first, no.
I might have killed either man. That could have complicated
things immeasurably."

"Perhaps."

"And Florence?"

Sedgewick paused, his eyes narrowing for only an instant, a
moment of decision before speaking. "I didn't concern myself
with Florence." His denial spoke volumes and he knew it; he meant it to. He wanted her to see that he had known all about
Florence, every detail, that he had monitored the entire Pesca-tore
incident--no doubt from a distance.

"Tieg," she said, statement, not question.

"He's very capable. And, like me, he doesn't care for surprises."

"So you create them instead." He had played it openhanded;
so, too, would she. "The grain market--that was ... what? A
clever piece of manipulation, or a statement of power?"

"Part of the process. An indication of control."

"Your control. And what about the others? Or should we be
preparing for a solo performance?"

Sedgewick remained unruffled by the obvious prod. "They
have their areas of expertise; I have mine. Uncertainty is essential
to a point, Ms. Trent, but it can become rather annoying unless
one controls it. I choose to control the aspects of it I
understand; they, the aspects they understand."

His sense of purpose--or perhaps vision--removed all hesitation.
It was one thing to make the boast, quite another to see it
through, and they had each proved themselves more than capable
at every turn. Controlling uncertainty. Chaos--to a point.

T



240


Jonathan Rabb

the overseer

241






Chaos--as a tool. Washington and Chicago as the blueprints. It
was the boldest statement of their agenda she had yet heard, and
Sedgewick seemed completely at home with its truth, so much
so that he could dispel its audacity with a practiced smile.

"I thought control and uncertainty were mutually exclusive,"
she said.

"Then you haven't been doing your reading well enough."
Sedgewick glanced at his watch, uncrossed his legs. "Unfortunately,
we'll have to continue these introductions later tonight."

"Introductions?" The word seemed out of place.

"You came here for confirmation." He pursed his lips.
"Jonas and I want to be as helpful as Anton was. Shall we say
in an hour, a late supper?"

Hers was obviously not the only concern he meant to settle.
She was getting to the men of Eisenreich, forcing them to defend
themselves. It was another sign of weakness.

"Yes. That would be lovely."

"Good. Jonas has a reasonably well-stocked wine cellar,
which I trust will make up for any unpleasantness to this point."
Sarah stood as Sedgewick stepped back around the sofa and
walked to the door, she a few paces behind. He turned as he
opened the door. "Oh, by the way," he said, indicating the man
in the hall, "George will pick you up so that we can avoid any
further misunderstandings." Another smile. The man was already
by his side as Sedgewick nodded and moved off toward
the elevators. "Until tonight, then."

A minute later, Sarah turned back into the room, the door
firmly shut behind her; Bob Stein appeared on the balcony.

"God, he's smooth." Stein returned to the sofa and sat, arching
his back into the cushion. "The chairs out there aren't all
that comfortable."

"My apologies, but it couldn't be helped."

"I understand." He placed the files on the table. "I didn't realize
I was that obvious. Frenetic, though, is going a little overboard."
He turned to her. "And what was all that about the grain
market? Are you telling me--"

"The plane, Bob. And the assessment reports. That's all you
should be worrying about."

His eyes remained on her. "And you'll take care of,everything else."

"Something like that."

He slowly nodded. "I just hope you know what you're
doing."


on Feric's command, Xander had fallen asleep twenty minutes
ago, the operative explaining that he himself was used to
such situations and would manage quite well even with his
arm--"superficial, not to worry. Take your rest while you can." Xander had wondered how much his friend was letting on, but
nerves and fatigue had gotten the better of him, his eyes having
lowered without much resistance. Now, after a series of anxious
dreams, he awoke to the cold seat, his shoulder far less mobile,
having stiffened against the icy pane of glass. Across from him,
Feric sat motionless, a pair of clipped tickets wedged into the
crease where seat met wall, their reflection caught in the mirrored
glass of a dawning sky. The two stubs were the only indication
that, somewhere, a conductor roamed the lifeless
aisles. The train slowed.

"Thank you. I suppose I needed the sleep."

"Yes." Feric kept his eyes on the car door, his expression no
less concentrated for the apparent lack of passengers. "We are
nearing the next station, the fifth since Salzgitter."

Xander stared out the window, his eye catching the vague
outline of a town in the distance, a more pronounced glow from
the few lights dotting the approaching platform. The hazy lines
of a small brick building grew more defined as the brakes
clamped, the sound of pained steel rising throughout the car.
Feric was bending for a better view of the station when he
slowly stepped back. A moment later, Xander blanched, as well. There, waiting at either end of the platform stood two large
men, the bald giant joined by a second, even more imposing
figure.


242


Jonathan Rabb

r


the overseer


243







"Get down," whispered Feric, Xander quick to obey, the operative
already moving swiftly along the aisle, sliding into the
windowless seat at the back--its angled perch offering a hidden
view of the platform ahead--as the train glided past the first
man. Xander remained on the floor, his every instinct begging
him to sneak a glance but his panic fixing him firmly to the
ground.

Feric continued to watch for the second man, now only three
cars away, close enough to see his head turn almost imperceptibly,
then lower to a gentle nod. The signal. Feric had seen the
tactic all too often, knew the nod was meant for the man at
the opposite end of the platform: Meet in the middle and trap
the prey. Waiting until the man had stepped onto the train, Feric
tore himself from the seat, raced down the aisle, and grabbed
Xander. "We must go."

Clutching at the computer case, Xander followed him to the
back of the car. Both men jostled from side to side as the train
accelerated, Xander now aware that Feric's left arm had sustained
far worse injury than the operative had let on. It hung at
his side, useless as they pressed through door after door into
empty cars, well aware that the net was tightening around them.
At the fifth open vestibule, Feric suddenly stopped.

The wind, pitched at a constant scream, made conversation
impossible as the door shut behind them. Feric motioned for
Xander to flatten himself against the car wall, then pointed to
the wrought-iron ladder leading to the roof. Xander grabbed at
the link-chain guardrail and watched as Feric began the climb,
left arm bunched at his side. Within a minute, he had reached
the top, shouldering his head into the wind, its force nearly
throwing him from the ladder, sheer will pulling him back as he
hoisted his left leg onto the roof and lifted himself over. Ten
seconds later, a hand appeared from above and motioned for
Xander to follow. The train began to lean into a tight curve,
Xander thrown forward as he gripped at the chain, its tug the
only brace keeping him from losing his footing altogether.
Catching his breath, he slipped past the door and began to
climb.

With each step, the wind grew stronger, Xander forced like
Feric to improvise with only one hand as his other clung desperately
to the computer case. Within a minute, he reached the
top, his head snapping back at the onslaught of air. He threw
himself down on the roof, the case held firmly under his chest,
his eyes glued to the door below as the wind beat down from all
directions. For almost three minutes, the two lay patiently,
watching for the hint of shadow to cross into the open expanse
below.

A sudden release of air from below--the door pulled back-brought
a massive figure into view, clutching tightly at his hat as
he stepped to the platform, the wind sweeping across in a violent
upsurge. For an instant, he stumbled, his hand quick to find support
against the door, dwarfing the steel handle in his grip. Bending
his torso through the doorway, he disappeared.

An instant later, Xander began to worm himself toward the
ladder, Feric's hand swift to grab at his arm and press it to the
roof. Pulling him closer, Feric lifted his head and positioned his
mouth less than an inch from Xander's ear. Wind pelting from
above, his words were muffled but decipherable.

"They will... find each other... at center of train ... will be
forced to retrace steps ... each alone ... leave only one for us."

Xander nodded as the wind swept up under the smaller
man's chest, the thin body lifting above the train, his fingers
clutching at the hand pipe that bordered the roof. In a moment
of pure instinct, Xander flattened his shoulder into Feric's back,
the movement enough to stop the operative from sliding off the
side, but with enough force to reignite his own sharp pain, the
recollection of a discarded shard of glass pounding in his shoulder.
Feric looked back at Xander, a nod of thanks as he gave
him the go-ahead to return to the ladder. Three minutes later,
the two men stood at either side of the far door, waiting for their
assailant to return.

For Xander, the next minutes stretched to an eternity. More
than just the physical pain--his pulsing shoulder, numb ears,
frozen face--he was overwhelmed by the very real possibility
that he would not survive this latest attack. Never before had


244


Jonathan Rabb

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245






he been granted the time to consider his moves, his options.
Never the time to think. And it was the thinking that was making
it unbearable. Just open the door! Run at me, rip at my
throat, anything! Just do it now! But the door remained fixed,
silently calm to Xander's panic.

Feric had placed him to the right, an unspoken understanding
that he was to be the first seen, the primary target, the lure
to turn hunter into hunted. Feric would wait and attack from behind.
Both men knew he would need the advantage, his left arm
now of little use in combat. All around, the dawn had begun to
climb to the horizon, a cold wash of orange day cutting through
the thick mist and granting both men a clearer view of the platform.

The door swung open, the wind screeching into the sudden
cavity as the large figure reappeared. His recognition of Xander
was immediate, his arms stretching out in the pose of attack, his
shoulders left free as Feric lunged from behind. But it was Feric
who was surprised as the man whipped his leg back, catching
the operative in the midsection and throwing him against the
steel wall. With equal force, he cracked Xander across the jaw,
sending him to his knees before leveling Feric with a kick to the
ribs. Xander struggled to his own feet, aware that the man was
landing blow after blow to Feric's chest. The train veered left,
sending Xander careening into the man's back.

It was enough for him to lose his footing, grab at Feric for
support as all three lurched toward the cabin door. Suddenly,
the man's boot rose up, driving into Xander's groin, the instant
agony forcing him to the floor, the case crashing to the platform.

Xander felt the first taste of vomit rise in his throat as he
struggled to find the will to grab for the case. He was perilously
close to the ledge, his hand locked tenuously to the bottom rung
of the ladder. Above him, the man stood with Feric's limp body
in his arms, the bloodied head dangling to the side. With one
short burst, the man shifted his weight and tossed Feric into the
dark vacancy. An instant later, Xander felt the steel begin to slip
from his own hand.


the Range Rover had been a complete surprise. Given
Sedgewick's penchant for expensive suits, Sarah had expected
a limousine, or at least a well-stocked Mercedes to pull up to
the hotel. Instead, George had jumped from the cab of the four-by-four
to help her up to her seat. She had changed into dark
pants, a simple jacket, and a linen T-shirt. If she was meant to
play the loyal minion of Eisenreich--the onetime assassin recruited
to do their bidding--she meant to dress the part. Elegant
but practical, enough to make the right impression, enough to
match the profile they had no doubt seen in her file.

Just over an hour into the ride, Sarah understood why the
Rover. Driving up into the hills, the trucklike car made the
steep grades and rocky terrain of the climb remarkably comfortable.
They had left the main road, if that is what one could
call it, not more than five minutes ago. Now Tieg's large ranch
house appeared on a not-too-distant ridge, bathed in a sheet of
lights. As its various levels came into view, the house began to
resemble an assortment of rectangles thrown together in haphazard
sequence, each buffeted by endless panes of ceiling-high
glass, windows to give every corner a breathtaking view
of the rolling hills to each side. To the north and west, trees
reached to the edge of a gravel drive, the rest retreating down
the mountain in a jagged line of leaves and branch. Tieg clearly
enjoyed his privacy, his mountain retreat nearly inaccessible to
uninvited guests.

They drove along the narrow lane that bordered a pristine
garden of clipped grass, an obvious stamp of order on the
otherwise-wild surroundings. Even here, Sarah thought, the
men of Eisenreich needed to show their control.

The car came to a stop at the apex, the front door a few steps
down from the driveway. George slipped out from behind the
wheel, darted around the car, and extended a hand to help Sarah
from her seat. An hour and a quarter, door-to-door. It seemed
far more remote than that. Leaving her at the head of the steps,
he returned to the wheel and drove off to an unseen garage.
Standing alone, Sarah enjoyed the view for a brief moment be

advantage of the mountain air. It's often my first reaction, as	not together?"

well."	"I... we ... no, we met at the center--"

"It's beautiful up here," she answered as she moved through	"Enough." Control returned to the tired voice. "You were

the doorway and past him into an open foyer, a sunken living	meant to prptect Jaspers, and now ..." There was genuine an-
room
just beyond. The cool night air was replaced by the smell	guish in the voice. "You have disappointed me beyond mea-
sky,
Anton Votapek stood, his glass lifted in her direction.	now have to--" He cut himself off. "Get off the train and return

"Good evening, Ms. Trent."	to Wolfenbiittel. Make sure everything has been cleaned up

Before she could answer, a second man, much larger, with a	there."

wide chest and thick fingers, appeared from behind a grand piano	"But what about Eric? And the other man? What of

246	Jonathan Rabb


fore taking the first step down. As she did, the door opened,
Sedgewick's figure appearing in the light.

"Ah, Ms. Trent," he said, pulling the door back, "taking

of a pinewood fire. The hearth, at the center of the room, rose
like an inverted funnel to the cathedral ceiling twenty feet
above. Off to the right, framed by a windowed view of a starry

at her left. "I'm afraid we haven't been introduced." He stepped
toward the center of the room and smiled. "My name is Jonas
Tieg, and I've heard a great deal about you."


what are you telling me, you imbecile]" The voice crackled,
but it was not the transatlantic connection causing the tremor.
Rage seethed from the other end, the bald man with the Cellular
phone pulling it from his ear as the voice thundered again. "What were you told to do, Paolo? To kill them both? No! This
you were expressly warned against."

"Eric went over as well. They must have given him no
choice--"

"Given him no choice? You expect me to believe that a
three-hundred-pound man is forced to kill them! What kind of stupidity is that?" The sound of coughing sputtered on the line,
a wheezing of breath before the tirade continued. "And the
manuscript, the notes?"

"The manuscript?"

"The books, the books] Are you paying attention, Paolo?"

"Oh, the manuscript, the books, yes." The man spoke
quickly, trying to deflect the attack. "It must have gone off the

the overseer	247


train with them. There was no sign of anything by the time I
reached the car."

"By the time you-- " Another spasm of coughing. "You were

sure." The line was silent for a few seconds as the weathered
voice gathered its strength and considered the next move. "I
needed those notes, Paolo. I needed to know what he had. I will

Jaspers?"

"Get off that train and do as you are told!" The venom returned.
"I will send somebody to clean up your mess."

The line went dead, and Paolo Vestuti slumped back into his
seat. He had never heard the old man so angry, never heard the
coughing so intense. But he would do what he was told. As he
always had. A week of trailing, only to lose him. Vestuti closed
his eyes, the image of the two men falling from the platform--
Eric's huge frame breaking through the chain barrier, Jaspers
gripping at the enormous neck. The violent picture remained
with him, his own futility in pulling the door open too late,
peering over the side to find nothing, the wind driving him back
to the safety of the car.

He would be made to atone for the sin. Of that he was
certain.


sarah stared at the unexpected face of Votapek; her eyes,
however, remained controlled. She then turned to the less familiar
member of the trio. "And I've heard a great deal about you,
Mr. Tieg." Sedgewick was extending his hand toward the steps.
"Daniel into the lion's den?" she asked.




^


r

248	Jonathan Rabl	I	THE OVERSEER	249


"Daniel?" Sedgewick smiled as he followed Sarah down to J	his knees. Sa^ah looked over at him, a pensive figure, a far cry

the living room. "Hardly, Ms. Trent. You don't seem the type to '	from the man described in the dossier she had read earlier that

call on the gods to save you. And we"--he stopped at the bar,	evening.

lifting two champagne glasses and handing one to her--"we're	"Anton is always quick to point out my little shortcomings."

not animals."	Sedgewick's smile elicited no reaction whatsoever. "One God?

"Not gods, Larry," said Votapek, "one God. Capital G. That	It seems to me the Greeks and Romans were far more sensi-
was
what Daniel was willing to die for, his one God. Am I right,	ble--they had hundreds to do their bidding."

"Their bidding?" Votapek laughed. "Isn't it supposed to be
the other way around? We following God's commands--some-

Ms.
Trent?"

thing like that?"

"Larry has a way of looking at things," piped in Tieg, more

Sarah took the glass and smiled at the smallest of the three
men. "I think he survived. That was the point of the story."

Sarah's candor had the desired effect. Votapek and	v	„	„	„..

Sedgewick looked at one another and laughed; Tieg, though	for Sarah's benefit than Votapek's, "that makes conventional in-
somewhat
more subdued, joined in a moment later. Sarah	terpretation seem somewhat naive." Sarah noticed how differ-
moved
to the window. There was little doubt in her mind that the	ent Tieg was from his television persona. No homespun

men of Eisenreich had accepted her as one of their own. The	aphorisms. This was a highly articulate man.

easy banter, the attempt to make a new associate feel wel-	"Not naive, Jonas. Rudimentary perhaps, but not naive." It

come--all the trappings of self-confidence and commitment. J	was Sedgewick's turn to correct. "Monotheism has managed to

And yet she felt a distinct uneasiness. These were the men ready	keep a stranglehold on us for the last two thousand years. What

to throw the country into chaos, eager to foist a new breed--a	we've failed to remember is that religion is a tool, a means

programmed breed--of children into the vacuum they would	to--"

"Control." Sarah's interruption caused a momentary lull,
none of the men ready with a response. Sarah kept her eyes on
Tieg, the last of the triumvirate somehow more compelling than

create. Light repartee and champagne hardly seemed fitting.

Sarah glanced out the window. Just below, the room jutted
out beyond the scarp of the hill, the slope falling off in a tangle

of trees and plants, the topmost awash in a glow emanating	the others,

from an unseen column of lights. Sarah wondered whether it	After a moment, Sedgewick smiled. "Exactly."

was meant to highlight the view or to maintain a careful watch	Tieg seemed equally fascinated by Sarah, his stare locked

on the most densely camouflaged access to the house.	on her.

"How often do you have these little get-togethers?" she asked	A pair of sliding doors suddenly opened, revealing a beauti
fully
laid table. "We'll continue this over the fish," Sarah stood
and led them up the steps. In the corner, George stood patiently.

as she moved toward the fire to find a well-cushioned chair.

"Those questions, I think, can wait for dinner," said
Sedgewick as he topped up Votapek's glass and turned to Tieg.

the guard waved Stein through. The exchange was the usual
for the late hour, a few smiles, a passing reference to midnight
oil before Bob moved down the wide corridor and into the elevator.
He listened for a moment as he exited at the sixth floor
to make sure the custodial staff had completed its nightly

"One is sufficient for me." He smiled, then turned to Sarah.
"Eisenreich is always better over a nice piece of fish and some
artichoke. I trust salmon is to your liking, Ms. Trent." Tieg had
situated himself on a leather sofa against the far side, more window
than wall, with an equally stunning view of the surrounding
hills. His legs were crossed, his hands holding the glass at

T

250 Jonathan Rabb *	THE OVERSEER 251


prowl. He then stepped to the left--silence as he continued past	remembered Sarah, the immediacy in her voice: "In those pas-
O'Connell's
office, the thick sheets of matted glass that framed	sages, I'm everything they hate and fear. I'm the voice ofrea-
the
door reflecting the row of halogen lamps dimmed for the	son." He looked at his watch. Ten to three. Ten to twelve San

late hour. Never raised to full capacity, the light cast an even	Francisco time. She was already gone. She was with them. And

more somber glow than usual on the cream-colored wall.	he" knew they had all the information they needed.

Arriving at his office, Bob slid the key into the lock and

opened the door to the mayhem he had left behind less than

eighteen hours ago. He tossed the keys onto a small leather	1 here was nothing to do but sit. His chest ached with each in-
footrest--one
of the few areas not piled high with paper--and
moved to the desk. Flicking on his own halogen, he crouched to
his knees and began to fiddle with the combination lock of his

take of breath, his shoulders burned from the strain, but he felt
it all, the wind shoot by, the sun on his face, the clawing in his
stomach where hunger had replaced fear. His left arm lay limp

safe, its top providing ample storage space for an odd assort-	at his side' me ri8ht &S^-n clutching at the case, the miracle of

ment of books, coffee cups and half-filled bags of cheese balls.	thelast ten minutes still a blur.

The stacks of papers within were a far cry from the mess	Xander tried to piece it together. He remembered his hand

scattered around the office. Three neat piles of manila folders	slipping from the rung, the sudden grip of an enormous hand on

waited patiently; Bob began to thumb through the second stack	nis forearm as he had been pulled back, his other hand finding

before pulling out a thick dossier, the word Restricted stamped	the thick, gristly skin of the man's neck' Pulling down on it,

in bold type across the front. Settling himself into the desk	I	only to have me weight teeter toward him as both bodies had

chair, he flipped through the first pages, a recent history of	flown from me platform. How the chain had found his hand, he

Sarah--an impenetrable section on post-trauma syndrome that	would never k110^ but me iron links-had somehow fallen into

showed no understanding of the woman he had just met. Paus-	nis grip, his hand quick to clutch at them as his entire body had

ing only once, he continued to fan his way back to the earlier	swung off the platform, slamming into the underbelly of the

sessions at Langley.	train as the large man had disappeared from sight. The speed of

He was scanning one page, turning to the next, when he re-	the train had been all that had kept Xander horizontal, his feet

alized that something was different, somehow wrong. He stared	straddling unseen rigging, enough to keep him elevated,

at the page, trying to see what it was, when he realized that the	enough to lend him the strength to pull himself back along the

pages were sticking to one another, a sort of static cling making	chain toward the platform.

the peeling awkward. He flipped through the rest, the answer	And then the real miracle. With his arms no longer able to

slowly dawning on him as he released the sheets. Xerox. Some-	contain the pain, Xander had felt his fingers begin to slip, the

one's xeroxed this file. He was certain, the texture retaining the	wind to° mucn against his body. It was then that a pair of hands

had reached around from the platform to pull him in. Thrust onto
the ledge, Xander had looked up to see a face, a contortion of
blood and flesh, the right cheek ripped, revealing shards of bone,
the body a tangled amalgam of cloth and skin, chest heaving,
each breath revealing the exposed wound of a broken rib.
Drained of all vitality, the body had tripped back, feet collaps-
electrical
backwash that the flash of light on glass always produces.
He stopped and looked at the stacks in the safe.

Somehow, someone had gotten to the file; somehow, someone
had found a way into his office, into his safe--the combination
of which he changed each week--and had left
everything in place, even the position of the second stack.

All thoughts of his own vulnerability quickly vanished as he	ing underneath, head smacking against the steel of the train wall.

252	Jonathan Rabh


A dying Feric, the computer case at his side.

Now the operative sat hunched over a growing pool of
blood, his mouth sucking for air as Xander began to inch his
way closer.

Dragging himself across the platform, Xander reached up to
the handle of the car door and pushed his back into the heavy
steel. Ignoring the pain, he reached across to Feric and the case
and pulled them in, the door slamming shut as he laid Feric's
head on his lap. The two sat silently, the passing minutes bringing
greater consciousness, the pain intense as Xander tested
each limb--strains but nothing broken. Feric, however, remained
still, his breath growing more and more erratic, dots of
blood speckling his chin.

Xander held tightly to the small broken body of the man
who had saved him once again. This time, though, he knew it
would be the last. No tears. Only anger, self-loathing as Feric's
breathing began to quiet, a gurgling sound rising from his
throat. Hushed and staggered, the words began to form.

"Get to New York . . . Sarah ... contact number ... in
pack." He coughed, his entire body convulsing at the shock,
more blood finding the floor. "Throw me ... from train." His
back arched, the last words forced through the pain. "They will
expect... to find me." He lifted his arm to Xander's shoulder,
squeezed tightly, and then released; a moment later, his head
fell lifeless.


--"MS^


part III


t/no^--




on the platform, the sun danced on steel as Xander cradled the
lifeless mass to his chest. Fields raced by; the wind whipped at
his face. He stepped to the ledge. Eyes staring straight ahead,
he released, unwilling to watch as the small body crashed to the
ground below.

Find Sarah. It was the only thought his mind would permit.

7


The rest, therefore, must attend to the practical.


-- On Supremacy, chapter VII


./va>

\nder stared out at the crush of bodies, the platform beyond
the window thick with the first early-morning commuters.
He had lost all sense of time, the minutes since the attack frozen
in tiny capsules of activity, each a disconnected strand of energy
focused on necessity: retrieve the computer case; examine
Feric's pack; commit the contact numbers to memory. One after
another, a simple list of tasks, each performed with numb ambivalence.

And somewhere in a hazy past, he remembered having
cleaned himself up within the cramped confines of the train rest
room, a tiny corner insert with barely enough room for toilet and
sink. A thick sweater had miraculously appeared in Feric's pack
and had quickly replaced the torn windbreaker. First, though, he
had forced himself to mop up the blood in the corridor, most of
the paper towel consigned to the small puddle left by a dying
Feric. With even, measured strokes, he had scrubbed away the
last drops before rinsing the towels in the sink, the rotelike activity
enough to foster a few moments of calm. But they had
been short-lived, the reflection in the mirror quick to remind him
of the night's events--hair blown wild, cheeks streaked with
blood, eyes dazed and red. In those dark minutes, he had never
felt so alone, the image of Feric fixed in his mind, fragile, bro-

256 Jonathan Rabb	. THE OVERSEER 257


ken, the contorted face resting on a bloodied shoulder, arms and	nize the hushed quality to the cabin, peering over at the boys with

legs limp in a cradling grasp. Weightless, lifeless. And then	a gentle smile, clipping tickets and returning them without a word,

gone. What do I do now? What can I do?	Sliding the door back, he moved off down the corridor, and the

A strange sort of vacancy had come over him, the panic of	cabin was again silent.

isolation finding its match in the hollow stare reflected in the	J For the first time in days, Xander felt protected, safe. With-
mirror--eyes
that had grown somber and cold, distilled of both	out thinking, he closed his eyes, his thoughts drifting to a wel-
fear
and compassion. He had seen those eyes before. In a tunnel.	come nothingness.
In Florence. And they had been hers. Sarah. Find Sarah.

Now, as he sat alone in a first-class cabin--he had made, the

move an hour ago--the words echoed through his mind, an
inner beacon against the bump and cluster of the early-morning

the dessert proved even more exquisite than the salmon, a
fruit tart floating in a raspberry sauce, the taste prompting all

crowds boarding the train.	four to purr in approval. At no time during the meal had Sarah

The door slid open, the sudden noise snapping his head to the	shown the slightest hesitation in sparring with the three men

right, his grip imperceptibly tighter around the case. A tall	around the table, egged on by the roles each took in response to

woman popped her head through, a timid nod as she pointed to	her self-assurance: Sedgewick, the intellectual, finding in her a

the empty seats across from him.	worthy adversary; Votapek, the intimate, playing up the bond

A week ago, he would have found his own reaction strange.	|	from their first meeting; and Tieg ... Tieg, the enigma. Sarah

Now his concern for his surroundings seemed almost second na-	had yet to ascertain his role, uneasy with the detachment he

ture. He was learning. Trace the stare of an eye, the hat pulled	maintained among such close associates.

too far down over a face. They are the sure signs. Feric's words.	Sedgewick was the first to resume speaking as he swept his

"Sind diese frei, bitte?" The Schweitzerdeutsch accent was
unmistakable.

Xander's shock passed without notice, his smile pure reflex as

spoon through a pool of the red confection, his cheeks flushed
from several glasses of wine. "Though I hate to admit it, Marx
had it right--it's a waste of time to try and define the day-to-day

he nodded. She returned the smile and bustled two small boys	workings of the last stage in the process. Just set everything up,

through the door, each dressed in the gray flannels of traveling at-	or at least allow things to move in their natural patterns so that a

tire. Perhaps eight and ten, the boys had cheeks that revealed the	future is viable." He lapped at the spoon. "Of course, I'm no

puffy red of early-morning rousing, hair slick and exact under	Marxist, but it isn't hard to pat old Karl on the back for having

what had no doubt been a grueling comb, parts perfect to the twin	had the horse sense to refrain from offering some design for the

cowlicks. They were impeccably well behaved, taking the two	future. Create the playing field. That's all one can do." He took a

seats across from Xander as their mother sat down next to him.	sip of coffee and sat back.
Removing two small books from identical satchels, they began to	"It's been a long time since I read Marx," said Sarah, "but I

read, feet dangling above the carpeted floor, boots swaying in
haphazard meter. They were an organized little family, silent save
for the occasional flipping of a page. For a few moments, Xander

think he had some idea of what he wanted--communal property,
the dictatorship of the proletariat. I find it difficult to believe that
'creating the playing field' would have been sufficient."

allowed himself to blend into their world--ordered, kind, sim-	"Actually, it was," responded Votapek, already in the middle

pie--the serenity broken only by the jolting start of the train and	of his second piece. "Marx did think it would happen on its

the coincident arrival of the conductor. Even he seemed to recog
own--capitalism
would come crashing down all by itself. That's

258	Jonathan Rabb	,	THE OVERSEER	259



where he made his mistake." He wolfed down a healthy slab.	Sarah. "Aside from that, our lives are brought together only by

"But you're probably right. There's no question that you have to	the why. That, with some minor variation, is the same for all

have an idea of what's best for the people, how to get the most	three of us."

out of them and how to stabilize them before you set out to create
the playing field. Anyone with an idea for the future has to
know that you can't draw up the... let's call them blue-
Tieg
had waited for the appropriate moment to instruct Sarah
in the ways of Eisenreich. Unlike his colleagues, he showed no
need to impress with allusions to grand theories or his own ex-
prints...
until you see the space you're going to build on. You	ploits. Of the three, he was the one to keep his cards closest to

have to clear the land before you set the foundations." Clear the	the chest. More than that, he seemed to be testing her. Twice

land, thought Sarah. Chaos at its most innocent.

"A period of statelessness," added Sedgewick, "to make sure
that the foundations are correct. That seems to me a central maxim
of the manuscript."
during the meal, he had cut Sedgewick off so as to press her further
for the details of her relationship with Eisenreich. Each
time, she had parried with innocuous phrases, recalling her desire
to remain on the periphery when it came to details. Only

"You have to remember," reminded Sarah, "that my famil-	now did she realize how clever he had been, timing his inter-
iarity
with that book is far more limited than yours." She had	ruptions so as to make sure that the conversation remained fo-
pressed
the point a number of times in the last hour. "My ques-	cused on the abstract. Evidently, he was not inclined to permit

tions--"	facts to enter the debate.

"I'm not sure I'd put the why in those terms," added Votapek,

"Are those that come from the onetime assassin of Jordan."

All eyes turned to Tieg, who was pouring a cup of tea. He had	"but I agree it's the search for permanence that ties us together."

been quiet for several minutes, his words clearly timed to elicit	He was not willing to allow Tieg to speak for all three. Sarah

the most effective response. "We're well aware of that, Ms.	knew that had the situation been reversed, the more famous

Trent. We're also aware that you see the world from a somewhat	member of the trio would have sat in silence, his ego secure

different perspective." He put down the pot and looked at her.	enough to avoid such obvious flexing. It troubled her to find

"General theories derived from a sixteenth-century manuscript	such strength at Eisenreich's core. "Order is about setting

aren't likely to overwhelm or impress you, are they? You like to	boundaries so as to encourage people--especially the young--

know how, when, not why. Or am I misinterpreting your part in	to challenge their potential. That, naturally, demands structure,

all of this?" He took a sip.	j	discipline, a bit of weeding out. Not everyone is capable of the

Sarah had not expected the question, nor the reference to her	potential I have in mind." Sedgewick's pretension had given

past. More troubling was the way Tieg looked at her, something	way to Votapek's eugenics.
behind the stare. "No, I think that would be a fair estimation."	"Simply put, we have to get rid of constraints--old institu-
"Good."
He placed the cup on its saucer. "The problem is, the	tions--and throw everything into turmoil; that way, the cream

how and the when have never been that important to us. Don't
get me wrong. The practical side is ultimately what drives us. I
think we can all agree on that. But it can't be our focus." Look-
can
rise to the top. The great unwashed will have no choice but
to recognize who their natural leaders are." Votapek lifted his
cup, his eyes momentarily locked on the undulating coffee

ing at Sedgewick, he continued. "I really have no interest in	within. "Only the best are capable of taming chaos--those who

what Larry is up to, nor he about me. I trust that when we reach	can harness its power and lead the unenlightened in new direc-
a
certain point, he'll have accomplished everything he needs to	tions. The rest"--he shook his head--"teach them to follow,

accomplish so that we can move forward." He looked back at	Give them toys to play with--greed, hatred, pettiness. Then ere

them." He sat back. "The middle ground isn't worth a thing, Ms.	only a slight shift in his tone, his words carrying a twinge of re-Trent.
Our only choice--permanance through excellence."	proach, but even Sedgewick and Votapek showed a moment's
Votapek looked at each member of the dinner party, a self-	i reaction. "Isn't that ironic, Ms. Trent? Deception." The word
satisfied grin on his lips. There was nothing humorous, though,	i now took on a harsher quality, clearly intended as accusation,
no conceit in the words he had spoken. Only conviction. And	f "For us, it's the very cornerstone of the how," he added. "Not
perhaps a sense of responsibility, a sense that these three were	among ourselves, of course. We would never deceive one an-

260	Jonathan
Rabb


ate controlled battlefields for them--bigotry, fear, that sort of
thing. Focus their energy on a common hatred and you have a
satisfied, manageable mass. Institutions are merely an afterthought.
A few innocents may get hurt, but that's the price. With
that, and with the right sort of technology, you can control them
all very easily. Keep them busy and you allow real innovation to
seize the day." He put the cup down and leaned toward Sarah.
"Cling to old institutions, and the best you can do is erect monuments
to your own limitations, because that's what institutions
represent--our sense of workable boundaries. Then, when the
truly remarkable da emerge, we stifle them because they tear at
the very walls we've put up. They challenge us, and we destroy

the men ready to bestow a gift of great value on a foundering
world, a world in need of their insights. As if it were their duty
to create the darkness so as to usher in a more perfect, more permanent
light

Trying to formulate a response, Sarah's thoughts were interrupted
as Tieg accidentally spilled and shattered a glass of wine,
George quick to come to his aid with a napkin. Without a word,
the large man stepped away from the table and made his way
through a swinging door, no doubt in search of a replacement.

Tieg continued to mop up the mess, removing one or two
shards as he apologized. "That'll teach me to serve the expensive
stuff."

"It's easily replaced." Sedgewick laughed. "We'll just have
to be careful about how much we let you drink."

Votapek and Sedgewick broke into laughter as Tieg turned
his attention to Sarah. "Now you understand why we focus on
the why, Ms. Trent. The how seems to be beyond me." Again the
laughter, this time Sarah joining in, the surest way to mask her
astonishment at how easily the men of Eisenreich could move

r


the overseer	261


from tales of conquest and master races to a simple miscue with
a wineglass.

Tieg folded the napkin, laying it by his plate as he sat back.
"As I said, though, I'm sure it's the how and the when that intrigue
you most. What you were sent to confirm." He looked at
Votapek. "That was the word, wasn't it, Anton?" He had allowed
each man his moment. It was time to press on.

"I believe so, yes." Votapek smiled, still intent on some fun.
"I think Ms. Trent was sent to find out whether one of us might
be trying to fly solo. Something about a separate agenda."

"Flying solo?" Tieg crossed his legs and looked at Sarah.
"You mean if one of us was deceiving the others?" There was

other because we trust one another. It's the people we intend to
control--who need to be controlled--who are the ones we mean
to ..." He paused, eyes riveted on Sarah, "Deceive is such an
unpleasant word, don't you agree, Ms. Trent?" She returned his
stare, not once giving in to the alarm bell blaring in her head. "Manipulate?" he prodded. "No, that's no better, is it? Oversee?" Now he waited, nodding to himself, his command of the
room complete, the mood strikingly different from only moments
before. "Yes, oversee. I think that captures our intentions."
His gaze remained on her. "Which brings us back to your intentions, Ms. Trent. Was I far off the mark when I talked about
deception?" The room was suddenly quiet, Votapek and
Sedgewick clearly unnerved by Tieg's insinuation.

Sarah waited. "This meal and conversation answer any misgivings
I might have had about your commitment to one another."

"Our commitment to one another." He was baiting her.

"Yes." Simple. To the point.

"So readily convinced, Ms. Trent?" Tieg had no intention of

262 JonatkanRabb 	THE OVERSEER 263


letting it go at that, his tone and posture now far more aggres-	forced a momentary pause, his jawline taut from the tension.
sive. He began to shake his head. "It's not our deceptions that	"We're less than a week away from the most crucial moment in
concern me, Ms. Trent--"	a lifetime's worth of preparation, and you allow this to happen." "Our deceptions?" broke in Sedgewick.	He now turned on Sarah. "Oh, don't worry, Ms. Trent. Nothing
"Keep quiet, Larry." Tieg kept his eyes on Sarah.	you've done has made that moment any less certain. Nothing
"What do you mean, 'keep--' "	you could have done would have gotten in the way. You see,
"I said, keep quiet." The severity in tone was enough to si-	chaos is something that comes in small steps. One tiny explolence
the financier. Votapek, too, held his tongue. "It's yours,	sion means nothing. One on top of another--now, that is some-Ms.
Trent," whispered Tieg. "That's what's most troubling. Your I	thing quite extraordinary. The actual effect is inconsequential,
deception. Far more subtle than a few bugged computers or a	Only what is perceived. And that is unstoppable. That is what

brings people to their knees." He paused, aware that he had let
himself go too far. "What was it, Ms. Trent--set us on one another?
Make us question one another?" His jaw tightened.

hidden taping device, wouldn't you agree?" He now turned to
his comrades, their expressions proof enough of the indiscretions.
As if dealing with two children, he calmly asked, "What

were you thinking?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Do you	"We've been doing that for years, haven't we, boys?' Neither

have any idea who she is?" Sarah watched as the two men--	answered, a forced calm returning to his expression. " 'Alison's

only moments ago so pleased with themselves--began to buckle	role.' " He shook his head as the smile reappeared. "That was

under the scrutiny. "You simply allowed yourselves to buy into
the ruse." Sarah remained silent as Votapek and Sedgewick now
erupted.

clever. It's exactly what would frighten him most. Isn't that
right, Anton? And all of that about going over the edge, your
madness--all in the files. Except you left certain crucial pieces

"What are you talking about, Jonas?" said Sedgewick, his in-	of your past out of the picture. That surprised me, Ms. Trent,

dignant tone a futile attempt at self-command. "What ruse?"	Didn't you think if we had access to one we would have access

Votapek followed with even greater incredulity. "Impossible.	to all of your files?" George reappeared at the door, accompa-
I
was told we ran a thorough check. Everything she said was	nied by three other men. The broken glass. The signal. She had

confirmed--"	seen it too late.

"It's very easy," continued Tieg, now ignoring the two men
and turning back to Sarah, "to lose sight of the obvious when

"I have no idea what you had in mind, Ms. Trent," continued
Tieg, "or why you thought you could take us on as your special

you want to impress someone, isn't it, Ms. Trent? When.you feel	project." He looked at Votapek and Sedgewick, both men unable

put up to the challenge?" A strange smile crossed his lips. "And	to match his glance. "Neither does our good friend, whom she

you placed quite a clever little challenge at our feet, didn't you?	calls Eisenreich." He stared at Sarah for a long moment.
That tape Larry made of your conversation with Anton. Most	"You've never actually been in contact with him, have you, Ms.

impressive. And very convincing. You picked your target very	Trent?"
cleverly."

Sarah remained strangely calm. "No."

Again, Sedgewick exploded. "This is outrageous--"
'We.'" This time, Tieg held nothing back. "What's outrageous
is that the two of you could ever have let it go this far. She

"Of course not." Tieg stood. "I would like to thank you,
though, for having brought a number of things out into the open.
If nothing else, you've made us aware--some of us more than

mentions a few names, choice tidbits from a rather checkered	others--that we're not invulnerable. What exactly you'd hoped

past, and you willingly fill in the rest for her." His frustration	to accomplish"--he shrugged--"that still remains a mystery."

table, and accompanied him out into the darkened corridor.	With that, he disappeared, Xander once again alone in the

compartment. His surrogate family was now long gone, their
books and satchels only a distant, fond memory. He had slept for

skin a deep brawn from days on the beach. Her arm lies gentle	was creeping through an open window. Hoisting himself up--

across his stomach, sprinkles of sea held on each lash as a dis-	the case still firmly in his grasp, the pack on his back--he tried

white sand, auburn streaks of light radiating from a thousand	"Did you have a good sleep, Dr. Jaspers?" She held a gun at

freckles she calls a tan. One eye pops open, a smile, the head	her hip, a modest weapon, but one capable of ripping a hole

turns and lifts, lips parched for his, rising closer, moistened by	through him at such close range. As she spoke, she latched the

sees the mouth, the face, the voice beckoning at him. Feric. Day	Again, he did not answer.

suddenly night, sand suddenly snow, a chill coursing through	"Don't look so surprised. We knew you'd try to get to the air-
der,
a hand to his stiffened shoulder, trying to shake the sleep	For some reason, Xander was finding the prospect of death

from his crumpled frame. Xander's head had clamped down	surprisingly calming. "The train leaves in six minutes. I assume


264	Jonathan Rabh


He nodded to George. "There are, as you no doubt know, certain
... narcotics that will help us to fill in the gaps." George
moved in behind her chair. "Keep her downstairs until I've finished
here." He looked at Votapek and Tieg, then moved off into
the living room. The two men rose slowly, neither returning
Sarah's gaze as they followed.

hydra. Drenched in an amber sky, a dry heat billowing on
chest and thighs, water gliding to the small incline of his back,

George waited patiently. She stood, placed her napkin on the

font boat races by. Gently, the waves begin to lap against their
bodies, hers arching at the touch of the cool swirl, he turning to
see her lips, dark red, her hair, so perfect, sprayed on the powder-
an
eager tongue, his body intoxicated by her, the touch of her
fingers on his chest, lips to his, and he breathes again as she
slips back to her sleeping pose beside him. Fiona.

The sun beats down, a muffled voice whispers at him from
somewhere behind, his head too heavy to turn, his eyes too
stained by sea and sun to open, the voice more and more intense,
the cool water growing less pleasant on his back, her arm somehow
gone: He turns, his eyes now struggling for sight, and he

onto his neck, his entire side wedged deep within the seat, his

him, his body airless, breathless, slipping from Feric's grasp,
falling from the train, the eyes bloodied and cold....
"Mein Herr, wir sind am Flughafen angekommen." The mustachioed face of the conductor stared down at Xan
r


the overseer	265


knees pulled in tight for warmth. Squinting into the light, he
slowly tried to straighten his neck. The pain he felt was far more
than just the odd strain from sleep. Forcing himself forward on
the seat, he watched the conductor move to the door, attention
fixed on his pocket watch.

twenty minutes, enough to infuse his brain with that disconcerting
sensation of floating, his nose prickling at the cold air that

"The train leaves in six minutes, Mein Heir," he continued in
German. "Please be certain to have all your belongings."

to recall the dream. Something with sand. And water. Or was it
snow? He shook the sleep from his head and started to rise. It
was then that he noticed the woman.

door behind her, long, thin fingers easily managing the ancient
clasp. "Looks as though the reports of your death were greatly
exaggerated." The accent was American, the tweed suit and
raincoat English. Somehow, the small gun looked rather elegant
in her hand.

Xander stared at it and then up at the woman.

"There were only two bodies from the Saltzgitter train," she
explained, "neither fitting your description."

port. In fact, we had no intention of doing anything with you on
the train. Just wanted to keep you tight until Frankfurt. Shame
about your little friend."

we're not getting off."

She took the seat across from him, the gun aimed at his chest

266	Jonathan Rabo


"It does, and we are," she answered. "But we're going to wait
until everyone else is off. Fewer crowds. Less congestion. Much
better that way."

"And then?"

"I really have no idea."

"Another loose end to take care of?"

The woman smiled. "I could have done that the moment I
walked in. No, my orders are simply to get you"--she stopped
and smiled again--"to get you off this train. We each play a role,
Dr. Jaspers, and for the next few hours, yours will be that of the
accommodating captive. It's not a difficult one, I can assure
you."

the overseer	267


"At least one." She stood. "That's all that really matters,
isn't it?"

"I've no idea." His response conveyed little emotion. "I've
only watched people die. I suppose killing me would be quite
easy?"

"Get up, Dr. Jaspers."

"She sind keine Morderin--"

"Get up, Dr. Jaspers."

The words had meant nothing to her, her eyes giving away
too much in the repetition of the command. It was clear what she
had expected--what she had been told to expect: an easily
daunted academic, a man beyond panic. What she had found--

Sitting, staring at her, Xander focused on the eyes. Deep	what he himself had found--was someone quite different. He

brown, almost black, they sent a message of confidence, even	was learning. He had unnerved her, the German causing an in-
arrogance.
Such assurance conveys truth. It was as if Feric were	slant of confusion
by his side, explaining, cautioning. Control requires no mask,	As she had said ^ platform was empty, no one to get in

only simplicity. Simplicity and truth--which meant he had been
granted a reprieve. She was no executioner, only a courier, an
agent of Eisenreich sent to deliver him to some unknown place,

their way before the escalators leading up to the airport's sub-levels
and main terminal. Her grip was firm, her movement
agile. Until now, he had not realized just how physically strong

unaware of the treasures hidden within his briefcase. Otherwise,	she was ^ rf ht ^ virtua, immobilized b ^ incerlike

she would have checked to make certain he still had the <bsc. It s	ho,d Qn hjs dbow perhaps no ^ she ^ been ^^ ^


well.

what the manuscript would have taught: At every level, give


them only the information they need, only the role they are to	. ,	. ,	. , .,_,»», till u
ir.Li.j-j l At the top of the escalator, she nodded to the U-bahn, push-way.
She had said as much.	. ,. ,, ... . ,-t, ,,- ,
J L L

„	i-ajiij	»j	<.	ing him toward the track for one of Frankfurt s mynad suburbs.

He was learning. And knowledge granted power, power its	„,, . ,. , ,,	., , ,	....

own arrogance, its own role to be played. It was not difficult to	Followmg him throu8h the tumstlle'. she drew UP* his Sld" as

understand why so many had found Eisenreich's theory so com-	^ trundtod down *" stePs' Wlthm a mnute' she had ^

fortine	them to the far end of the platform.


"How old are you?" he asked. "Twenty-four? Twenty-five?"	I	"We'U wait here'" Her hand now became a vise' "Smile'"

The woman did not answer. "And you've killed-"	Xander complied, still somehow guided by the calm he had

along the far wall, the arrival of an incoming train. As it sped
past, she dug the gun deeper into his back, twisting his elbow to

happy couple, only you'll have a gun nestled to your ribs." She
had no patience for his prodding. "On the platform, we'll be arm

"In one minute, you and I are going to walk out of here as a	conjured on the train. Half a minute later, a burst of light flashed

in arm. Do you understand?"	make her Point-"Three,
four?" continued Xander, ignoring her question.	"When it stops, stay calm, wait for the passengers to get off,

"More? I wonder how someone makes a choice like that, at that	and then step on to the train." The words were whispered, direct,

crucial moment? How	"	hot bursts of air moistening his ear. "If I feel even the slightest

268	Jonathan Rabb	s	THE OVERSEER	269


bit uneasy, I'll twist your elbow right out of its socket. Do you	down. It was over. We each play our roles. He had learned to

understand, Dr. Jaspers?"	play his.
Xander nodded, the pain already reaching up to his shoulder,

new york, march 5, 4:12 a.m. -- Janet Grant crept
through the darkened room, a tiny flashlight bobbing along with
her movements. The instructions had been curt, no detail:

his mind racing for some means of escape. If it was going to
happen, it would have to be in the next minute. Once inside the
train, he'd be trapped, no further threats necessary, and no

chance of a second reprieve at journey's end.	"Notes, Italian, a small book. Perhaps an envelope from Eu-
Nothing
more.

A long green sofa sat along the far wall, two matching chairs
neatly across from it to create a small sitting room. Doilies
adorned each of the armrests. Everything neat, ordered. A rather

The train began to slow, sweat creasing his neck, the last car	rope." The address of the brownstone on West 107th Street.

coming into view. To his amazement, the windows were lined
with people. Somewhere, he could hear Feric telling him that
crowds were a tool, a mechanism to be used. The doors peeled
open, the agent of Eisenreich pressing ever tighter to his side as

people poured out. He waited, certain that she could feel the	ancient record player sat atop a cabinet to the left, a row of

tympanic throbbing in his chest.	records--Brahms, Beethoven, and Bach--nestled at its side. The

"Just remain calm," came the voice, hers or his own, he could	most contemporary piece was the stern desk by the window,

no(. tejj	four plain legs below an equally plain top. Nineteen sixty-five,

And then he saw it	I at *e 'atest-I*
was a room mat had not changed in thirty years.
Out of the corner of his eye, Xander noticed a man jump up	Janet moved to me desk> *° toP emPty save for a few old

from his seat, his hands pushing through the other passengers,	Picture flwne&' me photographs equally dated. She sat at the

the strain on his face apparent-a man about to miss his stop.	chair "»»^B™ to open the drawers, the bottom left locked. She

Slowly, Xander stepped into the car, timing his approach as the	, removed a P™1*6 <*&* f™™ her P** ** a™*** il **™&

desperate commuter darted for the door.	I ** slot"***latch released'Inside.a laiSe manila envelope stared

At the last possible moment, Xander thrust her into the man's	back at her> *e stamps European. She took it from the drawer-
.,	the
envelope s flap already open--and pulled out the contents.


"She hat eine Pistole!" he yelled in German as, elbow mirac-	I
ulously free, he managed to push his way to the door. "A gun!"	Clara,

Screams erupted throughout the car as people backed away,	Hold on to these. At home. Anyone asks, you haven't

the gun in full view, the doors beginning to close. Xander leapt	received anything. I'll explain when I get back.

to the platform, she too slow, too confused to escape the now-	A. J.

frantic crowd in the car. The doors slammed shut and, for a mo"
ment, their eyes met through the glass, hers lost in disbelief. The

realization of failure began to rise on her face, terror in her eyes	Behind the letter, she discovered pages and pages of notes. All

as the train inched out of the station. He watched as she backed	in Italian. She tucked them into her jacket, closed the drawer,

herself into a far corner, the crowds cowering in their seats, the	and stood,

gun still in her open palm.	An instant later, she was on her knees.

Xander turned and walked away, his pace casual, his head	The first blow to her back had been enough to daze her, the

T

270 Jonathan Rabl	- THE
OVERSEER 271


second to disorient. She turned, just in time to ward off the third,	a date and his promise to be at the gate fifteen minutes before

her instincts to lunge at the figure above her. Her gloves found	takeoff. A smile sufficed as assurance, all the while his shoul-
ure
to its knees. The face now came clear, an older woman, jet
black hair, thick cheeks.

Clara Huber was no longer putting up a fight.

flesh, a weathered neck, her grip tight enough to bring the fig-	ders growing less and less comfortable in the pants and turtle
neck.
He had been in the clothes for less than seven hours, but
they were already giving off a rather distinct pong, and he had
no intention of finding out how far he could stretch the limits

Janet stared into Huber's eyes, uncertain what she should do.	of good ^^ during ^ ten.hour flight More to me point; he

There had been no instructions, no contingency plans. "Notes,	^new it would be a good idea to alter his appearance. And re-
Italian,
a small book." Nothing more. For an eerie few seconds,
she simply held her grip. Soon, other words began to drift into
her head. There must always be a place for sacrifice. Words to

W.I-	III. _1M».T.,1. _.____T-'__		* _ f	1_	*-^	f *

move the beard. Another cue from Feric. With just under an

hour before takeoff, he had more than enough time and cash to
remedy the situation.

03 m,-fn	,
-, „ , ,	™	Heading for the escalator and the stores one floor down, he

Without thought, Janet Grant drove her thumbs up into Clara	su	remembered me secOnd volume of the manuscript,

Huber s windpipe and twisted. A single snap and the eyes glazed	. .. r	. ..	. ,., . _ ,

r	ft-	j e>	conveniently forgotten in the mayhem of the past five hours.

' ... . , , , , r , , j xt	.	There had been no time, no energy to think of it. A day ago, he

Again, Janet looked at the face in her hands. No questions,	,.	,	',,.,* ,	^	,,

no remorse. She placed it on the floor and checked her watch.	wou1^ "ever ha,ve V*™^ h"nself such, "J^" *ow ''' He

p. , .	forced his mind to focus on the practical, Feric s dying order

^Th^ld man would be pleased.	displacing any theoretical yearnings. Sarah. Get back to the

States and find Sarah.

	:		The memory of her eyes from Florence suddenly flooded

he had disposed of the computer in one of the terminal rest	back--confusion, loss. Eyes he had seen only minutes ago, this

rooms--another bit of advice from Feric--and had taken the	time, though, on a different woman. And yet somehow the

opportunity to trim his beard, wet down his hair.,Now, as he	same--the anguish, the terror. He wondered how many times

stood at the American Airlines counter, he actually resembled	his Sarah had been forced to kill? How often had she let one
the picture from one of the many passports Feric had kept hid- |
slip away? Put it behind you! Another internal command. You

den within the rucksack. With a few bills from the wad of cash	have no time for it!

he had found there as well, he bought a ticket for the twelve	The contact numbers began to race through his mind,
o'clock to New York. It would mean a stop in London, a lay-	Reaching the lower level, Xander headed toward a bank of
over of about an hour and a half, but Xander knew it was	phones. Once again focused, he calmly checked his surround-smarter
to spend the time there than here. They would no doubt	ings and moved to the leftmost cubicle. Satisfied, he removed
be returning to the airport to find out what had happened to	the receiver and punched in the first string of numbers. Every their quarry. He had no choice but to take the earliest flight pos-	so often, he paused as instructed, dial tones and clicks ringing
sible.	hi the earpiece before he could enter the next set in the series.
To his relief, the woman behind the counter showed no sur-	After several minutes, the sound of transatlantic static hovered
prise at either his payment in cash or his lack of luggage, more	On the line, a hum to accompany the final connection. Two
concerned with both his good fortune at finding a seat at so late	nngs iaterj the line engaged and a voice answered.

272	Jonathan Rabb

the overseer	273

"There appears to be a receiver off the hook. If you are try-
ing--


sense of belonging. The three of them together--you should have
known; it was too easy, too...

He typed in the last four numbers and waited. Fifteen seconds
later, a second recorded voice interrupted.

"Monica on the line. I trust all is well." Xander hit several
buttons and waited for the message.

And yet, only Tieg had known. Votapek and Sedgewick had
been as much in the dark as she had. Only he had known. It was a
less severe voice that broke through, a voice that had kept the
demons at bay for so long and that now reasserted itself. Concentrate
on what he said, the warning he gave. Sarah forced herself
to focus on his words. "We're less than a week away... One tiny

the sign on the door had said champagne, the shadowed light j	explosion means nothing. One on top of another... That is what

of the basement corridor having been enough to distinguish each	brings people to their knees." They had seen the theory play out

of the separate holding pens: German whites, French reds,	in Washington, Chicago, ready now to extend the vision. It was

roughly ten rooms, from the little Sarah had been able to see, her	enough to keep her mind occupied, to relieve her of the self-
own
cavern fitted with stool and seven or eight near-finished	evaluation that moments of solitude and failure all too easily pro-
similar
room: a guard, a bed, though no window. No slits of light
seven years ago to grant even the hint of an elsewhere. Only the
darkness and the shadows. And always the questions.

wine shelves propped up against a far wall--a work still in	voked-And
yet> as she sat> °*er images flooded back, an eerily
progress. For the time being, though, the room served as a
makeshift cell for one. A tiny window was tucked in at the ceiling,
no lock needed for an opening too narrow for any but a

child to squeeze through. Even so, the gravel drive above was	"You ^rstood the directive."

not exactly suited for inconspicuous escape, a good ten feet of	**' , , . . , , , , ,

floodlit area between house and trees. The window was not a	t Yo" underst°°d " "»** extend beyond Safad, to the

.....	others?

possibility.	..Ygs j_,,

Nor was it a concern. Sitting on the stool, Sarah had given no	"Y "' h ?"

time to studying the room around her. Instead--back against the	"Y ' r	"

wall, eyes fixed on a spot directly across from her-she had re-	a^a conti and mflde a choice_ Certain sac.

played the conversation from dinner over and over in her mind. J	^^ ^ tQ be ^ /n /fe ^ ^ choge correcfly Bjrf .,

It had been nearly an hour since Tieg's revelation, but her ex-	was youf choice youf decMon You ^ to m them< ev£n if {f

pression had remained unchanged, no emotion surfacing to cloud	meant having to let her die."

her thoughts. Only the conversation. Only Tieg's words. And	«flo ^es j	»

with each subsequent rehashing, the strains of a once-familiar	"Was there another alternative?"

voice had grown louder and louder, echoes of a past fighting to	-77,^ was a deiay_ / was tM to wait_ / couia ^^ saved her

break free from the tattered shelter of an overprotective psyche.	without the delay."

You should have seen them--the sudden shift in his mood, the	«# was your choice to make, your responsibility in the end.

spilled glass. A voice that demanded control. Seven years away	The delay was irrelevant."

have made you slow, unaware. The words were direct. It all hap-	"I..."

pened too fast for you, the warning too late. All unacceptable.	"The delay was irrelevant."

With each rebuke, the voice gained greater command, claimed a	She stood, a need to shake free from the memories. I made

274	Jonathan Rabb	.	THE OVERSEER	275



the choice. I took the responsibility. A rush of anger, a venom	j thrust a pair of shoes into her hands. "Put them on." A reprieve.

seethed below the surface. / can't let you back in! She needed to	The narcotics would have to wait. Very deliberately, she sat and

find her own control, her own release. But the images were prov-	began to lace up the shoes, an impatient gun waving in her face

ing too much, forcing themselves to the surface with an unre-	i for encouragement. There was concern in his eyes, the butt of

lenting abandon. Unable to quell them, she swung her open fist	I his silencer urging with greater insistence as he grasped her

against the face of the plaster wall, the smack of skin on cold flat	upper arm so as to help her to her feet. She considered attack,

stone enough to jar her senses. The pain pulsed throughout her	but instinct held her back. Wait for the options to come to you.

hand, drove up through her arm. For a moment, she simply	Pushed out into the corridor, she came face-to-face with the two

best reasons to keep herself in check--another set of well-suited
minions, guns in evidence, the smaller of the two nodding for
her to move down the hall. Overhead, the sound of scurrying
feet followed the quartet along, the activity above in stark contrast
to the silent stroll among the caverns. One in front, two at

stared at her reddened palm, traced one of its threadlike lines
from wrist to thumb, clenched her fist--the pain more acute-- and saw the crease vanish into the folds of skin and fingers.
Only then did the voice begin to recede.

And with the release, the shadows lifted from the room, her

reason more acute, the ten-by-ten space the only reality she per-	the rear, a pattering of rubber shoes along the carpeted cement

milled. Strangely serene, Sarah drained her mind of everything
but escape. They would be back for her soon enough. The operative
needed to take control.

leading her away from the steps to the kitchen and toward the
back of the house. Within a minute, the narrow corridor brought
all four to a large steel door, its thick shell unable to fully muf-
She
scanned the cell, her eyes stopping at the door--keypad,	fie the sound of a single voice issuing commands from beyond.

"Check around to the side and secure the area. I want a sweep
of the entire grounds."

The three men stopped, her escort holding tightly to her arm as
he looked at the other two for instruction. The smaller man shook
his head, placing a finger to his lips and raising his gun, a none-
no
handle. Tieg had taken great pains to protect his wine, a precaution
that was now paying dividends. Something to puncture
the plastic, get at the wires behind. Her eyes lit on the group of
shelves resting against the far wall; one two-by-four, ripped out
and with nails still lodged within, might do the trick. She moved

toward them, passing under a ceiling vent, the sound of muted	too-subtle suggestion to Sarah that she keep quiet. Within half a

voices echoing from above. Stopping, she strained to hear the	minute, the footsteps outside faded to the distance, another voice,

words. An alternating cadence of accusation and denial indi-	[ this time from a radio strapped to the smaller man's belt, breaking

cated several speakers, but there was little else to make out. At	through. "You're clear." The man lowered his gun and moved to

least they were still in full lather.	i the door. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked a small box

The conversation suddenly broke off as a simultaneous flash-	I on the wall, punched in a sequence of numbers, and listened

ing of lights invaded her near-darkened cell, the tiny window	for the dead bolt to disengage. Ten seconds later, he slowly

pushed the door open, the dank air of the subterranean corridors
lifting at the invitation of a mild night outside.

Thick walls on either side shrouded the first ten feet of the

vanishing in a flurry of reds and blues. Sarah moved quickly to
the stool and stepped up, only to be blinded by the onrush of
headlights to her left. An instant later, the sound of footsteps rose

from the corridor, a momentary pause before the door flew open,	ramp in darkness, creating a channel barely wide enough for two

one of George's comrades bolting into the room, a gun at his side.	men to walk abreast. The remaining five feet rose in half

"You need to come with me." Sarah stared at the young face	shadow, just to the left of the high beams that flooded most of

before slowly stepping down from the stool, the man quick to	the grassy expanse above. Sarah tried to move, but she was held

r


276	Jonathan Rail	THE OVERSEER	277



don't find anything, we'd still like to leave a man or two here
just in case. Bureau policy."

Tieg audibly exhaled before answering. "Very well. I'll take
you through the house, but I'm sure you'll see ..." His voice
grew fainter as he and the agent moved off, Sarah still pressed
to the wall. It took her less than a second to realize what had
happened.


firmly at both arms. She watched as the smaller man nodded for
the three to move through the door, the two at her sides sliding
their guns into their belts before emerging to the night air. At the
same time, the smaller man pushed past her--back to the door--
pulling it shut behind him, the sound of the dead bolt reengaging
a moment later as she was maneuvered up the ramp.

Once again, voices from above froze all three. In near-perfect

unison, each man grabbed one of Sarah's shoulders and pressed	Stein. Genius. It had to be Bob. Somehow he had realized

her back up against the wall, simultaneously flattening himself
at her side. The man to her left drew a knife and placed it under
her throat. Silently, the trio listened to the disembodied conver
sation.

she'd walked into a trap. Somehow he had known she was in
trouble, and what better cavalry than federal agents to cause a
little confusion? Confusion--always the best remedy. It was her
only chance for escape. Tieg a target. Brilliant. That's why they

"I'm sure there's been some sort of mistake." It was Tieg, no	had replaced their guns. That's why she was being shuttled out

hint of strain in the voice. "As you can see, I'm in no danger	the back. They needed the house empty of any unexplained

whatsoever. I keep these lights on as a security measure."	t guests and, more important, they couldn't do anything that

"We'll determine when the area is secure, sir." The words	1 might draw attention. As the men at her sides listened for the

were official and smacked of law enforcement. "These lights	| conversation to fade to nothingness, Sarah heard another

have been on all night?"	voice--an internal voice that had no intention of waiting with

"Yes. There's nothing back here--"	them.

"Let us determine that, sir. As I said, the call came from	She swung her elbow upward into the throat of the man to

Washington, and the Bureau's not likely to have sent us on a	her right, his grip momentarily loosened, enough to leave her

wild-goose chase if there wasn't reasonable cause."	| fingers free to tear across at the hand of the second man. Slicing

"I appreciate that--"	her nails into his wrist, she twisted the blade away from her neck

"I'm sure you do, sir. And we'd appreciate it if you'd let us	as she pushed him against the far wall. At the same time, she

do our job. The other men inside--"	kicked backward, driving her foot down onto the kneecap of the

"As I said, close friends who prefer not to be involved."	] first man, her heel smashing upward into his chin as he fell for-
"For
whatever reasons, Washington believes you might be a	ward. Head snapping back, his body collapsed in a clump at the

target. There are enough crazies out there who think your	base of the ramp. The second man--only stunned---now

show--"	grabbed Sarah by the hair and threw her against the wall, both

"My television show? You're not trying to convince me some	of her hands tearing into his wrist, using his momentum to pull

lunatic--"	1 him into the wall after her, his chest careening into her raised

"I'm not trying to convince you of anything, sir. My orders	1 knee, the collision forcing his body to double over. In that in-
came
from--"	stant, his fingers relaxed on the knife, hers quick to grab the han-
"Washington.
Yes, you've said that."	die, and with one final thrust, she swung the blade up, for some

The agent now took a different approach. "I understand that	. reason veering it away from his chest and into his shoulder, the

this seems like a mistake, but I can assure you, you'll sleep	thick piercing of skin and sinew heavy in her hands as his face

much easier if you let us come to that conclusion. Even if we	contorted from the agony. But not a sound, only a mouth gaping

r

278 Jonathan Rail	THE OVERSEER 279


in anguish, eyes staring into hers as her hands released the knife	finding a path among the gnarled stumps and trees, nothing to
and cleaved down onto his collarbone, the snap of breaking	guide her but the mountain's natural seam. She couldn't be sure
bones a momentary prelude to the drop of his body to the ce-	how many were following, her ears lost to the thundering brush
ment.	I of leaves and branches that swatted at her, her hands held as fun-Sarah
gasped for breath, eyes squinting shut to combat the	nels to her face-knuckles
battered in an unrelenting frenzy. As throbbing in her head. You wanted to kill him. You wanted it. And	the gradient began to level, she slowed, enough to find her feet, yet you couldn 't. Why? No tears this time, no regrets--only the	§ arms now slashing out in front of her, the sound of water rising
relief of survival.	I below enough to quicken her pace. Once again, lights from
With her back against the wall, she scrutinized the brightly lit	I above streaked the trees around her, everything growing denser,
expanse between ramp and trees--her only means of escape.	I me nooks less tangible with each step, only the sound of the
Not more than ten yards long, it remained unapproachable, men	* water prodding her along through the clawing scrape of woods,
roaming the area, others no doubt positioned at the windows	How manv minutes passed, she couldn't tell, but her knees
above to thwart any attempt. The light had to go, and it had to	began to ache' her feet slipping, shoulder and side slamming to
go in a hurry. Staring straight ahead, she saw the small locked	the brambled ground with a violent crash. Only the immediate
box, keypad and electronic wires no doubt within. Wrong	i arrival of another steep descent saved her head from certain im-choice!
The voice was adamant. Short out the circuits? Think!	I Pact, this t"116 me trees less intrusive, the sudden appearance of Would he have been so careful with his wine and so foolish with	f stars and moon the first indication of clearing. The trees contin-his
wiring? There seemed only one reasonable choice. Stooping	ued to min ^ she *"£&to P661"over her careening legs, her eyes
to the man whose chest now resembled a concave oval, she took	seeing what she had hoped to find--an endless pit of black va-his
gun and began to frisk the body--one round of ammunition,	cancy less than thirty feet in front of her. With a sudden release,
wallet, credit cards, cash, and driver's license. Slipping them	she felt me ground disappear, her body tumble forward, aware
into her pockets, she scampered to the edge of the ramp--still in	[ for only an instant of the rush of moving water everywhere be-shadow--checked
the silencer, and fired five shots into the high	fore il enfolded her.

beams forty feet above her.	All bearings vanished, everything in slow motion, eyes
The response was immediate. The sudden sea of black be-	searching for the surface as her arms struggled against the cur-yond
the ramp exploded in a burst of voices and movement.	rent-Nearly
a minute passed before she broke through the water.
Sprinting from her cover, she darted across the rays of light still	The m11 moon flooded the scene, her body twisting round to ex-pouring
from the living room windows, enough to provoke a	antine the walls of soil perhaps thirty yards apart that were fun-storm
of gunfire to her right as she zigzagged her way closer and	neling her away from the lighted beacon of Tieg's hillside perch,
closer to the trees. Flashlight beams began to whip across the	now a good hundred yards behind. No sign of pursuit broke the
grounds, one or two inadvertently giving her a point of refer-	stillness, her head just above the surface, her eyes fixed on the
ence, glancing off several branches to guide her steps. As she	area just below the house as flashlight beams suddenly ap-reached
the fringe of trees, a sudden flash of light burst from be-	peared, laserlike in their probing. One or two skimmed the
hind her, dousing her in its predatory glow, able only to catch	water, Sarah quick to duck under, waiting as long as she could
her head and neck as they slipped out of sight, her body falling	before resurfacing, the lights slipping from sight as the gorge
willfully along the rutted slide of the muddy slope.	began to bend her away from the glare. Her legs, only a short
Her rate of descent was furious, somehow her back and legs	while ago burning from the strain, now began to numb under the

280 Jonathan Rabb	THE OVERSEER 281


embrace of the water. Scanning the shore, she maneuvered her-	I core of real strength. Chaos as power 'sfuel, power as chaos's pa-self
to within fifteen feet of the far bank, arms and legs wading	» rameter, both meaningless without the other. In the city, in its
before depositing her on a bed of silt and rock. Pausing for a mo-	controlled mania, he saw the relationship that made one the
ment, she pulled herself to the shore, dropped to the mud, and	| lifeblood of the other. In that moment, staring out at the build-caught
her breath, the water less comfortable dripping from	ings, Xander came to understand one very basic truth, a truth he
clothing and hair, though tempered by a mild evening breeze.	knew Eisenreich had never fully grasped. Power craves chaos as

Three minutes later, she reached the plateau above, a new	the object of its own control; chaos seeks power as the arbiter of

gathering of trees lining a more gradual incline as she silently	its own limitations. Without the one, there can be no other. Each

pulled string after string of leaves from the branches. Nature's	I survives through that tension. Each dominates through that unity,

insulation. With the pile sufficiently high, she removed shirt and	I Xander continued to stare into the distance, more and more

pants and began to wring out the excess water, nestling within	I aware of a similar strength growing within himself, a detached

the leaves for warmth. Two minutes later, she removed her un-	f self-mastery made possible only by his own inner turmoil--

derwear, slid her legs and arms into the clothes, and began to	power as a response to that confusion. Entranced by the stark

stuff shirt and pants with the foliage. Prickly, but efficient.	patterns below, he realized he had become more accustomed to

As she buried her underwear, she took stock of the last fifteen	, the game, the voice inside less a command from Feric or Sarah

minutes. Belt, shoes, and wallet had miraculously survived. The	I than from himself. Slowly, he was beginning to cultivate the in-
gun
was gone, but at least she had gotten a jump on the agents	| stinct, to create a reality that made sense of the last week, an in-
who
would soon be swarming the area looking for... for what!	ternal will that both frightened and relieved him. The episode on

The thought forced her to pause. A man! A womanl The question	the train had made certain of that. He was discovering a strange

suddenly dawned on her. How much could they have possibly	duality of needs--one that sought to contain the mayhem, the

seen? And with how much accuracy? Those details, she knew,	other that looked to incite its frenzy so as to ensure a constant

would all depend on Tieg and his desire to protect Eisenreich.	I challenge. The last ten hours had granted a momentary respite

Which meant she could take a chance. Grabbing the leaves,	from that struggle--even with the change of planes and the ner-
she
crawled up to a small furrow surrounded by a hillock of high	» vous few hours he had spent at Heathrow. Thirty thousand feet

grass. She would be safe there, hidden. A place for sleep.	I above the chaos, he had had time to think, to evaluate, but not in

		| the ways he had relied on in the past. Theory had no place now.

Eisenreich had made that all too clear, the last two days altering

the New York skyline was a welcome sight, clipped rays of	his perception completely.

light broken by an angularity of steel and glass driving upward	And yet, there was the other reality, the small leather-bound

through the early March afternoon. Xander peered through the	books that he had forced himself to pore over during the flight,

plane's porthole and saw the city as it was--hard, distant--not	I forced because he had been afraid to return to their world, to let

as a refuge but as a reflection of himself, silent and alert, eerily	* his guard down, to recapture that simplicity. More so because he

calm, struggling to mask the dissonance below the surface.	had begun to question his own capacity. Staring at them, turning

But it was more than just a part of himself that now stared	their pages, he no longer saw them as relics to be admired and dis-
back.
Much more. It was the chaos itself, not as the arbitrary col-	cussed. They each had meaning, purpose beyond the theory. Of

lision of time and circumstance, but as the essential and ongoing	course, he tried to convince himself that he had known it all along,

tension that sustained the vitality of each force and that lay at the	that he had reveled in the impact such books could have, but the

282	Jonathan Rail


real questions remained. Had he ever truly seen beyond the theoretical?
No. He had taken the easy way out, dismissed them as ab-
the
overseer	283


eral iniquity." Chaos as savior. Chaos as moral detergent. From
there, it was but a short step to control for those who wanted it.

surd, rejected them as madness, and thus ignored their truth. Even	To maintain it, they would simply have to create a pariah within
a few days ago, riffling through the texts, he had not allowed him-	I the state, cultivate bigotry, and thus distract the rabble. That was
self to believe in their application. They 're books! They offer noth-	I Eisenreich's gift. An old trick, thought Xander, but one that had ing more them the thrill of discovery. Nothing else! Somehow, he	worked well enough in the past. It would work again,
had let the truth of Eisenreich's first trial slip from his mind. He	Xander sat back and closed his eyes as the plane banked away
had allowed himself to read the theory as little more than the fuel	from the island, the image of the little monk etched in his mind,
for an academic flight of fancy. Now, staring into a vacant sky, he	1 Did you really intend all of this ? Was this the vision ? Was this knew far better. Now he had witnessed their power firsthand.	I God's will? Xander knew there had to be more to it than the bru-And
that power was no more clear than in the prescriptions set	1 tality Tieg and his cohorts meant to unleash. More than a tyranny
forth in the second volume. Xander once again flipped open the	] of greed and power bent on stripping society of its most basic
book, aware that he had seen its methods, its brutality, not on the	freedoms, and turning out generation after generation of mind-pages
in front of him but in a small house in Wolfenbuttel, on a	less automatons. Yes, the theory tempted with a promise of
train from Saltzgitter. How to create chaos, how to build from it,	. unimagined power, but it also granted a world of order, of con-tow
to cultivate hatred--the three central chapters, the three	1 trol. And that was what made it so seductive. Not its gift of su-most
damning statements of Eisenreich's vision. Now, reading	\ premacy. Not its harnessing of chaos. It was its dream of
through the words again, Xander knew what the men devoted to	permanence through excellence that set it apart. A dream un-that
vision planned to unleash; Washington, the grain market--	thinkably violent beyond the page, yet tantalizing in its rhetoric,
they had merely been a promise of things to come. Minor dis-	A quick descent to the tar and grass of Kennedy Airport
ruptions at first--perhaps not even genuine threats--but events	shook him back to the present. A final bump to the ground, and
serious enough to raise questions about security in the simple	I Xander opened his eyes. He stared at the manuscript, then minds of the people. Next, they would cultivate that doubt into	slipped it into his briefcase. The moment for its beauty had
panic, depict the smaller episodes as symptoms of a larger prob-	, passed. The game had begun again.

lem, one that would demand drastic measures. That problem--	I Five minutes later, a strange sensation washed over him as he

the one Eisenreich had so cannily latched onto all those centuries	| stepped out onto the concourse. It might have been the same ter-
ago--was
nothing more than moral decay. Simple, but accurate.	minal from which he had left six days ago, but it was a very dif-
How
better to manipulate the public than to play up to its pious	ferent Jaspers who now returned. He had left a part of himself

indignity? How better to rouse a people than to rattle their sense	behind, shed it so as to create a decipherable reality out of the

of self-righteousness? And Xander knew there would be plenty	madness of Eisenreich. Ganz had been right to recognize the fi-
of
that to go around. The interest groups, the Coalitions, the ma-	nality, but he had seen only one side, only one part of that sacri-
jorities--they
were all waiting to clean the slate of its social, po-	fice. Xander, on the other hand, had come to understand a

litical, and economic corruption. Tieg had been making certain of	different kind of death, a death that came in stages, ripping at the

that. Every night for the past two years. Ten million households	soul until only the shell remained. He had seen it in Sarah. In

growing more and more restless. The answer--tear everything	f Feric. And now in himself. Somewhere, he had lost the naivete',

down and start again. Make everything right. It was why Eisen-	the simple enthusiasm that had defined his every choice, his

reich had described chaos as "the welcome release from a gen-	sense of purpose, and had always propelled him along, only to

had let the truth of Eisenreich's first trial slip from his mind. He	I	Xander sat back and closed his eyes as the plane banked away


282	Jonathan Rabb


real questions remained. Had he ever truly seen beyond the theoretical?
No. He had taken the easy way out, dismissed them as absurd,
rejected them as madness, and thus ignored their truth. Even
a few days ago, riffling through the texts, he had not allowed himself
to believe in their application. They 're books! They offer nothing
more than the thrill of discovery. Nothing else! Somehow, he

had allowed himself to read the theory as little more than the fuel
for an academic flight of fancy. Now, staring into a vacant sky, he
knew far better. Now he had witnessed their power firsthand.

And that power was no more clear than in the prescriptions set
forth in the second volume. Xander once again flipped open the
book, aware that he had seen its methods, its brutality, not on the
pages in front of him but in a small house in Wolfenbiittel, on a
train from Saltzgitter. How to create chaos, how to build from it,
how to cultivate hatred--the three central chapters, the three
most damning statements of Eisenreich's vision. Now, reading
through the words again, Xander knew what the men devoted to
that vision planned to unleash; Washington, the grain market--
they had merely been a promise of things to come. Minor disruptions
at first--perhaps not even genuine threats--but events
serious enough to raise questions about security in the simple
minds of the people. Next, they would cultivate that doubt into
panic, depict the smaller episodes as symptoms of a larger problem,
one that would demand drastic measures. That problem--
the one Eisenreich had so cannily latched onto all those centuries
ago--was nothing more than moral decay. Simple, but accurate.
How better to manipulate the public than to play up to its pious
indignity? How better to rouse a people than to rattle their sense
of self-righteousness? And Xander knew there would be plenty
of that to go around. The interest groups, the Coalitions, the majorities
--they were all waiting to clean the slate of its social, political,
and economic corruption. Tieg had been making certain of
that. Every night for the past two years. Ten million households
growing more and more restless. The answer--tear everything
down and start again. Make everything right. It was why Eisenreich
had described chaos as "the welcome release from a gen-
the
overseer	283


eral iniquity." Chaos as savior. Chaos as moral detergent. From
there, it was but a short step to control for those who wanted it.
To maintain it, they would simply have to create a pariah within
the state, cultivate bigotry, and thus distract the rabble. That was
Eisenreich's gift. An old trick, thought Xander, but one that had
worked well enough in the past. It would work again.

from the island, the image of the little monk etched in his mind. Did you really intend all of this? Was this the vision? Was this
God's will? Xander knew there had to be more to it than the brutality
Tieg and his cohorts meant to unleash. More than a tyranny
of greed and power bent on stripping society of its most basic
freedoms, and turning out generation after generation of mindless
automatons. Yes, the theory tempted with a promise of
unimagined power, but it also granted a world of order, of control.
And that was what made it so seductive. Not its gift of supremacy.
Not its harnessing of chaos. It was its dream of
permanence through excellence that set it apart. A dream unthinkably
violent beyond the page, yet tantalizing in its rhetoric.

A quick descent to the tar and grass of Kennedy Airport
shook him back to the present. A final bump to the ground, and
Xander opened his eyes. He stared at the manuscript, then
slipped it into his briefcase. The moment for its beauty had
passed. The game had begun again.

Five minutes later, a strange sensation washed over him as he
stepped out onto the concourse. It might have been the same terminal
from which he had left six days ago, but it was a very different
Jaspers who now returned. He had left a part of himself
behind, shed it so as to create a decipherable reality out of the
madness of Eisenreich. Ganz had been right to recognize the finality,
but he had seen only one side, only one part of that sacrifice.
Xander, on the other hand, had come to understand a
different kind of death, a death that came in stages, ripping at the
soul until only the shell remained. He had seen it in Sarah. In
Feric. And now in himself. Somewhere, he had lost the naivete",
the simple enthusiasm that had defined his every choice, his
sense of purpose, and had always propelled him along, only to

true. Keep it simple. "It's just whoever gets to Tijuana first wins	German and JaPanese imPorts mat seemed out of Place next to

(1.1,4."	me ramshackle buildings to the rear. Inside the garage, high on

„ ' _ ... „„	a hydraulic lift, a jet black Porsche was receiving expert care

You got money on this?	. *_ i_ i j * n « j *

,,_ , . . , ... „	from the hands of an equally greasy coveralled figure.

Enough to keep it. worthwhile.	"That's Mick. We do all the work ourselves." He brought the

That is a great idea. I mean, really great.	He shook his head ^ {o g stQp ^ ^^ ^ of ^ cab shouting oyer tQ ^


284	Jonathan Rabb


be violently stripped away, bit by bit--Florence, London,
Wolfenbiittel--a devastating spiral from disbelief to panic to
horror. Death at his own hands. Death as his reality. All that remained
was a will to survive, a will he had learned to exercise
with relative ease in the bowels of the Frankfurt airport.

It was that same will, that same intuition that was forcing him
to concentrate on the simple order that Sarah--so close now--
had left for him: Tempsten, New York. The Sleepy Hollow Motel.


A game? And hitching doesn't break the rules?" The young
man driving the pickup couldn't have been more than twenty,
his thick upper body, grease-stained hands, and grimy coveralls
--the name Jeff on his chest pocket--all in keeping with the
logo Sarah had read on the passenger door: mick's au-
TOWORKS--WE
DO FOREIGN TOO.

"There are no rules," she answered. At least that much was

as he smiled. "And you say you got dumped in Claghorn Gorge
last night just to slow you down? That's beautiful! They're lucky
you didn't drown or something."

"Well, there is one rule--nothing life-threatening. And no
planes. It wouldn't be fun if you could just hop the next flight
south." If anyone asks, he 'II have to keep it simple. "I got tossed
in with a life jacket. I guess they figured I'd give up once I got
wet."

"Beautiful! I mean that is absolutely beau-ti-ful!" He
pounded an open palm on the steering wheel. "Hell, I wish I
could drive you the whole way just to see those guys' expressions
when you show up!" He started to shake his head again.
"Leaves! I'd never've thought of that. I'd still be in those damn
woods freezing my ass off."

the overseer	285


"Maybe, maybe not." Sarah recalled the hour or so of fitful
sleep she had stolen. "This blanket's a welcome relief."

"Yeah, well that's Mick's. He sometimes sleeps in the truck."
Jeff shrugged. "Don't ask. Something to do with his ex-wife. Or
his girlfriend. He doesn't talk about it and ... Anyway, you got
lucky last night. Usually this time of year, it doesn't get much
over fifty-five. Last night, must've been close to sixty. Maybe
sixty-two."

"It didn't feel that high."

"Yeah, I guess it wouldn't have." He laughed. "You're also
pretty lucky I had that job out in Presterton, or else you'd have
been walking for another hour, at least."

Coming out of the curve, the young mechanic slowed and
turned into a driveway, the garage logo emblazoned on a well-worn
sign that swung precariously from two strands of rusted
chain link. Several cars were parked on the fringe of grass separating
Mick's from the main road, a strange array of expensive

partner. "Hey, hey. It was a busted fan belt. Two seconds. The
guy didn't know what was wrong. I told him next time to check
it himself so he doesn't have to pay us an arm and a leg." Mick
nodded from under the car, only now aware of Sarah, who was
stepping to the gravel. "And she wants to know if she can rent a
car." Jeff moved off toward the small office.

"Rent?" Mick stepped out of the garage, wiping the grease
from his hands. "We don't rent. You know that."

"Yeah, yeah, but listen to this," Jeff shouted through the door
as he rang up the bill for the fan belt. "She's got some kind of
bet going, see who can get to Mexico first, and last night she
ends up in Claghorn with a little help from two of her bettin'
buddies. Sounds like fun, huh?"

"Yeah." Mick continued to cross the gravel drive, the cloth

286	Jonathan Rail


working a patch on his neck. He kept his eyes on Sarah. "Mexico.
What's in Mexico?"

'Tijuana," answered Sarah.

"Yeah... well, I don't rent, and I don't sell. I just fix. Best I
can do is have Jeff run you into Glendon. That's about twenty
minutes. You can catch a bus there, or a train into San Francisco.
About an hour and a half, I guess. Plenty of places there to rent a
car."

"Thanks," said Sarah, watching Mick step into the office. A
moment later, she heard traces of a hushed exchange before
Mick reemerged. He kept his eyes on the ground as he stepped
to the drive and dug the rag deep into his back pocket. Sarah expected
to see Jeff behind him, but the office remained strangely
quiet. Watching Mick move, she sensed something odd in his
walk, the gait somehow too deliberate, too casual. He can't look
at me. Something was out of place, something Mick was trying
to hide, the reason he was keeping his eyes low.

Every instinct told her she had to move. Stepping back to the
truck, Sarah slowly opened the door and tossed the blanket in,
discreetly sliding herself into the driver's seat. With a minimum
of movement, she reached for the keys that still hung from the
ignition, all the while her focus on the tall mechanic. She waited


8


One man must stand behind the three to guide them
with subtle suggestion and wise counsel.


-- On Supremacy, chapter VI


1J.ER gaze remained frozen on the long angular face not ten
feet from her, its thick gray eyebrows hovering above a pair of
sunken eyes. There was no expression on the face, save for a
slight squinting that tucked the pale green orbs even deeper
within their sockets. It had been seven years since she had seen

,, , ,. , _	him, seven years since she had stared into the cold eyes,

until he had disappeared into the garage and then fired up the en-	„, . . . ........

, ....... do r	ft was yOur choice to make, your responsibility in the end.

gine, shifting the truck into reverse.	. „

"I..."

"The delay was irrelevant."

Pritchard.

"Shall we walk?" he asked.

Sarah waited, then opened the door, the movement enough to
provoke a sudden swirl of motion from the car behind. Almost simultaneously,
three men sprang out, each in a dark suit and thin
black tie, a shake of the head from Pritchard enough to stop each
in his tracks. COS's director wanted it quite clear that he would
handle her himself. Even so, she sensed the hesitation on his face
as she stepped from the truck. Without waiting, she moved off

exit, forcing her to slam on the brakes. Her entire body jerked
forward, her chin and shoulder colliding from the near impact.
Slightly dazed, she waited, the car behind idling, only its smoke-glazed
windows quivering from the vibration. Sarah expected
her captors to fly out, guns at the ready. But none came. The
doors remained strangely silent. Only the hum of the engine. A
minute might have passed before the sound of footsteps broke
through. Even and slow, they approached from the office. She
began to turn.

"Hello, Sarah."

The voice tore through her, its impact like a hammer to her

s '	along the driveway; five seconds later, Pritchard was at her side.

Behind her, a black sedan screeched to a stop and blocked the	d y was irrelevant 
288	Jonathan Rabb


Only the sound of gravel churning underfoot interrupted the si
lence.

"You look well," he said. "Better than when last I saw you."

"Yes."

"Then again, anything would have been better than that."

"Well, at least this time round you avoid any pangs of conscience."

"There were none last time." Pritchard's expression remained
unchanged.

"The escort's new. Not usually your style."

"More of a nuisance than anything else, but it seemed the best
choice, given the contact."

"The contact?"

"You. They've been told I'm an NSC negotiator--brokering
information out of Nicaragua. You've been cast as the reluctant
liaison. They believe you're rather dangerous. You might even be
a threat to my safety."

"At least that part's accurate."

"Yes, I'm sure it is," he answered.

"And they won't make a fuss?"

"Not unless you do." It was a recommendation rather than a
response. He tucked his hands into his coat pockets. "You need
to come in."

"I thought we'd been through this?"

"Things change. You need to come in."

Sarah ignored the request. "You tracked me through Stein?"

"He was sloppy. The charade at Tieg's was put together at the
last minute. Not that Bob had much of a choice, but he handed us
the location. We simply had to wait for you to emerge. Not exactly
a needle in a haystack."

"The fan belt in Presterton?"

"One has to work with what one's given."

"A mechanic's truck"--she nodded to herself--"on a lonely
country road."

"Innocent enough--it seemed as good a choice as any. And
your grease monkey ... well, he was ideal for the role. You were
bound to come out downstream. We just didn't know how far."

the overseer	289


"Why not just pick me up yourself?"

Pritchard allowed himself a smile. "Highly unlikely you'd
willingly step into a government issue with me in the backseat.
We needed to keep your options to a minimum. Mr. Mick was the
most appropriate choice."

"It's his first name," corrected Sarah.

"I'm sure it is."

The drive began to curve round to the back of the garage, a
sudden gust of wind driving up from a distant copse of trees.
Pritchard pulled his coat closer around his chest.

"So," continued Sarah, "I now willingly step into that car with
you and your three friends--no struggle, no questions?"

"I think so. Yes."

"Because my options are considerably limited. A few witnesses.
A convenient story that explains everything they need to
know about me."

"Something like that." Pritchard was stating facts. "Yes."

"It still leaves one loose end--you. Why does Arthur
Pritchard need to put in an appearance? Why not simply send the
boys? The result would have been the same. Or am I missing
something on current COS policy?"

"The policy," he replied, pulling a handkerchief from his
pocket to wipe his nose, "is the same as it has always been. To be
blunt, some of the channels are not as secure as we would like
them to be."

"Meaning?"

Pritchard continued in silence, his eyes squinting against the
haze.

"Funny"--Sarah nodded--"Stein said the same thing. Doesn't
give me much reason to trust any of you."

Again, he smiled. "Was that ever really part of your repertoire?"

"You still haven't answered my question. Why you?"

"Because / need to know what you have."

"And you couldn't coax it out of Bob?" They had reached the
edge of the driveway, open field directly in front of them. Sarah
stopped. "I find that hard to believe."

290	Jonathan Rabb


"Unfortunately, our friend Stein has disappeared." Pritchard
continued to walk, leaving Sarah behind. "I never really thought
he had it in him."

"What? An autonomous will?"

Pritchard now stopped, his eyes fixed on a small bird coasting
to an outstretched branch, his back still to her. "Not surprisingly,
all the relevant files are missing with him."

"I am sorry to hear that."

"Yes, I thought you might be." Again, the handkerchief appeared,
his gaze still on the bird. "Meanwhile, things have taken
a decided turn for the worse for your Dr. Jaspers."

"Really?" The word was spoken without emotion.

"It seems he's been implicated in the death of a book dealer
in Germany."

"That's absurd."

"Perhaps."

"Implicated how?"

"Newspaper articles. Police reports. The usual sort of thing."
He was busy folding the handkerchief into neat squares as he
turned to her. "It all happened about sixteen hours ago in a town
called Wolfenbiittel." He looked up. "I don't suppose you would
know why Doctor Jaspers was there?"

"Evidently to kill--"

"Yes, I'm sure that was it." He deposited the handkerchief in
his pocket. "You might be interested to know that Jaspers wasn't
working alone, a fact that raises some very interesting questions.
All of which lead to you."

"Now, that is a surprise." Sarah smiled. "But isn't that what
you've wanted all along? Send me out, ruffle a few feathers, then
see what turns up? And if a few people need to be eliminated--
well, then you've got the perfect tool. Touch all the right buttons
--drag in a few innocent lives--and the little doll will take
all the responsibility. Dive right back in because she can't live
with herself if she lets the same mistakes happen all over again."

"One might even see it as a last chance for her to ease her conscience."

"You bastard."

the overseer	201


"Perhaps, but all in a good cause, Sarah. This has been a
rather nasty business."

"Really?" Sarah let the moment pass. "The problem is, from
my vantage point, it doesn't look like it's worked out the way
you'd hoped. Otherwise, I don't think we'd be having this nice
little chat on such a lovely morning."

"I need to know what you have. Things could get
very... messy."

"For whom? For me?" Sarah pressed her hands deeper into
her pockets. "Messy would be a step up." The gust picked up
again, blowing through the open area and bringing a chill to her
shoulders.

"You must be cold after last night," he said. "We should head
back." Pritchard started toward the gravel.

"Your concern is overwhelming," she answered as she drew
up to his side.

"No, I'm afraid it's not."

They walked in silence until they were once again in full view
of the men by the car. Pritchard looked over at the three and nodded
once, the signal to start the engine. "I sent you out for a purpose,
and that purpose has been served. I have no intention of
letting the Amman fiasco repeat itself. I'm simply here to make
sure we don't run into the same problem again."

Sarah started to reply, then stopped, her eyes fixed on
Pritchard. "I thought you were here because certain channels couldn't be trusted?"

He had moved ahead and now stopped, his back to her. After
a few moments, he turned and answered. "I would have thought
you'd be more than happy to disentangle yourself from all of
this."

"All of what, Arthur?"

"That's why we're having this little chat, isn't it?" Pritchard
squinted and added, "You've done all I expected of you; it's time
to step aside."

"That simple?" Sarah shook her head. "They know who I am,
where I come from, and what I know about them. It's not likely
they'll let it go at that."



« "::,:, .:„:&#(.



292	Jonathan Rahh


"You might be surprised."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

Again he paused. "Do you really want me to answer that?" He
let the words sink in. "You have very few choices right now. Best
to be smart."

"Jaspers has been set up, and you know it."

"Yes, I believe you're right. But he's either dead or a wanted
killer. Such are the sacrifices we make." Without waiting for a response,
he turned and headed for the car.

Sarah watched him go, his confidence apparent in the easy
gait; a second nod, and two of the men started toward her. She
had less than a minute, time enough to think, unpack the hesitation
she had seen in his face. Best to be smart. He had said almost
nothing, little more than catch phrases in a game of cat and
mouse, but she had heard it, exposed the inconsistency. Do you
really want me to answer that? What he wanted was her out, and
it didn't matter how--a trumped-up conspiracy at COS, the fear
of a re-creation of Amman. How many other options had he discarded before bringing the message in person? What was it that
he thought she had? Inconsistency and hesitation.

The sound of an engine tore through the morning air, a jarring
prelude to the sight that appeared from behind the garage. Four
tires--each nearly five feet tall--pummeled the gravel beneath,
axles, driveshafts, and exhaust pipes in full view below the small
four-by-four cabin. menace was painted across the doors, the
vaulted m rising like a wave in metallic red and blue. At the
wheel, a grinning Jeff looked down at Sarah, his invitation unheard
over the sound of feverish revving. Pritchard's men began
to run, hands reaching to inside jacket pockets. Without thinking,
Sarah raced around to the passenger side, pulled open the door,
and jumped up to the red leather seat. The bite of the engine
rocked the car from side to side, Jeff releasing the clutch, the
gravel steaming from the burst of acceleration. Sarah reached out
for the door--the road beneath a wild blur--summoning all her
strength to swing the large frame toward her. A moment later,
safe within the speeding cabin, she looked over at the boy who
had saved her.

the overseer	293


"Did you see their faces!" His grin was all teeth. "I mean, did
you see their faces! Especially the old guy. What a rush!"

"What a rush," she repeated, her eyes searching through the
rear window for the dark sedan. The men were just now slamming
doors as the car tried to make chase, its tiny shell a good
hundred yards behind and losing ground with each passing second.
Whatever Jeff had concocted under the hood, it was more
than a match for the government car. Sarah shifted forward and
watched the enormous wheels tear along the tarmac, the ride remarkably
smooth given the snaking curves of the road.

"You're full of surprises," she said.

"Yeah, well that old guy was a little too smart for his own
good. Government business. Like I wasn't going to see right through that one? He's one of those guys in the bet, right?"

"Right... he's one of those guys," nodded Sarah.

"I knew it!" Both hands pounded down on the steering wheel
in triumph. "And Mick acting so official with him. God, that old
guy got him good! You should've seen Mick's expression, all serious,
like I couldn't understand what was going on. You
should've heard what he said, telling me to sit in the back room
till they were gone. Yeah, like I was going to let him have all the
fun."

"I'm glad you--"

A sudden turn to the right stopped Sarah short, her arm
quickly finding the dashboard for support. The car had left the
main road and was now careening down what could at best be described
as a trail, brambles and stray logs scattered along the
path. The four-by-four was having little difficulty, although the
ride had become far less comfortable. Bouncing along, Jeff
turned to Sarah.

"This cuts off about twelve miles. No little sedan's going to
have a chance taking it. There's no way they catch up. Sorry
about the ride."

Sarah adjusted her seat belt and kept her arm on the dashboard.
Whatever had inspired her young friend to go to such
lengths on her behalf, she wasn't going to question his enthusiasm
or his methods. "No, no. This is great."


294	Jonathan Rabb


Four minutes later, they emerged to a paved road, Jeff firing
up the engine to bring them to a cruising speed of nearly eighty
miles an hour.

"So," he asked, "where to? Tijuana?"

Sarah sat back. How about upstate New York--ever met a senator? "It just feels good to be moving again. Let's see where it
takes us."

Jeff smiled and brought the car to ninety.


votapek stepped away from the bar, his fourth vodka and
tonic clasped firmly in his fingers, the effects of the alcohol apparent
in the bloated red of his cheeks. His free hand toyed with
the lobe of his ear as he returned to his seat by the piano.
Sedgewick was having trouble with a phrase from a Chopin
etude, the passage somehow repeating itself in an endless arpeggial
loop.

"The C is natural in the left hand," blurted out Votapek as his
fingers worked angrily on the few stray hairs growing from his
ear. "Natural. Why can't you get it right?"

"You have your refuge, Anton," replied Sedgewick, unable to
extricate himself from the loop, "I have mine. That one should be
your last."

"I'll thank you not to tell me what to do." Votapek downed the
drink in one gulp and placed the glass on the side table to his
right. He then sat back, folded his arms to his chest, and closed
his eyes. "You know it's wrong," he said as he began to shake
gently back and forth. "I can't let him do it. I just can't."

"She compromised us," answered Sedgewick, finally moving
on to the next phrase. "Ah, there it is. You're right, the C is natural."

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes. You can't let him do it. I don't think you have much of
a choice. She's too dangerous with the Trent woman still on the
loose. Even at this stage." He began to play with greater insistence,
eager for the end of the piece. "It still puzzles me, though,
how she found her--"

the overseer	295


"How can you say that? She's a child. She never really recovered.
You know she didn't know any better then. How could
she know any better now? It's that Trent woman. She has a way,
a way of--"

"We both know what she has a way of doing." Sedgewick was
somehow back in the loop, his frustration forcing him to stop. He
continued to stare at the keys as he added, "We were very foolish,
you and I." None of the usual bravura tinged his words; he
slowly lowered the piano lid and looked up. "Not that it'll make
much of a difference. Alison, I'm afraid, doesn't know what to
believe now. Whom to believe. Stable or not, she has a great deal
of information that could be very damaging. Ms. Trent has made
her a liability."

"I see," said Votapek. "We destroy her life thirty years ago,
and now we simply take it. Just like that." The words were those
of a defeated man. "Is that what we've wanted all along?"

"Only so that we can build something that has real meaning,
that--"

"Oh, stop it, Larry!" Votapek stood. "She's a part of us, the
reason we started all of this in the first place. And now--"

"The reason you started all of this." Tieg had appeared at the
steps leading down to the living room. "She's forfeited our trust."

"I tell you she didn't know--"

"Irrelevant," Tieg continued. "This issue should have been resolved
a long time ago."

"Resolved!" Votapek began to shake his head wildly. "Is that
how we talk about our own, about the children who sacrificed
--"

" 'Sentiment is weakness,' " Tieg broke in. "How many times
have I heard you say that? Well, it's time to recognize it as a reality,
Anton, not as some abstract theory that serves a pedagogic
turn in your classroom."

"Fine," replied Votapek. "I also know that no one would believe
her."

'We one will have the chance," answered Tieg. "Larry, try and
explain that to our conscience-laden colleague."

Sedgewick had moved to the bar, a club soda in hand. Trying

296	Jonathan Rabb


to soothe, he said, "You know he's right, Anton. As long as she
showed commitment, she was a liability we could live with. We
could understand your feelings--"

"Thank you!" barked Votapek, standing and moving to the window. "Thank you both very much for your condescension!"

"Anton," continued Sedgewick, "she knows who was there;
she knows about Pembroke; she knows about the children we
managed to salvage from Tempsten. She saw it all happening, and
she can fill in a lot of holes. As long as she didn't know any better,
she was a reminder of how things can go terribly, terribly
wrong. Now she's confused. And she's no longer alone. If, for
some reason, Ms. Trent were to convince her to come forward
with that information, too many links would be made public--regardless
of their source. Do you want to drag her through that? We
can't have any of it, Anton, and you know it. Trent, Alison--"

"And now our friend from Washington." A tired voice, silent
to this moment, cut off Sedgewick. The old man, nestled in a corner,
shifted in his chair, the strain of the last week scrawled in
deep lines across his face. He shook his head, more to himself
than to the others. "That, I am afraid, cannot be helped. He has
left us no choice." He coughed. "Such ego." The word carried
only disappointment. "Never content to play his role. Always more, always second-guessing. And now this foolishness. Did he
ever understand?" The old man did not expect an answer. "So be
it. I have found another to replace him. You must act quickly with
him. He will be very dangerous now. He will be willing to do
anything to save himself."

"It's being taken care of," answered Sedgewick, who turned
to Votapek. "You know the same applies to Alison now."

"That is entirely untrue. He knew what he was doing," said
Votapek. "He knew exactly what he was doing."

"Yes, but the rationale is the same. Any connection among us
and the entire agenda blows up in our faces." Sedgewick paused.
"Not all of us care to wait another thirty years before getting the
chance to try again."

"And I suppose you mean Tempsten was all my fault--"

"I don't mean anything. All I'm saying is that we can't take

the overseer	297


any chances this time. We leave her out there and we could very
well sacrifice what we're on the verge of creating. Wittingly or
not, Alison could draw those connections. Would you choose her
over that future?"

Votapek remained by the window, not bothering to look at the
other men in the room. "Would you let me?"


they had backtracked a good twenty miles, cutting through
roads that Jeff had promised were too obscure even for the local
police. Sarah had told him that her friends would no doubt try the
same sort of ruse they had plotted in Glendon, and she had therefore
convinced him to travel north, away from the city, so that she
could avoid another run-in. At first, the mechanic had been reluctant,
insisting that he drive her all the way to Mexico, but,
after careful explanation, she had made it quite clear that Menace
--though a fine piece of machinery--was perhaps a shade too
conspicuous to make it all the way south of the border without
further interruptions. A few minutes of silent consideration had
brought Jeff to the same conclusion. He had turned off the road
and opted for the more scenic approach to the town of Palametto.

Now, about a mile outside the village, still safe within the
cover of a backwoods trail, Sarah asked him to stop. Opening the
door, she stepped down from the cab.

"You're gonna whaf!" he said, snapping his head in her direction
to emphasize his amazement. "It's over a mile from here.
Maybe two. There's no reason for you to walk. I said it's no problem
for me--"

"I'd like to get into town without too much of an entrance.
You know, slip in, slip out. That kind of thing. Catch the next
train."

"Jeez, you guys take this game seriously. You know he's
halfway to Carmel by now, and you're gonna start walking?"

"Trust me," answered Sarah, "I've played with him before." Such are the sacrifices we make. Ever the rationale. Ever
Pritchard's modus operandi. And now he wanted her out. Why?
Or had that been part of the ruse? Another prod to make certain

298	Jonathan Rabb


she would see it through to the end. To Tempsten and Senator
Schenten. She recalled a phrase from Feric's message: "cut off
the head and the whole thing falls apart." Again, Pritchard had
left her so few choices. Disappear now and ensure the sacrifice.	rp

Or become the assassin. It was the only way she knew to save	J WENTY minutes later> she stood in me ladies' room of *e

Palametto station, a tiny cubicle about halfway down the plat-

"Hey,
it's your thing," answered Jeff. She could tell his inter-	fo™-?*
*™ had been her only °P*»-™> ^ <f*n or less
.	,, .. ,	«. u- »i_
u	obtrusive to the Sacramento airport. If all went well, she would

est was waning, speed a vital component to his enthusiasm. He	, ,,,,.,	.

, . ° iL . „	-,..... i. i »	be on me ft"81 night to points east within the next hour, then a

revved the car. Just thought you might want the help.	.	xivri»jr.i

„. .. . MY , u	it	" cu u j u	connector to upstate New York. And Schenten.

She nodded. You we been really great. She reached into her

Xander.

pocket and pulled a hundred-dollar bill from the wallet she had

taken from Tieg/s man. "I want you to have this."	more foj. ^ Qwn ^ ^ for ^ ^ ^^ ^^ ^ ^

what the	j.^ ^^ t£) reacn out to ner> wno nacj seen ner jose nerse[f jn

"It's ... your share if I win," she explained. "I wouldn't feel
right winning the five thousand knowing I'd still be at the garage
if not for you." The boy's eyes responded a moment later, his
cheeks a little flushed as he coyly reached across the seat.

"Five thousand?" His eyes widened. "Well... I guess that's
okay, then. And we did outgun that little sedan."

"We sure did," replied Sarah. "Oh, and I'd really appreciate it
if you didn't get back to Mick's until, say, late this afternoon. You
know, just in case my friends are there and want to know where
I headed."

Jeff was busy cramming the hundred into his pocket. "Right,
right," he nodded. "Get yourself a head start. I can understand
that. I'll drive out to a friend's, play some vid. I can handle that."

"And Mick won't mind?"

"Nan, we're slow right now. Two Beemers by next Friday.
Nothing much. Hey, it'll serve him right for treating me like an
idiot." He smiled and reached over to pull the door shut. "A hundred
bucks and some great driving. I should be thanking
you...." He stopped and looked at Sarah through the window. "I
don't even know your name."

"Susan," she said.

"Cool, Susan. Hope you win." With that, he gunned the engine
and tore off down the trail, his hand waving out the window

the overseer	299

And somehow she knew Jaspers would be there. He had to
be. She needed him there, needed to see that he had survived,


as Menace disappeared around a curve. Sarah waited a minute
and then headed for town.

those tunnels, and whom she had sent out into the madness. And
all with just a smile. Don't let me down, Feric.

The question now was whether they would recognize her once she arrived. In a short leather skirt, silk blouse, and suede
jacket, she was a far cry from the Firenzan Signora Fabrizzi. The
tight-fitting ensemble had come courtesy of The Fashion Plate,
Palametto's only women's clothing store, and duly stocked with
all the latest styles--or so the sign had said. Exactly whose idea
of style, though, remained something of a mystery. The new
clothes--including a pair of dark green kneesocks, a rather daring
pair of lace bikini underwear, and a set of climbing boots--
had transformed Sarah into a poster child for northern California
chic.

Now, standing in front of yet another mirror, Sarah was making
the most of the few items she had picked up at the local pharmacy
to finish the job. With slow, even strokes, she was carefully
smoothing a few dollops of Ultra-Tan into her face and neck.
Bathing her hands, forearms, and thighs in the oily concoction,
she decided not to worry about the aftereffects. All that mattered
were the few age lines and scrapes from her tumble down Tieg's
hillside. Within a minute, they were gone, and with them a good
seven years, transporting Sarah to somewhere in her mid-twenties.
All right, late twenties. The clothes would have to work

300	Jonathan Rabb


a little overtime. Next came the clippers, to make quick work of
her hair, cropped to chin length and trimmed to as straight a line
as possible. She hoped the six hours of flying time--and several
packets of blond dye--would be enough to damage the hair to
perfection. If nothing else, her costume was sufficient to get her
as far as the airport.

With one final check in the mirror, she pulled the door open,
only to be met by two discrete sounds in the distance. The first
was the train's horn, a blaring burst to inform everyone in Bal-lard
county that the 9:40 had arrived two minutes ahead of schedule.
The second was the rumble of an oversized engine, its
familiar groan causing Sarah to step back. It was eerily familiar,
the hiccup in the engine unmistakable. She had heard it too many
times while barreling along overgrown trails not to recognize the
sound of the four-by-four.

They had found Jeff. Had Pritchard been clever enough to
place a homing device on the truck? It was a foolish question;
Sarah knew those were exactly the sorts of details he never
missed. And now, because of that, Menace was somewhere behind
her, stalking the streets of Palametto.

The train screeched to a stop, momentarily returning her focus
to the platform. Almost in unison, the car let out a final growl.
Sarah froze, expecting to hear steps, the soft pitter-pat of prowling
feet. But nothing. Only silence. A moment later, a few leaves
swirled overhead as the train doors slid open, the intrusion snapping
her head up, the empty cabin beckoning not ten feet in front
of her. And still only silence. Think! Consider the options! For
nearly half a minute, she waited, until, springing from her alcove,
she darted across the platform and into the cabin just as the doors
slid shut behind her. Seconds later, the platform began to slip by
as she moved to the window, trying to catch a glimpse of her
would-be pursuers. All she saw was an empty cement strip glide
by. She stepped away as a swath of wooded countryside swept up
in front of her, leaves and branches tunneling the train along
through an arc of greens and browns. Where are they?

And then it dawned on her. They were on the train.

the overseer	301


bob Stein ran his hand along the bed frame, the dust cascading
to the pillow in a cloud of gray mist. Across the room, O'Connell--until
only minutes ago buried in the bed's yellowed
sheets--swung his head from tap to tap, cold then hot, in a
strange ritual of midafternoon rousing. The shirt he wore was
sleeveless, ribbed at the chest, and in equal need of a good wash.
As to his pants, they were too short, too wide at the ankle, too
tight at the stomach. Stein had seen him like this only once before.
After Amman. The sight was enough to force Bob to look
around the room, take in the dilapidated space, its chipped plaster,
crumbling Sheetrock scattered all about. As O'Connell
stepped away to dry himself, the sink came into view, its pipes
straining against the wall, its entire metal heft threatening to
plummet to the floor with the least bit of prodding. All in all, it
was a squalid little hole that conjured images of the worst of the
Third World. Hard to believe it could be rented for a week at a
time less than three blocks south of Union Square in New York.

It hadn't been hard to track him. In fact, O'Connell had left a
rather obvious trail--a fact that had comforted Bob. As with
Sarah, he seemed to have been asking to be found. Naturally,
Bob had complied.

A mucal cough brought his attention back to O'Connell, who
had draped the towel around his neck and who was now busy
with the cap on the bottle.

"It's a fine stock, Bobby," he said, the voice still hampered by
sleep. "Only the best for you." The Irish lilt had grown somehow
more exaggerated.

"I'll pass," answered Stein. "Maybe later." O'Connell
shrugged his mammoth shoulders and took a long swig of the
chestnut liquid. "How many of those do you go through in a
day?'

"A day?" O'Connell laughed, cut off by another eruption of
phlegm in his throat. He spat in no particular direction and settled
onto a short metal stool by the door. "An hour, Bobby. An hour. When I'm good, it's two. When I'm not..." He winked
and smiled. "What do you want? As you can see, I'm very busy.

the overseer	303


Gael smiled, his chin dropping to his chest, elbows on knees
for support. "Fuck you, Bobby. She wasn't as old as your fat ass."

"I need you to dry out." Stein tossed the magazine onto the far
side of the bed and placed his hands on the soft mattress. "Sarah's
in trouble and it looks like you're the only one she trusts."

"And that surprises you?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

For a few seconds, O'Connell's eyes seemed to clear before
slipping back into the easy drunk. He looked away, his hand fiddling
with a loose piece of plaster. "Yah, well... how is our little
Miss Trent?"

"They've gotten hold of her files," replied Stein. "Everything. And Arthur's been ... unreachable."

At the mention of Pritchard's name, O'Connell's face suddenly
became tight, the eyes narrower as they sought out Stein.
"The ever-popular Arthur C. Pritchard."

302	Jonathan Rakk


Not much time for the likes of you. A meeting at Rock Center for
tea and crumpets." He laughed and took another drink.

"You left the trail. I just followed it," answered Stein. "You're
usually quicker than this, Gael. It's beginning to look a little
sloppy."

"I'm sure it is, Mr. Stein. I'm sure it is." He thought about another
swig, then stopped the bottle halfway to his lips. "But
what's a few days between friends?" The smile disappeared. The
bottle continued up, the liquid rushing down along the glass.
O'Connell wiped his mouth against his bare shoulder. "Sometimes,
though, you need a little ... privacy. A little time to think
the great thoughts." Again, he drank.

"I didn't know you had any."

O'Connell winked, the smile returning. "At least you're
honest."

Watching him drink, Stein continued. "I've never understood

why you do this. They pay you enough-"	. J° C" he corrected. "That's Clarke. Ours has no middle ini-
"Worth
every penny," he broke in, raising the bottle in a mock	'

Fuck you, Bobby. O Connell stood and walked across to

"Yes, every penny," agreed Stein, "but why this? Why not	*e sil*' Hf, **?* °n the faucet and scooped up a mouthful of

Maryland, the farm? Why not do your thinking there? See the	Wate; Sv"^Df ^fed'. Y°" ^ n° ^ ^ * f*

. „	, on, do you? He laughed to himself. He promised, you know.

POC!fo, L ^ , t-, ui_ ,, rm. j j	i- ..t	She
was gone, out. His solemn word." He slammed his hand into

Shut the fuck up, Bobby. The words earned no malice. 1	., „ ,	, „.,, ,. , .	... _. , ,„,

... , ^	J T , , ,. , ,.	the wall and screamed, Yah, well, fuck you, Arthur Pntchard!

do my thinking where I choose. He took another drink, his eyes	u .	,. c. . llc ., ,	, ,-, . , ... ,.,

,,.,:. 6,	... ^, , , , , ^-,	He turned to Stem. Said she was done. Except, he didn't have to

go in after her, did he? He didn't have to scrape those bastard
boys off the street, see her standing in that hotel room, her hand
so tight around that gun, you'd have... I don't know." He shut
his eyes and dropped his head back. "She was a good kid, you
know that?" The voice was almost a whisper. "And a great shot.
Cool. That's what she was." He opened his eyes and looked at
Stein. "Thought she could get back for the girl, you know that?
As if she'd had a choice." Again he laughed to himself, then
drifted back to the stool, taking a deep breath as he sat. "She
blamed herself, and he brought her back. Why'd he do that, Bob?
Why?" Once more, he let his chin drop to his chest. Then, with
no kindness in his eyes, he stared up at his colleague. "We

blinking in a slow, unconnected rhythm. The dog s dead. Did

you know that? Yah, some fuckin' kid. Driving a truck or something.
I told them to keep her inside at night--simplest fuckin'
thing to do--but you can't trust any of them, stupid bastards.
They let a fuckin' dog run wild in the dark. Served the old bitch
right anyway." He finished off the bottle and tossed it against the
far wall. It refused to break, landing with a thud on the wooden
floor.

"I hadn't heard." Stein took in a deep breath and slid a girlie
magazine out from under the pillow. Flipping through the pages,
he added, "Then again, she wasn't going to live that much longer
anyway."


304	Jonathan Rahb


should've known better. We should've left her alone. We
should've seen it."

Stein waited for him to sink deeper into the chair. "Not my
call."

"That's good, Bobby. You believe that." The bitterness now
boiled up. "Pass the buck. Good for you, Bobby. Good for you."

"You really think that's what I wanted?" Again he paused.
"Then you can go straight to hell. This isn't about Arthur; this is
about her."

The onetime operative blinked several times. After a minute,
he sat up, took in another deep breath, and then rubbed his hands
through his hair and over his face. He stretched his neck and
coughed. "Ya, well, I'm not as bad as I look. Not more than half
a bottle a day. Tops."

"You never could hold this stuff."

A different smile returned. "Don't push your luck, Mr. Stein."

"I need you to walk out of here with me tonight."

O'Connell tried to shake the booze from his head. "And into
what?"

"That," he replied, "depends on you."

The Irishman looked up. "Where is she, Bobby? And where,
by the way, is our Mr. Pritchard? Or wouldn't you know that?"

Stein stared at O'Connell. "Is there something I should
know?"

"Little problem of whom you can trust." O'Connell stood and
again moved to the sink, flipping the tap before gulping down
several handfuls of water.

"Meaning?"

He doused his head before speaking. "So they know who she
is. Where?"

"Tieg's. San Francisco."

"When?"

"Within the last twelve hours."

O'Connell turned off the faucet and looked back at Stein, patting
the towel against his neck and face. "And she's still there?"

Stein shook his head. "I... I'm not sure."

"That's not good, Bobby. That's not good at all."

the overseer	305


sarah scanned the aisle in front of her, the fifteen or so rows
mercifully full, a few empty pockets here and there, but enough
bodies to offer some semblance of cover. Behind her, an
equally dense collection of commuters and vacationers sat side
by side, several lost in papers, others in conversations, most,
she noticed, in identical ties and scarves. On closer inspection,
she discovered that the pants and skirts were similarly coordinated,
neatly creased gray flannels, everyone in loafers or
pumps. So much for blending in. That notwithstanding, she
ventured to her left, steadying herself against the edge of the
seats as she moved farther into the cabin. With each new row
came another set of ties, another flock of pants and skirts to add
to the mystery. The aisle, though, remained clear of any other
noncostumed arrivals. If Pritchard's men were on the train, they
had yet to make it to the clone car.

Swaying from side to side, Sarah caught sight of a single
empty space in the last row of seats, a pair of loafers from an unseen
passenger resting comfortably on the vacant spot. To their
left, a man in his late thirties--also in full attire--slouched over
a crossword puzzle, the cap of his pen weathering the worst of a
gnawing concentration. By the window, back up against the wall. Half a minute later, Sarah politely slid past him, watched as the
shoes on her seat found the floor, and sat, her bag at her side.

After a minute or so, the man across from her nodded over his
shoulder and said, "Must be quite a sight." He, too, was in his
mid-thirties, an eager grin on his face. "The uniform, I mean.
Must be quite a sight all in a row."

"Yes," she said distractedly, her peripheral vision intent on the
rest of the car.

"Not the most original, but respectable."

Sarah smiled again.

"You must be wondering what this is all about?"

This time, she merely raised her eyebrows before looking
down the aisle as if for a friend.

"We're the Savoy Singers." He pressed on, undeterred by her
less than subtle brush-off. "Gilbert and Sullivan. You know, Pi


*:;
,'S?--'A


306	Jonathan Rabb


rates ofPenzance, Pinafore. We do concerts, clubs, that sort of
thing. Big one tonight."

"Pinafore." She nodded out of kindness, her thoughts still
elsewhere, although she did remember a performance years ago,
a tinny soprano voice that had required several trips to an open
bar. "Something about sisters and cousins?" she added offhandedly,
instantly sorry for having shown even the slightest bit of interest.

The man's face lit up. "Sisters, cousins, and aunts," he corrected,
at once breaking into song. " 'And we are his sisters, and
his cousins and his aunts,/' " the two others in the foursome immediately
joined in: " 'His sisters and his cousins / Whom he
reckons up by dozens /And his aunts.' " Without so much as a
pause, the man with the crossword jumped to his feet and in a
deeply felt baritone poured forth with " 'For he is an Englishman.
' " A moment later, three-quarters of the cabin were on their
feet, swaying to the train's steady rhythm and chiming in with
the chorus in full glee. " 'For he himself has said it / and it's
greatly to his credit / that he is an Englishman, that he i-s an
E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-Englishman.' " Sitting quietly, Sarah tried her
best at a smile, wondering how wise a choice the seat had been,
vantage point or not. A moment later, the cabin burst into great
waves of laughter as everyone retook their seats, another chorus
--this one an ode to poetry, as far as she could tell--picking
up where Pinafore had left off. Remembering there were some
ten to twelve operettas in the canon, Sarah knew she was in for a
long ride.

It was only then, as she was settling back into her chair, that
she noticed one of Pritchard's associates at the far end of the car,
his eyes scanning the passengers as if looking for a seat. The dark
suit, the thin black tie. He, too, seemed somewhat perplexed by
the regularity of the uniform, less so by the singing, clearly interested
only in the few women who, like Sarah, had inadvertently
stumbled into the chorus car. One of those unfortunate few
had evidently had enough and was politely disentangling herself
from another foursome halfway down the cabin, her smile one of
relief as she moved past Pritchard's man off her way to the far

the overseer	307


door. For a moment, the agent looked as though he might follow,
but then decided against it, quick to return to his surveillance. Too short, guessed Sarah. Still, he took the time to make sure.
He was being careful. Of course, there was the chance that he
wouldn't recognize her. She remembered him as the one by the
car, the one who had stayed too far back to get an accurate picture
of her face. And what with her clothes, hair, even the color
of her skin thoroughly altered since their last encounter, it
seemed unlikely that he would be able to pick her out. Then
again, it was those very changes that were now making her so
conspicuous among the rest of the tuneful little troupe. He would scrutinize her. That much was clear. Which meant she needed to
create a distraction.

With that in mind, Sarah turned toward the baritone and
began to mouth the few words she could make out--always half
a beat behind--swaying her head back and forth. Immediately,
he nodded in encouragement. As she had anticipated, the movement
was enough to draw the agent's attention. Good, she
thought, enjoy the show. Sarah felt his gaze on her face, waited
until he had begun to move toward them and then, very slowly,
began to spread her legs. The short skirt inched up her thighs.
Soon, her knees were far enough apart to offer a generous view
of the upper leg and beyond for any interested parties. And
Pritchard's man was interested. From the corner of her eye, she
saw him stop, his glance drift downward, his eyes eagerly begin to trace along the curve of her inner thigh, ever upward, enrapt
by her flesh and panties for several long moments. Sarah waited,
allowing him to indulge his appetite.

And then, without warning, she abruptly pulled her knees together.
Her eyes were already locked on his, her expression one
of shock and reproach--the wounded female having caught her
violator in the act. His response was all too predictable. His face
flushed, his eyes darted about before he offered a feeble smile
and turned. A moment later, he was retreating in awkward haste,
his hands digging into the seats for support. Sarah watched him
sway from side to side, certain that, even now, he was trying to
force her face from his mind. What else could he do? He had felt

slightest interest in the boy from Washington? Why be aware of		fng the chance?

him at all? Insecure channels aside, the target made no sense. She	I	Pritchard stood, his tirade ended, his expression one of disap-
knew
they would have been after her. Should have been after her.		pointment, perhaps even irritation, but never without the arro-
The
questions quickly slipped from her mind as the strange		gance, never at a loss for the presumption. He would lead them


308	Jonathan Rabb


only the humiliation, had seen only the accusation in her eyes,
not the woman behind them. And for that reason alone, she knew
he would not return. He could not allow himself to believe she
had been the woman he sought. His ego would never permit it.

Before Pritchard's agent had slipped from sight, the door to
her left suddenly flew open, the sound of wheels and wind bellowing
through to drown out the choristers. Looking up, Sarah
nearly flinched. There, standing less than three feet from her was
the stocky escort from Tieg's cellar, the man who had led her to
the ramp some ten hours ago. Tieg? She stared in utter disbelief,
her momentary triumph over Pritchard all but forgotten. The man
had stopped and was looking straight ahead, undistracted by the
resurgence of music. Sarah inched closer to her singing partner,
an attempt to obscure the man's view should he turn, but his gaze
remained on the aisle, his eyes fixed on something farther down
the car. Unlike his predecessor, he showed no need to scan the
seats. Somewhere beyond her view, he had targeted his prey.

Very quietly, Sarah sat back, puzzled less by his appearance
than by the message his expression conveyed--he was not looking
for her. That much was clear. In fact, it seemed as though he
might not even be aware that she was on the train. Then what was
he doing here? A rather disturbing thought sprang to mind. Pritchard's boy. But why? Before she could speculate, Tieg's
man was already halfway to the far door. Sarah slowly got up.
Without so much as a nod of good-bye, she began to follow.

Keeping well back, she trailed Tieg's man through the next
three cars, at each successive door staying far enough behind so
as to see him stop, size up his quarry, and then move on, never
close enough, though, to catch sight of the prey herself. Only
when she dared to narrow the distance between them did she finally
discover whom he was tailing--Eager Eyes. Granted,
Pritchard's man was the only logical choice, but the question remained:
Whose logic? Why would he be showing even the

r


the overseer	309


game of cat, mouse, and cat began to pick up, the ensuing minutes
transforming Sarah from hunted into hunter. Gliding down
the aisles, she could feel her heartbeat quicken, her senses grow
more acute--textures, sights, smells--everything on the train
pass with an amplified clarity. And with that intensity came & sense of relief. For the first time in weeks, perhaps years, she felt
in control, the voices within momentarily at peace. The chase--
so simple, so much a part of herself. For three cars, she kept both
men within eyeshot until, nearing the fourth, she was forced to
stop on the small ledge between cars. Pritchard's man had found
his two comrades, the three in hushed conference midway
through the cabin. Tieg's man had likewise been forced to stop,
taking the first available seat before pulling a small radio from
his jacket pocket, his eyes never once straying from the trio.
Meanwhile, Sarah had stepped into the shadows of the open-air
vestibule, her reflection eclipsed within the glare of the sun-glazed
window.

The three from Washington remained surprisingly unaware of
the dual surveillance, each clearly wrapped up in his own inability
to locate their common target. As Sarah had expected, her
voyeur showed no signs of recounting his recent misadventure,
shaking his head and shrugging along with the others, his failure,
so it seemed, as complete as their own. It was only when all three
seemed to stop simultaneously that Sarah realized they had not
been explaining their exploits to one another. Instead, they were
listening intently, their joint focus on the seat directly to their left.
It was then that she noticed the shock of gray hair rising above
the headrest, the familiar coat draping out into the aisle. Pritchard. He, too, was evidently less than pleased, his fingers
darting above the seat to punctuate each of his frustrations. One
point was clear. He had taken an interest in her---a very personal interest--and one that was forcing him to play an active role in
an arena he understood only in the abstract. So why was he tak-

fortune at having avoided the trap.	Sarah scann«i the inner three, she noticed that one of them had

not given in without a struggle. He held his left forearm close to
his chest, his limp hand the evident sign of a shattered wrist. The
message was clear--no signals, no coordinated attacks, no further
attempts to break up the happy little get-together. At center

door to discourage any further thoughts of escape. Evidently,	stood Pritchard, eyes shut, defeated.

, , , . . . . „ _ .. , ,	Alderton, two minutes, the crackled voice penetrated even

they knew how to keep options to a minimum as well. Pntchard	, ;' , ,._ . ,,, „

, . j r / i j i . j 	to the open-air ledge. Two minutes to Alderton.

turned again, and for a few long seconds simply stood gazing	__ r . , c , . , . . ,

, . ' ,, , , , , , tt-	The train began to slow, a few passengers showing signs of

down the aisle. Very slowly, he sank to the nearest armrest. His	.... . ,. . . . r. . _,"*

... .... f ,. ...	life, several standing in order to retrieve packs and briefcases.

three minions, meanwhile remained blissfully unaware of what	s fiddled wim ^^ suitcases {o ^ floor M

was happening around them. They continued to watch as

310	Jonathan Rail


on a sweep of the train--his posture said as much as he moved
down the aisle. Until he suddenly stopped. For a frightening moment,
Sarah thought he had seen her through the glass, but his
eyes told her otherwise. It was Tieg's man who held his attention,
not her. Both men stared at each other, Pritchard frozen, his
cheeks ashen in a flash of shocked recognition. A palpable fear
began to wash across his face. Fear? She had never once seen
even the slightest trace of emotion penetrate those stony eyes.
Now, she saw terror, a wave of real panic rise up to stifle all motion.
Gazing into his weathered face, she tried to understand,
tried to answer her own confusion, but she could find nothing.
For several seconds, she felt trapped by his gaze, floating in an
absolute stillness, until, quite accidentally, she let her brow graze
across the glass--its chill enough to release her from her stupor.
And in that moment, in that instant of clarity, she sensed it--the
truth, distant at first, but there in all its incongruity. He was a part
of it, a part of the madness. Pritchard had given himself to the
men of Eisenreich. And somehow, he had betrayed that trust.

That was why Tieg's men were here. As Pritchard had traced
her, so they had traced him. She wondered how long they had
been looking for him, not bothering to question her own good


Pritchard stepped back, inadvertently bumping into one of his
agents. The man awkwardly moved aside, unclear as to the sudden
change of direction. But there was to be no change.
George--Sarah's erstwhile chauffeur--had arrived at the far

Pritchard steadied himself against the seat, each exchanging a bewildered
look before the pieces began to drop into place. But it
was too late. Tieg's men had already drawn near, their hands
wedged deep within their coat pockets, the first with his mouth

the overseer	311


to the radio once again. He began to nod. Only then did Sarah realize
what he was doing. He was calling for backup.

She quickly glanced through the window behind her and saw
several large bodies approaching down the aisle. Stepping from
the shadows, she very calmly pulled back the door and entered
the cabin, heading straight for them. She kept her head up. None
seemed to recognize her, the first slowing as she sidled into a vacant
space so as to let them pass. Each nodded his thanks, the last
of the four even offering a smile before moving past her and leaving
the aisle free. She stepped out and continued to walk away
from them, her gait casual, until she heard the door click shut behind
her. They were through. She could turn. As if having forgotten
something, she let out an audible sigh and spun around.
None of the other passengers seemed to take any notice. Half a
minute later, she was back at her perch, the scene within completely
different. The men from Eisenreich had surrounded
Pritchard and his cohorts, cleverly enough so that only someone
looking for it would have recognized the tactic as encirclement.
Those on the outer ring kept one hand within the folds of their
jackets. Likewise, the men inside had clearly been instructed to
keep their hands visible, jackets open, eyes on the ground. As

the while, the group at center remained comfortably detached from the growing activity. Within a minute, the train had pulled
into the station, a final screech of brakes to signal the arrival.
Doors opened, and the cluster of agents was on the platform, a
single unit heading for the stairs at the far end. Sarah pushed

312	Jonathan Rabb	I	THE OVERSEER	313


open the door and entered the car, maneuvering through the I ferret him out' Now' "* he made ms way fmm town to town' he newly boarded passengers, never once taking her eyes from the * realized his unconscious mind had been at work as well. Several

train's windows and the group beyond. Sliding into a vacant seat,
she watched as the men from Eisenreich led their captives to several
waiting sedans, the boys from Washington immediately separated
from Pritchard. No doubt, the three would be forced to
answer certain questions before meeting their individual fates--
a bullet to the head, perhaps a garrote. But all of that would come
later. For now, they remained useful.

Pritchard, however, had lost all such value; he would merit no
delays. Even now, as the train pulled out, Sarah knew he was already
dead.

xander flicked on his lights and tried to concentrate on the
center line, the dip and turn of the backwoods road growing less
manageable under a spreading dusk. He had been on the road for
nearly two hours, the map showing Tempsten another seventy
miles on. Five hours ago, he had opted for a bus from the airport,
happier to let someone else make the decisions. But the sleep he
had wanted had never come, his mind too restless to permit such
luxuries. There had been nothing to distract him, no girl with revolver,
no unread manuscript. Alone only with his thoughts. Not
pleasant. And yet, for a few moments, the prospect of seeing
Sarah had managed to ease his mind. He had not asked why.

Instead, he had left the bus at one of the small towns along the
Hudson and had bought a car--a used Rabbit--with the money

miles back, he had begun to recognize something of the familiar
in his surroundings. It was while passing through the tiny hamlet
of Yardley that he had understood why. Somewhere nearby--ten,
twenty miles to the west, he couldn't quite recall--he remembered
Mrs. Grier's, an inn that had been his home for several long
weekends during that first winter teaching at Columbia, when he
had considered throwing it all in. His writing had been going
poorly, his work called outlandish; there had even been talk of
terminating his appointment. And, of course, there had been
Fiona. Lundsdorf had recommended the three-story house, said it
would revive his enthusiasm for the work. And he had been right.
The fireplace, the odd assortment of guests at the evening meals,
one Carlo Pescatore, slightly more quirky than the rest, but certainly
always the most entertaining. An instant friendship. And
his room on the third floor, a windowed alcove that had helped
him to recall how much he cherished his work. Articles, books,
notes scattered everywhere. How much a part of himself they
would always be.

And now, fate was being kind again. It was allowing him to
remember.

Other thoughts began to creep in as the sun slipped to the
horizon, not the least of which was how far he had let himself
stray from what he knew best. From what he loved. Somehow, he
had learned to destroy with his hands, deceive with his eyes,


Feric had left him. Driving as diversion. The dealer had ex- I
fT T? l° ^ ^"^ *"? *"**'bU! he ^ T* T™

had only limited use. Their aim was to keep him alive, nothing

more, and he had grown tired of mere survival. Too reliant on

plained that the transmission might need work, the alignment
might tug to the right, but Xander knew he wouldn't be keeping

it long enough to find out. It's sole purpose was to get him to the I them' he had fol?otten himself. True, the idealist was gone, but
Sleepy Hollow without drawing attention. No rental decals and I ^ thinker remained ^d if Eisenreich could manipulate ideas
no out-of-state license plates. The dealer had been more 'than * SO as tO wreak havoc' why not he? ^^ not create a Uttle chaos

happy with cash.

Xander had kept to country roads, at first for security's sake,
even though he knew Eisenreich would need several hours to
trace the bus, the dealership, and whatever else they could find to

of his own? It was an idea that had been gaining momentum ever
since the purchase of the car. The manuscript, the role of the different
spheres, the parallels borne out in the words of Ireton and
Rosenberg--these were his resources, his tools to expose and de


314	Jonathan Rahb


feat the men of Eisenreich. He knew he had been foolish to look
elsewhere for answers, blind not to see how to put them to use.
It was why he was looking for a place to stop. He was tired,
hungry, but, more than that, he needed to put his thoughts to
paper. He needed to tie together everything he had seen, everything
he had read, so as to create his own weapon. He had few
facts, but all the theory, and at this point, he knew it would be
enough. The details would come later--the Tempsten Project, the
schedule, the linchpin, and whatever else Sarah had discovered.
He had to believe that she would have the proof necessary to give
the memo conviction. For now, he would create the shell; he
would explain in dry academic prose how a sixteenth-century
manuscript could translate into a twentieth-century conspiracy.
And he would do it with the detachment necessary to lend his
thesis credibility. Hypothesis, argument, conclusion--a series of
ever-widening assertions, built on evidence, verified through interpretation,
all designed to lead to one irrefutable conclusion. An
expos6 to bring Eisenreich to its knees. It was what he knew,
what others would believe.

A winter rain began to spit at the windshield as he drove into
the town of Creighton, the lights along its main street standing in
a neat row. Halfway down the block, he noticed a stationer's
shop, a small diner two or three doors beyond. Again, fate. Fifteen
minutes later, he sat in the last booth, coffee, soup, and a
small pad at his side. He would get to the books later. For now, it
was enough simply to write.


it was 6:55 when she landed, 7:15 by the time she walked
across the tarmac, the cold rain on her face a welcome relief after
six hours of flying. She had slept for the first few, the stopover in
Chicago allowing her time to pick up more packets of dye, along
with a second mirror and hair dryer so as to rectify the miscues
from the Palametto station. Sarah had managed it all with several
trips to the airplane rest room, a series of fitful naps in between,
each filled with too many disquieting memories to make the
sleep even mildly restorative. Pritchard himself had crept into her

the overseer	315


dreams--his face draped in despair, eyes darting about, spying
her through the door, yelling to Tieg's men that she was there, behind
them, his finger pointing in a desperate attempt to barter for
his own life.

She had awakened to the sound of her own screams ringing in
her ears even as she had realized that no such terror had passed
her lips. Only silence to accompany the strange feeling of pity
she felt for a man who had never shown her the least bit of kind
ness.

She reached the terminal. Within ten minutes, she had purchased
three sets of black pants, turtlenecks, ski masks, and
gloves. They would come later. She then rented a car from the
same young man she had patronzied just yesterday--no hint that
he recognized the blond, sun-tanned woman as a onetime redhead
--and was soon back on the road to Tempsten. The highway
would be quickest, a more circuitous route safer. She opted for
the latter, soon putting the bright lights of the airport behind her.

One hour. Yesterday, she had made the same trip in order to
gather information, to find a link to the horrors that had turned
children into time bombs, innocents into killers. Then, it had
been speculation. Now, she knew far more. Vice President Pembroke,
Senator Schenten, Pritchard--other players, other roles.
She knew about the schools, about the children who were learning
to hate all over again, and about the prototypes from thirty
years ago who had grown up to become an army of devoted minions,
capable of unleashing untold chaos. More than that, though,
she knew the strategy--less than a week, and then explosion
after explosion. Washington, Chicago, New Orleans on a grand
scale. Alone, the information was meaningless, a series of disjointed
facts. She needed more. She needed the connections.

She needed Jaspers. Somehow, more than she wanted to
admit.


he had written for nearly two hours, half the pages of the small
pad filled with his familiar scrawl, the first few neater than the
rest--a short-lived attempt to make the paragraphs legible. But


316	Jonathan R.aoo


his mind had raced too fast for careful penmanship, his need to
set down the initial statements on state theory too overpowering
to leave time for presentation. Those first eight pages, a dizzying
array of academic logic, had formed the shell, a series of assertions
couched in the starkest of terms so as to leave no room for
misunderstanding. One point following the next, a rigorous patterning
of reasoned argument. It was what he had been trained to
do, what he knew best--to synthesize what others could not see.

With that in mind, he had turned to the texts themselves in
order to lend the theory pragmatic force. Spreading the books out
on the table, he had cross-referenced the corresponding passages
from among them, explained away the discrepancies as misinterpretation,
and identified their common purpose--to place power
in the hands of three men, each controlling a separate sphere,
each distinct in the public eye, and each bent on coordinated manipulation so as to ensure the ultimate prize: stability in the abstract,
iron domination in reality. The price, individual freedom.
The tools, chaos and hatred. From Eisenreich to Ireton to Rosenberg
--a clear progression. Then, citing what little he could recall
from the files, he had extended the lineage to Votapek,
Sedgewick, Tieg, and the overseer. Only then had the abstract
taken on a human face, more so when he had forced himself to
recount his own experiences--the depravity beyond the men
themselves--ever careful to maintain an academic objectivity
despite his own outrage. Perhaps the least comprehensive, they
were the most compelling statements within the document; they
alone specified the meeting ptrint of theory and practice. Turning
conjecture into reality.

He had put the pen down half an hour ago, eager to get back
on the road. He had made a copy of everything--including the
manuscript--and had sent it to Mrs. Huber, again for safekeeping.
Granted, holes peppered his argument--theories without
evidence. Whether they would be enough, though, remained
to be seen. That would depend on Sarah. So much, now, depended
on Sarah.

The car hitched as he pulled into the Sleepy Hollow, the transmission
living up to all the dealer had promised. It was a classic

the overseer	317


single-level motel, eight to ten rooms directly on the driveway,
each with its own parking space. He eased the car into one of the
spots, grabbed the backpack, and started for the small office, its
vacancy sign somewhat redundant, given his was the only car
within two miles. At the front desk, the little bell emitted a high-pitched
twang.

"Just a second." The voice came from beyond a curtained
doorway, the sound of a television quickly turned off before a
woman appeared. She was wiping her hands on an apron. "All
right, all right, here we are."

"I'll need a room," said Xander.

"Yes, I should think so," she replied, reaching for the registration
book. She slid it toward him and asked, "You wouldn't be
Mr. Terni, would you?"

Xander started to shake his head, then stopped as the word
sunk in. Terni. Temistato. Iron state. Eisenreich. The clue to
Carlo's notes. Clever girl! Xander smiled. "Then she did call
ahead. I'm so pleased."

"Made the reservation yesterday." The woman was reaching
behind for a key. "She said it would be either today or tomorrow,
so I suppose your conference ended early."

"Not a minute too soon," he answered, signing the book. He
pocketed the key and moved to the door. "Thank you."

"Paid up through Monday. It's the fifth one down."

The key took a moment to find the lock before he pushed
open the door, the smell of pine unmistakable. He stepped in and
fumbled for the light switch, tossing the pack onto the bed before
he heard something move on the far side of the room. The light
came on.

A young woman sat on the floor, her back against the wall,
her eyes veiled in terror.

"Please, don't hurt me," she said, a gun in her lap.


xander stood motionless, aware that she was shaking, her
hands held firmly under her knees, eyes locked on the edge of the
bed. In his own confusion, he managed to find the words to com


here? he asked.	«j don>t icnow" jt was an honest admission. "I don't know

She shook her head. "She said she would come back. And that	wha{ she has l ^ ^ what ^^ of mem ^ .f Jaspers

"Yes." She now looked at him, wiping the tears away. "We'll	, , , „ , . . . ,	. , „

.'„,„„, , , , , , ,	, ,, ,	professor has a hell of an instinct for survival,

wait for Sarah. She placed her hand on the gun and nodded.	<„, . . ..., , , , .	. , „

<„,,,„	mi. i-£
j <. c o u -£. ». u . .11	That is if he hasn t been given up already.

We 11 turn off the lights and wait for Sarah. That s what we 11	liT,	,.	„	/	,,

, „	Keep your distance. If we move too fast, we could give them

both up."

"If the boy's not dead, my guess is that he soon will be."
"Don't count on it. He's obviously got something they want."


318	Jonathan Rahh


fort. "I won't hurt you." He let the door shut, careful to keep his
movement to a minimum. Alison Krogh sat rigidly, her long hair,
draped in her lap, oddly caressing the barrel of the gun.

"She told me to stay here," whispered Alison. "She said I
would be safe. That they wouldn't find me." She suddenly
looked up at him. "You won't hurt me, will you?"

"No, I won't hurt you." He removed his cap and placed it on
the floor as he sat, his back against the door. "Did Sarah tell you
to stay here?"

She nodded her head, a single jerked motion.

you would come. And someone else. That's what she said."
"It's just me."

Xander watched as her eyes welled up. "Has Sarah been


O' connell sat at the end of the bar. He'd been nursing a double
whiskey for the last ten minutes, waiting for the damn phone
to ring. It was an odd sensation, anticipating the contact, a voice
now no longer faceless. And yet, it felt strangely familiar. Too familiar.
Seven years had evidently done little to dull his senses.
Everything fit in perfectly.

Except the waiting. It always felt like a setup. The phone rang.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." Stein sounded tired.

"I've been firing up the furnace. Getting the blood running
again. You didn't tell me how cold it could get in these woods."

"Didn't think I'd have to. Any sign of her?"

"None. Nor her young professor."

"Any unusual activity at the house?" Stein's voice conveyed
a confidence O'Connell had never heard before, an authority obviously
reserved for those in the field. It was a pleasant surprise.

"No. Looks like the senator is taking the time to recuperate.

the overseer	319


His 'illness' has prompted a few more guards on the fence at
night, but I suspect that's just an old man's weakness showing itself.
No unexpected guests, if that's what you're asking."

"There will be, trust me."

"And why are we so certain of that?"

"Because he ties in, and Sarah knows it. Schenten hasn't
taken a sick leave in nearly thirty years. Why now?"

"Setup?"

"That's why you need to spend a few more nights in the cold,
Gael. Make sure they're not that clever."

is even back in the country. The Germans lost him. They're convinced
he didn't get out, or at least not to the States. Our young

"And then what? Bring her in?"

"So how long do I keep watch?"

"The program's changed," said Stein. "Pritchard's dead."

There was a pause on the line before O'Connell answered.
"That doesn't answer my question. How long?"

"Just keep watch. Timing's always been one of your stronger
points."


IT was almost an hour later when the beams from a pair of headlights
swept across the far wall. The woman remained motionless,
unaware, save for a hand gently stroking the barrel of the
gun. Xander listened as the car pulled up outside the room; a moment
later, the light gone, the engine silent. He began to inch his
way to the far corner. Footsteps followed, the sound of a key in
the lock, all the while the woman staring into an unseen distance.


stood, then looked at Xander.	m whatyouwam»

Xander smiled and watched as Sarah walked her out into the t ^ had happened since Horence_the madness at the Institute,

"Promise?" he asked.	c distance in his voice, but said nothing. Only once did she see the

320	Jonathan Rail


He stood, his body masked in darkness; she looked up, the gun
now gripped tightly in her hands as the door opened.

In shadowed profile, Sarah stepped into the room.

"Hello, Alison." Her voice was hushed. "You can put the gun
down."

Slowly, the woman lowered the barrel to the carpet, her expression
unchanged. "Hello, Sarah. I'm glad you came back."
Xander watched as Sarah closed the door, stepped to the night
table, and flicked on the lamp. Only then did she see him, her
eyes distant at first. For a moment, they stared at each other, he
squinting against the light, both unable to speak.

"You look tired," she said, breaking the silence. Xander nodded.
She remained by the bed, tossing her bags on the blanket.
She began to rumble with her hair. 'Tired... but well."

Again, he nodded. "You, too.... Blond, tanned. That's a
change." She smiled, and, for the briefest of moments, he thought
he sensed--perhaps wanted to sense--something beneath the
self-control, a tenderness. It forced him to stop, to let his guard
down. "It's good to see you, Sarah."

"Thank you for waiting with me."

"Yes." The room became quiet again before she spoke. "I see
you've met Alison ... who must be very tired." The woman had
not taken her eyes from Sarah. "The room next door is safe," she
explained. "Would you like to sleep in there?" Alison nodded and

rain. A few minutes later, Sarah reappeared, tossing the two sets
of keys onto the bed. She closed the door and leaned up against it.
"She'll sleep for a while. I told her everything would be all
right."

Sarah smiled and let her head drop back. "I'll do the best I
can. If you're wondering, she's the girl who killed the boys thirty
years ago. Here in Tempsten. The little girl whose name never
quite made it to the papers."

Xander tried to respond but could only shake his head.

"Yes," she agreed. "I found her yesterday. Set her up here.

the overseer	321


They've kept her in town for some reason. Probably think she's
harmless." She looked at him. "She isn't. Strangely enough, she
thinks Votapek's her father."

"Jesus Christ."

"No, that's who Tieg thinks he is." She pushed off from the
door and headed for the bathroom. "We have a lot of catching up
to do." She stopped before disappearing. "Where's Feric?" The
question caught Xander off guard. Somehow, he had managed to
forget. He stared at her for an instant, an instant too long.

"When?" she asked.

It took him a moment to answer. "Outside of Frankfurt... he
saved--"

She nodded, another twinge of tenderness in her eyes. She held his gaze for a moment and then slipped out of the room.

"I'm sorry." It was all he could offer. "I wouldn't have found
the manuscript without him. He was ..."

She reemerged, a towel in her hands. "Yes, he was." Again
they stared at each other. After several long moments, she tossed
the towel to the chair and asked, "Does it tie any of this together?"

They talked for nearly an hour, he first, recounting everything

"Tie... Oh, the manuscript. Yes. Yes, it does." Xander
stepped to the bed and pulled the manila envelope from the backpack.
Handing the package across to her, he said, "I think that's

the insanity at Ganz's, the train, Feric's death, every minor detail
so that she could understand. Through it all, he spoke with a
strange objectivity, as if relaying a long-forgotten history he himself
had never witnessed. Sarah sensed the detachment, heard the

pain beyond it. Only once did he let her in.

"You know, he seemed so light in my arms.... I don't know
why. Doesn't really make sense, but I remember the sun being
very hot, almost scorching my cheeks.... Freezing, early morning,
sun barely above the trees, and yet all I could feel was that
hot sun, and how light Feric was in my arms." He shook his


322	Jonathan Rabb


head. "I dropped him, you know. Just... let him go. That's what
he said I should do. Strange, but it didn't feel all that different
without him." His voice seemed to trail off. "I don't think I
moved after that. I think I just stood out there ... all the way to
Frankfurt." He looked over at her. "Maybe not. I don't really
remember."

Thereafter, he spoke with little feeling. He ran through the rest
of the story, focused on the hours he had spent with the books,
the pieces that had begun to fall into place. Only when he mentioned
the schedule did he seem to regain himself.

"And you think they have one?" asked Sarah.

"It would make the most sense. If they've followed the manuscript
to this point, they'll have concocted something that spells
out--with dates, locations, and methods--how they intend to
create the chaos beyond the first trial. All we have to do is find
that schedule and use the information in it to pull the rug out from
under them."

"You mean connecting them to Rosenberg and the Nazis."

"Trust me, the media's the media. They'll do the damage."

"If they have the time."

Xander looked at her. "I don't understand."

"Less than a week," she answered.

"What?"

"Less than a week," she repeated, "until they get that chance.
That's what Tieg said."

"What?" His eyes went wide. "Less than a week! That
doesn't make any sense. The manuscript talks in terms of months. That would mean--"

"Yes," she added, "that everything and everyone is in place.
They're ready to push the buttons."

"It's supposed to be months. They'd--" He stopped and
looked at her. "Oh God. How could I have been so stupid? We do
things today in a few hours that would have taken Eisenreich
weeks, months...." He took the envelope from her and pulled
out the pages he had written that afternoon. "If it's that quick, I
don't know if this will be of any use."

"This?" she asked. "You mean this isn't the manuscript?"

the overseer	323


"It's something that goes a good deal beyond it."

He began to explain, she leafing through the pages with him
as he tried to pinpoint the areas where she could give him the detail
he needed--they needed. Soon, it was she who was instructing,
recalling the documents she had taken from Justice, the
violent history of the Learning Center with its esteemed graduates
Pembroke, Grant, and Eggart--the latter two, she reminded
him, conspicuous in the recent killing of the Dutch diplomats. He
listened with wide eyes, amazed at the names and events she was
bringing together. She recounted her first meeting with Alison,
the frightened woman who remained the only real link to a devastating
past, but who could no more recall her part in the death
of the two boys than relieve herself of the guilt she kept tucked
deep within. Sarah then told him of her visit to Votapek, the first
hint that the men of Eisenreich were vulnerable, dinner at Tieg's,
the wild diatribes on conquest, eugenics, power. She even told
him about Pritchard, the Committee, hinted at her own involvement
to underscore the full extent of Eisenreich's grasp. And finally,
she gave him Schenten.

"It's why I came back here," she said. "It's where I can bring
this to a close."

"Bring this to a close--how?" She didn't answer. "I see."

"You see," she repeated. "Do you really?" She stood and
moved away from him. "What do you want me to say? I'd found
the linchpin. You wouldn't need the connection to Rosenberg.
Cut off the head and kill the beast." He said nothing. She turned
to him. "Does it surprise you? Does it fail on the erudition
scale--no footnotes, no cross-references? Well, I'm sorry, but
now I know it's why I was chosen. Why they wanted me in the
field in the first place." She paused. "I kill--that's what I do. It's
not what you do."

"That's not why they chose you." Xander stood and moved to
her. "This Pritchard--he wanted something, you said so yourself.
He didn't think--"

"Pritchard? Pritchard had nothing--"

"Of course he did. Why do you think Tieg wanted him dead?"

"Pritchard's not important."

the overseer	325


"Because..." She held him even more tightly, her tears
falling to his cheek, her voice fragile. "I let someone die once.
Someone like you. And I can't live with that again. I can't...."

He took her in his arms, rocking her back and forth.

They fell asleep, clasped in each other's arms.

they awoke an hour later, she first, then he, neither willing to
rejoin the stark world beyond them. Together, they remained
safe, protected. Minutes passed before she found the energy to
pull herself up on an elbow, her other arm not ready to release his
chest. She stared down into his eyes and, without thinking, lowered
her lips to his. Soft, simple, the tenderness of a first kiss, the
velvet of her tongue gently playing with his. She stopped and
looked at him. He began to speak, but she dipped low to him
again. She then sat up, stretching the sleep from her shoulders. "I
know. I wasn't expecting that, either." She turned and caressed
his cheek.

"It wasn't your fault, Sarah. Amman ... it wasn't your fault."
She stared into his eyes and again drew her fingers across his
cheek. Another kiss and she stood, moving toward the bathroom.
At the door, she asked, "Do you think Schenten has the
schedule?"

It took Xander a moment to shift gears. "Schenten?" he answered,
his legs swinging off the bed as he pulled himself to a
sitting position. "Yes. I would guess as overseer, he probably

Sarah popped her head out, her eyebrows thick with soap.
"Overseer?"

"It's what Eisenreich called the ringleader, the linchpin." She
nodded and returned to the sink. Xander tucked his hands under
his thighs. "Will you have to kill him?"

The water fell silent, Sarah reappearing a moment later with
a towel. "Why ask?" Xander said nothing. "If we can find the
schedule without him, no. No one would have to die." She placed
the towel by the window. "Is that what you wanted me to say?"

"I don't know." He released his hands and reached for the en
<


324	Jonathan Rail


"He needed something from you, something he kept from the

icrs."

others."

"I said it's not important."

"Why? Why won't you admit there was something else?"
She turned to face him. "Why are you pressing this?"
"Does this have to do with the tunnel," he said, ignoring her
question, "in Florence--"
"Let's just drop this, okay?"

"No." He took her arm as she tried to move past him. "Not
okay." Their eyes locked. "Do you know how close to the edge I
am here? Have you let yourself see that at all? You're talking
about killing, and I've ... shut down just so I can keep what lit the sanity I have left. The problem is, it's not working. I guess I'm
not strong enough to carry all of this around inside me. But I
don't think I'm alone. Maybe you've been trained to do some thing else, act with absolute control, but I don't think that makes
any difference. I'm asking what happened to you because / need
the help. Do you understand that? I'm asking because when
everything went crazy in Germany, I had nothing else but you. Find Sarah. That's what I was told to do.... No, that's what I needed to do. I need you, not the assassin you think you are. Be cause you're not. You can't be. I need you to be as frightened as
I am and as close to the edge, to be so much stronger, so much
more in control, and ... I don't know." He let go of her arm. "I
need you to need me." He moved to the bed. Lying down, he
looked to the ceiling. "Sorry, Feric. I guess I didn't learn that les son too well."	i wrote it."

Sarah stood alone, suddenly cold by the window. She looked
at his long frame draped across the blankets, his eyes shutting out
the pain. Slowly, she moved to the bed. Slowly, she sat and laid
her hand on his chest. Tears crept down her cheek as she gently
stroked his hair. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
Soon, they were side by side, his face nestled in her neck, their
bodies tight together, rocking back and forth, she trying to quiet
him through her own tears. "I do need you. More than you could
possibly know."

"Why?" he whispered.

326	Jonathan Rahl)


velope. "A great many people have died already. A few more
won't make that much of a difference." He placed the loose
pages inside and looked at her. "It's not why you were chosen. I
won't believe that."

"I'm glad you have so much faith in me."

"I have to. You've left me little choice."

She allowed herself a smile and moved to him on the bed.
Cupping his cheek in her hand, she drew him to her. This time,
though, no kiss, only his gaze. She pulled away. "We need to get
in there tonight," she said, reaching for her bag. "His house is
about a twenty-minute drive from here. The last two miles will
have to be on foot."

"And the girl?"

"She'll sleep. She's safe." She handed him a pair of black
pants and a dark turtleneck. "You take her gun."

Xander picked up the pack. "Was it loaded?"

"No."

"Then I'll need some bullets."


moonlight crept through the leafless branches, speckling the
ground in pale shadows of shimmering white. Sarah led, hidden
beneath the dark contours of her clothing, Xander behind, his
eyes fixed on her. In and out of the slats of light they moved,
carefully, urgently, without a sound.

They had left the road over a mile ago, finding stray branches
to cover the car. Not once had she said a word, pressing ahead
even when he had become entangled in the brambles of an unseen
bush--her message clear: You 're here for the schedule, to
identify it. If it's not there, I will kill him. If you fall behind, I will
kill him. Her gun remained at her side as she pushed through the
branches, its silencer once or twice catching the moon's reflection
before she was forced to slide it into the small of her back.
He had done the same.

At the next turn, a clearing came into view, beyond it a wire
fence, farther still the vague outline of Schenten's mansion, the
house dark save for a single light shining from a room on the

the overseer	32?


third floor. The old man was awake. They would have to be careful.
The moon had mercifully ducked behind the cloud cover,
shrouding the approach in blackness. Sarah stopped, Xander at
her side, both crouching in the undergrowth. She was staring at
the western end of the fence, tapping her thumb against her thigh,
waiting, watching. A minute into the count, a figure appeared, his
gait slow, relaxed. Sarah kept her eyes trained on the man as he
neared the other end. She then waited another cycle. When he
had slipped from view a second time, she darted out, no word to
Xander, no warning. He followed.

A moment later, she was sliding toward the fence. Dragging
himself along the grass at breakneck speed, Xander felt the strain
in his shoulders. His upper arms were also aching; he was letting
his chest drag. Shutting out the pain, he pulled himself to the wire
and sucked in as big a breath as his lungs would allow. He then
watched as she positioned a pair of clippers on the wire and began
to snip, just enough for one body to slide under and through. A
minute later, they were ten feet beyond the fence and making
their way toward one of the first-floor windows.

Within half a minute, both stood flattened against the wall of
the house, Sarah tracing her fingers along the sill of the window.
She peered up and around the frame until she located the wire.
The alarm system. Taking little time, she crosscut the wires, attaching
an extra large loop of coil at two points--sufficient to
open the window without breaking the connection---and snipped.
The lock proved far less demanding, a minor obstacle to their arrival
in what looked to be a sitting room--love seat, lamps, and
chairs all facing a small brick fireplace. She turned and shut the
window.

It would not be here; they both knew that. They needed to find
the study, the place Schenten kept things of value. Sarah moved
to the sliding doors, quietly pulled one to the side and stepped
into the foyer, its green marble floor agleam even in the relative
darkness. Directly across from them, another set of doors stood
ajar, a quick perusal revealing the dining room. The other doors
were equally unkind, opening to the music room, living room,
but not the library. Xander pointed up and moved toward the

328	Jonathan Rail


stairway. Sarah scampered past him, leading them up to another
foyer, another set of four doors, three of which opened easily; the
pair on the far left, however, did not. A moment with the lock,
and Sarah led them into the study, a simple room, even in
shadow, with a touch of personality. Chairs sat thick with books
and newspapers, a half-drunk cup of tea visible on one of the end
tables. Sarah checked the cup--ice-cold--as Xander headed for
the desk, a sturdy block of oak somehow neater amid the surrounding
clutter. She then pulled two fine-beam flashlights from
her pack and handed one to him. The beam was less than half an
inch wide, enough to light objects within a three-inch radius, but
not enough to cast a glow. He had told her to look for a diary.

For ten minutes, they pored through anything that might hold
the schedule. This time, though, there was no Augustine to keep
it hidden, no clever little codes from which to work. All they had
was instinct, a sense that it was here, in the room, waiting to be
found. Sarah discovered a safe behind one of the paintings, the
voice-activated lock, however, too much for her primitive tools.
She had not anticipated such high-tech equipment from the senator.

"Very good, Ms. Trent." The lights came on around them,
Schenten alone at the door, bathrobe and slippers his attire. "That
is, in fact, where I keep it." In his hand, he held a small black
book. "Tonight, though, it's been on my night table. A bit of reading
before bed."


9


Once leaders drive invention ana ingenuity front
men s hearts ana minas, the people can pose no threat
to stability.


--On Supremacy, chapter XV11I


oarah drew her gun and aimed it at Schenten. His eyes,
however, had moved to Xander.

"You surprise me, Dr. Jaspers. I wasn't aware you were so
quick with a pistol. Even quicker, it seems, than our young lady
friend."

Sarah turned and saw Xander's gun leveled at Schenten's
chest, both hands gripped tightly around the trigger. The senator,
meanwhile, had raised his arms in mock surrender. "You
can see I'm alone. Nothing with me except this book, and I
have no interest in forcing your hand, as it were." He began to
move forward, then stopped. "May I come into my library?"

Sarah motioned for Schenten to take the chair in front of the
desk. She then moved to the side of the window and peered out
into the darkness.

"If you're concerned with the guards, don't be," said Schenten,
shifting a pillow as he sat. "I told them I was coming down
to the library. They weren't looking for you."

"Who, then?" asked Xander.

"Who indeed?" he replied, then paused. "The answer might
come as something of a surprise."

Schenten laughed, pulling a lighter from the pocket of his	Irent.

streamed from his nostrils as he sat back. "Can you see the in-	Jis «»*> '^f decided to lash out at a world that's never ""'

scription, Doctor? In the case--it's on the bottom of the lid		derstoodyou

XT , . , , , „ TT » j * v j * i ..i- 	That
would be ludicrous. The smile remained on Scnen-
No,
please, take a look. He waited for Xander to locate the tiny . , .. „_ ,	. _ _ „„

J i. , j «vir u	j j-
i j i,	ten s face. Don t you agree, Ms. Trent?

writing, then asked, Would you mind reading it aloud so Ms.	... . „ . , _. , u	... . ,.

„,„-,	„..,,	,	Look, continued Xander, your sexual history is fascmat-
Trent
can hear? I m sure your French is passable enough to	, .., t, ,. , , , „

,	... „	r	fc	ing, but that s not what we re here--

make sense of it.	<»-„. ^ 	iLi >u r » i.	j -i

That is exactly what you re here for, he answered icily.

Xander studied the man s weathered face. "I don t think-"	^ Ms Trent inted ^ ^ ^ soft of ^ mat can

"Please, Doctor," insisted Schenten. "Humor me."	someone Uke me -n a father vumerable position." The smile had

330	Jonathan Rabb


"Try me."

Again, Schenten waited before speaking. "What if I were to
say the very same men who've been so interested in you?"

"I wouldn't believe you," he answered.

"Would you, Ms. Trent?" Schenten kept his eyes on Xander.
"No, I don't suppose you would." He reached toward the desk,
Xander quick to bring the gun even with the older man's eyes.
Schenten immediately stopped, pointed to a gold box, and said,
"They're cigarettes. You can take a look, if you like."

dressing gown. "Nothing of the kind." A moment later, smoke

Xander looked at Sarah, then pulled the box closer. Translating,
he read, " 'with a love that is ours alone, I am forever
with you--Jean.' " He stared a moment at the words before
looking up at Schenten. "Lovely. I'm sure you and your wife

are--

Xander pulled the box across the desk and flipped it open;
several rows of neatly packed Rothmans stared up at him. Sliding
the case to Schenten, he asked, "You want us to believe
you're afraid of your own people?"

"It's not from my wife," he interrupted.

"My mistake," corrected Xander. "I'm sure you and your mistress--"

"Wrong again," said the senator.

Xander shut the lid. "Look... whoever she is--"

"Strike three," said Schenten, staring directly into his captor's
eyes. He drew the cigarette to his lips and slowly inhaled.. "French, Doctor," he said, smoke billowing from his mouth,

the overseer	331


"French, where Jean is a he. Jeanne, I believe, is the feminine,
as in Jeanne d'Arc. Believe me, my Jean was no saint."

"What are you saying?"

Schenten sat back and smiled. "Is it that difficult to believe?"
He turned his head to Sarah. "Have I lost you as well,
Ms. Trent?"

"He was your lover," she answered coldly.

"Very good. And?"

"And"--she dropped the curtain, her eyes on Xander--
"senators aren't supposed to have skeletons in their closets."

"An interesting choice of words, but yes." He now looked at
Xander. "She's very intuitive, you know. Much better at this
than you are." He continued to stare across the desk. "And, Ms.

disappeared. "A potent weapon, information. Used properly, it
can turn even the most powerful into puppets, make them appear
to be things that they're not." He sat back, smoke once
again cascading from his nose. "You begin to see my point, I'm

sure.

"And," Xander responded, no small amount of cynicism in

Xander slowly sat forward. "Are you telling me--"
"I think you know exactly what I'm telling you." He spat a
stray piece of tobacco from his lips. "Wouldn't it be nice if
everyone could be as open-minded as you? What a lovely world
that would be. Sadly, old bulldogs aren't meant to blur the distinctions
between decency and depravity; we're not meant to
raise unpleasant questions in the minds of our self-righteous
constituents. Just smile and project an image that at worst

^' ...	)5	all, the only way to get anything done." He stopped. "My opin-
"This
is incredible."	ion troubles yoU; Doctor, doesn't it?" His eyes squinted as his

"w '	find it in any of your books." He exhaled and laid the cigarette


„„,,'„,_,	,	, . ,,.,,.,.«„	in the ashtray. "And so, when, they came to me with their plans,

Why? The word was spoken in mock disbelief. Because	T ... , . , , .,- ,
T ... , , ., ,, , ,

.,	,, „,, , ,	,-, .	jo., rr u i i_-	I didn't look horrified; I didn t stand appalled by the deceptions

they could. What other reason did they need? He shook his	,	,	. , T , ,T, „ „ .. f 14~

, , <™. .	. .	.	, n>. xt i	they were ready to unleash. I embraced them. He smiled. Do

head. This is a complete surprise to you, isn t it? Neither an-
ested
in what they were selling." He inhaled deeply. "Their	ton? Do ^ honestly ^ ^ WOuld unde™and ^ cefjn

compromises have to be made? The people--the myth you hold

332	Jonathan Rahh


makes them admire, at best makes them revere." Another long
draw, more smoke. "As you know, there isn't a great deal of introspection
on the part of those who associate themselves with
the grassroots conservative Right, but what can you do? That's
the reason we can lead them around like a group of mindless idiots.
They're not very clever, but they do have their limits. Stray
from the image and influence disappears. So as you see, Doctor,
my sexual history can make a great deal of difference, especially
when it's used as a bargaining chip."

"And Eisenreich has that chip," he whispered.

"For how long?" asked Sarah, moving to the desk.
"About two and a half years," he replied. "You had no idea,

swered. "I'm amazed.... That, and the fact that I wasn't inter-
"That,"
answered the senator, "is the reason we're sitting

response ... photocopies of several letters--far more detailed
than the inscription you just read--sent to my office some three
weeks later."

"They approached you," said Sarah. "How?"

"Does that really matter?" He began to crush out the cigarette,
taking time to play with the ash. "A few meetings. Something
like that."

"And you have records of those meetings?" asked Sarah.

"I did. Somehow, they managed to... disappear at the
same time the photocopies began arriving." He lit up another.
"Funny that."

"And you have no idea who delivered the copies," asked
Sarah, "or who had access to your records?"

"It's the United States government, Ms. Trent. Bureaucracy
doesn't lend itself to a great deal of accountability."

the overseer	333


"But why?" asked Xander, unconvinced. "Why would they
have told you anything if you weren't interested?"

lips creased around the cigarette. "I offer no apologies. That,
my young academic, is the simplest truth of politics. You won't

you honestly think we tell you everything we do in Washing-
"Ah,
but I was interested ... for a time. That proved most
informative. They showed me bits and pieces of a manuscript,
set up meetings with Messrs. Votapek, Tieg, and Sedgewick--
and believe me, at the outset, I was very enthusiastic. I genuinely
believed they had uncovered something that--how
should I put this?--that could control the electorate without appearing
to put a stranglehold on rights? Yes, I think that's right.
Something that would allow us the room to create effective policy
without having to cater to public sentiment. That is, after

so dear--are, on the whole, indifferent, uninformed, and stupid.
So why put them in the loop at all? Do you really think it was
designed to be a democracy! Don't be ridiculous. It was meant
to be a republic, a system where the most capable represent the
desires of the rest--whether that rest realizes what's good for it
or not. Without a little bit of deception, you're doomed to mediocrity
--"

"Obviously," interrupted Sarah, "you and Votapek took the
same correspondence course."

"You might not like my politics, Ms. Trent, but you know
I'm right."

"Your politics," broke in Xander, "are supposed to be about dismantling big government, giving power back to the people,
or have I missed the point? It seems to me you folks on the


334	Jonathan Rahb


Right are the ones who don't want to tell the people what's
good for them, even when they don't realize it themselves."

"It's a wonderful tactic, isn't it?" Schenten nodded as he
reached for the cigarette. "But do you think we're giving up
power by doing that? We're simply letting the states deal with
the petty quarrels. 'Get government out of your backyard.' It's
a clever slogan, isn't it? Keeps them preoccupied with the
minutiae. Actually, we're taking their minds off the federal government, giving them something smaller to play with so that
they leave us alone to handle the larger issues."

"Such as?"

"Let government do what it's best designed for--turn a
maximum profit without having to worry about the few who
can't make it on their own. The more we focus the people's interest
on state government, the less they focus on the federal,
the less they get in our way. Once you create a thoroughly disjointed
electorate--a group of people concerned only with their
own backyards--you can achieve great things."

"So why weren't you buying?" asked Xander. "Eisenreich
makes all of that possible."

"To a point. The difference is, I trust in the republic."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Why? I might be an elitist, I might even insist that a modicum
of deception can be quite useful, but I still believe in a
balance of power--a real balance--among the few who truly
understand the issues. Naturally, that means the people
shouldn't be allowed to poke their noses in at every turn. But it
also means that the few who do run things must do so with an
honest end in mind. A republic must be accountable to stability,
permanence, progress, not to the whims of the poorly educated.
Eisenreich eliminates the people, but unfortunately, he also
eliminates the balance. In its place, he offers Star Chamber hidden
beneath a veneer of republican virtue. Deception is one
thing, Doctor, tyranny through cultivated bigotry quite another.
I chose not to ally myself with that."

"A dash of John Stuart Mill with a hint of Machiavelli."

the overseer	335


Xander nodded. "A strange pairing, to say the least, as the cornerstones
of the modern conservative movement."

"Think what you will," he answered. "It's what's best for
this country."

"So they blackmailed you," said Sarah. "Why? Why not kill

you?"

"Because, my dear Ms. Trent, at that point I had nothing that
could harm them. I was never alone with the manuscript, never
had time to make copies of my own, and never had any proof
to link them to it. Moreover, they needed me ... or rather, they
found some rather clever ways to use me. My summer home in
Montana has become a frequent spot for meetings, among other
things."

"Other things?"

"It's where, I believe, they are organizing all of this. A
compound of some sort, another school for those ready to turn
the vision into reality. I haven't been allowed back in over a
year. Whatever it was, I became a very convenient subterfuge
should anyone take an interest in Tieg, Votapek, and
Sedgewick. Even the location of this house makes me a prime
candidate for association with the Tempsteh school. I often
wonder if that's what they had in mind all along. Throw people
like you off the track. Evidently, it worked." He paused.
"That, however, seemed rather unfair." He placed a small
black book on the table. "So I took something of theirs."

"The schedule," said Xander. "When? How?"

"Very good, Doctor." Schenten slid it across the desk. "It
came into my hands about a month ago; how ... how isn't all
that important, is it?" He watched as Xander began to flip
through the pages. "According to the dates, the real fireworks
begin in less than three days. I'm sure you're aware that what
happened in Washington and with the grain market was designed
merely to test the waters. New Orleans, I believe, was a
mistake. It wasn't supposed to happen for another three days--
part of something far more comprehensive."

"Why haven't you done anything to stop them?" asked

"Because, Ms. Trent, the moment I would have tried--the	raced ^^ Xander ^ me woods rising like a vacuum

aware. You will be equally diligent on your way out. I therefore	*. ,

"The core?" asked Xander insistently. "You mean there u an	^ leadi Wm ^ h me ^ a h where thefe was

overseer, one man behind it all?'	none> direction whefe hg had logt ^ seme ^ wor,d behind

were chosen, Doctor. Why you-"	^ unrelentmg_until; in me distance, the road appeared, a

find himself grabbed and thrown to the floor between the wall	,Drive „ Grass turned tQ road as me car d imo the ni ht

and desk. Sarah crouched next to him, her gun an inch from her

face, the book clutched in her hand as the library once again fell

silent. Seconds passed before they heard it. Distant at first, then

deafening, the sound of a helicopter erupting within the room,

a spotlight tearing through the madly flapping curtains, its

beam coming to rest on the heaving body of Schenten, his arms

drooped to the side, his mouth wide in convulsions, blood blot-	Jt had happened quickly> as he had ^^ it would. Sarah

Xander to his feet and ran to the door.	five secondSi me men had spotted mdr targets; within eight>

There was no time to think, no time to consider the man or	each had dropped to a ^ and was taking ^ But it had been

336	Jonathan Raoo


Sarah. "If you knew we were out there, why didn't you contact
us? Three days isn't--"

give you the schedule and wish you Godspeed."

"Of course," answered Schenten. "It is, no doubt, why you

moment I would have shown even the slightest inclination--I
would have been dead. Contact you! What a ludicrous thought.
And where was I supposed to start looking? I knew you were involved.
Beyond that... no, it had to be the other way round. As
you'll see, it's all far too extensive, far too intricate to disrupt
without striking at the core. F d never have gotten that close." He
shifted the pillow higher up his back. "Somehow, you two have
managed to elude them. Fm simply counting on the fact that you
will continue to do so. You were careful breaking in, no one

Glass shattered all around, lights extinguished in a hail of
bullets. Xander lunged across the desk for Schenten, only to

ted on his chest. A moment later, the light slid from the room,
rotors retreating, the telltale sound of landing. Sarah pulled

his words--"It's why you were chosen"--only time to follow,
to match her stride for stride, first to the stairs, then the sitting
room, the sounds of rifle fire echoing from the front of the
house as they leapt through the window to the grass below.
Schenten's guards were holding the men of Eisenreich at bay,

the overseer	337


giving their own lives for a man only minutes away from death,
their sacrifice granting still others a chance for escape. Sarah

drawing them ever nearer. It was only when he saw Sarah dive
to the ground that he remembered the fence. Tumbling forward,
he careened into her back, ramming both of them to within an
inch of the metal spikes. She pushed him aside and removed the
clippers. He snapped his head toward the house and gazed at its
darkened facade, the calm exterior masking the violence within. "It's why you were chosen." The words battered at him.

Light suddenly burst forth from every window as Sarah
grabbed his neck and pulled him toward the fence. She had cut

them vanished, the questions faded, only darkness--endless

final dash for the car, the branches tossed to the side, doors
slammed before the bite of the engine tore through the silence.


The next minutes passed without thought, the back of her

and Jaspers had approached the fence, unaware of the two men
racing out from behind the house, rifles at the ready. Within


O' connell sprang from his perch, his gun held to his chest
as he pushed his way through the branches, feet nimble on the
rooted floor below. For a large man, he showed remarkable
dexterity.

O'Connell who had fired first, two pinpoint shots of his own,
the silencer muffling all but the thwit-thwit, both men eliminated
in less than three seconds. Their bodies had collapsed
on each other, forming an odd triangle in the middle of the
open field.

came, no sudden intrusions, only the hollow whistle of air beat-	He continued to stare at the road.


338	Jonathan Rabb


Now he was running, aware that others would soon be in
pursuit, he more concerned with the two he had been sent to
protect. The two. Jaspers had made it. There was an instinct
there; Stein had been right.

Up ahead, a diesel engine ignited and O'Connell quickened
his pace. Two minutes later, he emerged to the road, dashed
across the pressed gravel, and pulled a small motorcycle from
a makeshift pile of pine and wood he had built some five hours
earlier. He heard the engine to his left; within fifteen seconds,
his 250 cc rumbled in response. Sliding the gun into his jacket,
O'Connell mounted his bike and released the clutch. The wind
slapped at his face as he searched the night for taillights.


sarah leaned out the window, her ears intent on any sound
other than the gnawing cough of the Rabbit's straining motor.
At the same time, she scanned the sky, certain that the helicopter
would appear, waiting for its searchlight to bounce along
the tree line before targeting the car and its cargo. But nothing

ing against her face. She continued to search, uneasy with the
silence, until the wail of a distant siren brought her attention
back to the road. She pulled her head inside and glanced at the
speedometer. It hovered at eighty, Xander's hands white-knuckled
on the wheel.

r


the overseer	339


ever closer, until, in a near-blinding flash, the lights cascaded
overhead and then were gone. Xander reached for the keys, but
Sarah was quick to stop him as the sound of a second siren
broke through; again, reflected blues and reds flew by. Waiting
for complete silence, she dropped her hand and nodded. The
wheels churned through the dirt as the car inched its way back
to the road, the rutted ascent no less jarring in reverse. Within
half a minute, they were tearing along at eighty.

"You'll wait in the car while I go in for her," said Sarah, her
eyes once more searching the sky through the windshield. Xander
muscled the car around a curve, his eyes fixed on the limits
of the high beams. "Did you hear me?"

"I wait; you go." The words were spoken in rote monotone.
"Yes."

For the next mile, they traveled in silence.

"She should be able to sleep in the back," explained Sarah.
"I don't think she'll be too much of a bother."

"Fine." Again silence.

Sarah turned to him. "What?"

"Is it the schedule, Schenten, what?" She stared into his face,
saw the tension in his jaw. "Does this have to do with what happened
at the motel?"

"Doesn't it strike you as odd," he asked, clearly oblivious to
her questions, "that I've managed to survive through all of


It took her a moment to answer. "I hadn't really thought about it. I guess I'm just grateful."

He looked over at her, then turned and took the car to ninety.
Another minute passed before she spoke. "What happened

"Slow down," she yelled over the wind, "and try to find a	ul's^>

turnoff."

Xander did as he was told, bringing the car down to a reasonable
speed as they both hunted for an opening. The sirens
grew louder and louder, a hint of flashing light beyond the next

He laughed in disbelief. "Happened? A man was killed.
That's what happened. A man just like Carlo, or Emil, or Feric.
Schenten was just another to be sacrificed." A controlled rage
laced his words. "And, yet, through it all, I somehow manage
to remain unscathed. Now, that's strange, isn't it? How do we
explain that?"

hill, when Sarah pointed to an almost-invisible breach in the * back tnere.

wall of trees to their right. Xander shifted the car into second

gear, its frame buckling at the deceleration, and turned the

wheel sharply, lurching the Rabbit down the steep slope. After

thirty yards of back-wrenching bumps, he flipped off the beams

and cut the engine. Above, the screech of the siren continued to

mount as reflections of red and blue danced along distant trees,


340	Jonathan Rahb


She tried to understand. "What are you asking me?"

"I'm not asking you.... I'm simply asking. Yesterday, an
hour ago, I would have been too frightened, too relieved to
think of anything but my own survival. Then again," the self-mockery
more apparent, "I did write that neat little memo that
gives me a purpose in all of this, didn't I? That's high on the erudition scale, isn't it? Problem is, it doesn't really count. Theory
won't explain why I've managed to survive to this point."

"What are you talking about?"

"You want to believe you're a killer--fine. You want to believe
that in all of this, that's your purpose, the reason you were chosen--"

"Slow down," she broke in, uncomfortable with his tone.

" 'It's why you were chosen,' " he barked. "Didn't you hear
what Schenten said, what he said about meT He glanced over
at her. "Don't you get it? You're not the only one who's been
handpicked to take part in all of this."
"You think--"

"I don't think," he cut her off, his focus again the road. "I
heard it, saw it in his eyes. Even he seemed surprised to find out
that I had no idea."

"No idea about what?"

"I don't know. How I tie in. Why I was chosen. My purpose."

"Chosen for what?" she asked. "By whom?" She started to
reach for him, then stopped, her shoulders inching away. "You
mean meT'

He glanced over at her. "What?"

"You said 'chosen.' I was the one who got in touch with you.
That would seem to say that--"

"What?" For a moment, the anger and confusion faded from
his eyes. "That's not it at all. You're the only reason I'm still
holding on. I've told you that."

"Then what do you mean?" she asked defensively.

He looked back at the road. "I don't know." The motel sign
appeared on the left. Xander slowed and pulled the car into the
driveway. "I stay. You go." His tone was again distant. She
stared at him, then opened the door.

the overseer	341


O' connell cut the engine and coasted to the top of the hill,
guiding the bike onto the shoulder and the relative cover of the
tree line. A hundred yards below, the Rabbit sat idling in the
drive of a roadside motel, the passenger door open. He inched
himself tighter against the trees, stopped, and pulled out a pair
of binoculars as the sound of a helicopter rose from somewhere
off to his right. But it was Sarah who drew his attention as she
emerged from one of the rooms, a second figure at her side,
bundled within blankets and pillows. He watched as both
stooped and slid into the car, Sarah slamming the door as the
VW accelerated to the road. An instant later, a set of giant rotors
appeared hovering just above the trees. The copter banked
to the right and swung low, its high beams lighting up the back
of the speeding Rabbit, which now serpentined across both
lanes. Rifle fire exploded from above.

O'Connell fired up the engine and surged out onto the road.
With his right hand, he pulled a gun from his jacket, this one far
larger than the small precision piece he had used to compromise
the two men in the field. He squeezed the throttle and brought
the motorcycle to within twenty yards of the bird, whose nose
was edging ever closer to its prey. The rear rotor, however, was
riding high and exposed, a position all too vulnerable to someone
with a trained eye. Leaning into the wind, O'Connell raised
his gun and fired.

The recoil from the shot forced him to swerve, the grassy
ledge of the shoulder coming precariously close before he
straightened himself out and regained the center line. Meanwhile,
the helicopter had banked high, his bullets evidently
having missed their mark, a second high beam now appearing
to target him in its blinding attack. Shots cascaded from above,
peppering the road around him and forcing him to careen from
side to side, both his hands essential to the task. With another
burst of speed, he raced to the bird's underbelly, zigzagging
with it so as to maintain his position directly beneath, the huge
bulk unable to shake him. Again, he drew his gun. Again, he
fired. This time, his aim was true. Smoke billowed from the

"He was obviously trying to help us."		The Canadian route would have been quicker but more dan-

342	Jonathan
Rail


fuselage as the rear rotor began to jump haphazardly from side
to side. He slowed and let off several more shots. As if caught
in a sudden updraft, the helicopter bounced high in the air,
twisting on itself like a giant top out of control. She was going
down. She would be forced to land.

He swung out wide on the narrow road, taking the motorcycle
to its limits so as to slip past the dying bird. Once beyond her,
he tried to reaccustom his eyes to the darkened road; even so, he
could find no trace of the two red dots he had been following for
the last half hour. Over his shoulder, he saw the results of his
handiwork, four or five bodies leaping from the smoke, several
of them spraying the carcass in an attempt to keep the helicopter
from exploding. But no Rabbit. As he shifted forward, however,
he caught sight of something off to his right, something flickering
through the trees, mirroring his own movement. It took less
than a second to recognize it--taillights. There, deep within the
woods, the VW bounced defiantly, its driver somehow having
found an inroad to the dense cover. Bloody brilliant.

O'Connell slowed and allowed the car to move farther ahead.
For nearly a mile, they ran in tandem, until the main road began
to bank away from the trees, the car's lights growing distant.
O'Connell drove the bike off of the shoulder, weaving his way
through the branches and trunks, several saplings falling prey to
the teeth of his spokes and tires. But it was his face and hands that
were getting the worst of it, angry limbs tearing at them as he
pushed his way through. Reaching the trail, he wiped the blood
from his face and accelerated on the rooted floor. The car had already
dipped out of sight.


I don't knowl" yelled Sarah, "I don't see anything. You must
have lost him."

"Where the hell did he come from?" Xander was doing
everything he could to keep control of the jerking wheel. "Absolutely
clear, then--wham!--the helicopter arrives, Evel
Knievel arrives--"

F


the overseer	343


"Help us," shouted Xander, "or keep us alive?"

"What's the difference?"

"The difference is what Schenten said. Did you hear what I
said before? There's a reason to keep me alive."

"I don't think that's what the boys in the helicopter had in
mind," she said. "They were firing at us. Those weren't warning
shots."

Xander saw the opening to his left and slammed on the
brakes, bouncing all three high off the seats as he made the turn.
"You're right. They were trying to kill us. That doesn't mean Mr.
Motorcycle was necessarily friendly."

"Oh, I don't know," she replied sharply, "anyone who keeps
me from getting shot usually strikes me as a friend."

The car emerged from the trees, wheels sliding on the grass
before the tires found the smooth surface of the highway. Xander
swung the wheel to the right, shifted into third, and brought
the VW to sixty. The chassis nearly sprang from the road at the
sudden thrust of power. "The transmission's holding up better
than I thought," he said, his tone no less strident.

Sarah did not respond, her eyes dead still against the sweep
of the road.

"It might even get us as far as Montana," he added.

She looked at him, her expression unchanged.


dawn came with Sarah at the wheel, Xander pressed against
the window, his head resting on his chest and rising in the even
rhythm of sleep. He had dropped off less than an hour ago, reluctant
to give in to the exhaustion. So she had insisted. It had
been their only conversation since Tempsten, no more discussion
of Schenten, of an unknown motorcyclist--the miles slipping by
in silence, save for a quick driving changeover on a deserted strip
of road just before the Pennsylvania line. Xander had been right.
Montana was the only choice. The senator had confirmed everything
Stein had shown her in the Committee files. The training
area. The compound. Wolf Point, Montana.


qaa	j 4. p u	the overseer	345

344	Jonathan Kabb

gerous. Border guards. Instead, she found Route 90, settled the
car in at eighty, and watched Cleveland, Lakewood, and any
number of unknown towns pass with the quiet forgetfulness of
a 5:00 a.m. sky. Now, half an hour from Indiana, she noticed the
fuel gauge hovering precariously close to empty. It was a relief.
She needed coffee. And maybe a short nap. Sleep--the vital
weapon. Without it, all others cease to function.

The sign read a mile to the next rest stop. Sarah accelerated
and swung the car into the right-hand lane. She glanced back at
Alison; a smile had crept up the sleeping face.


His head against the stone wall, his back too badly bruised to
mind the minor discomfort, Bob Stein sat in utter darkness. His
hands had been chained to either end of a bed, how many hours,
days ago, he could only guess, his mind still woozy from the
drugs--a narcotic whose aftereffects were proving far worse
than its punch. At least then, he had been unconscious. Now he
had the distinct displeasure to experience every moment of
wakeful recovery.

To combat the discomfort, he had begun to piece together
the moments that had led to his current condition, the last.
salient event a brief exchange at State with the duty guard.
After that, Stein could remember only a sharp stabbing in his
neck, followed by a stinging in his backside, spinning lights, a
siren, and then the darkness to which he had awoken. It wasn't
hard to fill in the early gaps. The guard had alerted someone,
then an injection, a trumped-up ambulance ride, and this. It was
the later gaps--or better yet, one large hole--that disturbed
him. How much had he told them? More bewildering, why was
he still alive?

A sliding segment of the door suddenly opened, a burst of
light battering at his eyes from above, Bob quick to bury his
head in his shoulder. He heard words before a lock disengaged,
the door pulled back unleashing a torrent of pulsating white light
into the room. Blinking through his sleeve, Stein tried to focus
on the figure at the door, but his eyes would not see. He tried to

speak but could produce only a muffled whelp, his lips and
tongue still held in the control of the narcotic. Then, as quickly
as it had come, the light from outside vanished, the door still
open, a figure now in its frame. Bob looked up again, the silhouette
of the body clearer than before, the outline of the room
coming into focus as he peered to his right and left. As best he
could tell, the room was roughly ten by ten, high ceilings, completely
bare, no windows. Day or night, Bob had no way of
telling.

"I apologize for the chains," said the man hi the door. It was
an old man's voice, European. 'They are for your own protection.
They tell me the drugs can make one rather violent. I trust
you understand."

Bob tried to speak, but again he produced little more than an
animal's moan.

"Ah, yes. Another aftereffect, regrettable but necessary. You
have my further apologies. Your voice will return within the
hour. For the time being, though, all you need do is listen."
From behind, a woman entered and placed a chair at the center
of the room, the smell of perfume momentarily eclipsing the
stale air in the cell. The man sat. "You have told us a great deal.
I am not much in favor of such methods, but the drugs can be
quite useful, and with Mr. O'Connell back in the field ... well,
we needed certain questions answered." He paused. "You might
be interested to know that your recovery will be easier than
most, as you put up little resistance. I hope that is of some comfort
to you." He whispered something to the woman. A moment
later, she was gone, Stein alone with his inquisitor. "What is
most interesting, however, is the information you offered without questioning. I was not aware the drugs worked in that way,
but I am no expert in such things. An added bonus--for us all."
He coughed before continuing. "I must say, you are a rather remarkable
young man, Mr. Stein. I had no idea." His breath was
short, the words punctuated by intermittent wheezing. "Trust
me, I am a very good judge of character and of, shall we say,
possibility. You show a considerable penchant for both. All in
all, you are a very nice surprise. Very nice indeed." He cleared

the overseer	347


door. A moment later, the pitch-black returned, the bolt reengaged.

346	Jonathan Rail

jonas Tieg dimmed the desk lamp and sat silently for a few
moments. The sound of feet on the stairs had prompted him to
place the telephone receiver to his chest. As expected, his wife
popped her head around the door a moment later. Her eyes were
heavy with sleep. "Sweetheart, you need your rest. Come upstairs.
What time is it?"

"Late, my love," he answered. "You go. I'll be up in a little
while, I promise. I have to take care of this."

"Oh, Jonas," she said, finding her watch, "it's quarter to five


his throat. "To be candid, had you not shown those qualities, it
is very likely you would no longer be alive. But I do not like to
dwell on such things. I am here to give you an opportunity."
Bob began to see a few wisps of hair on the man's head, though
the face remained in shadow.

"I think it is fair to say you are aware of what we are, what
we intend to do--or at least you have a rudimentary understanding
of what is to come, if the drugs are accurate." Again,
a short coughing spell, far more muted than the first. "You, to
your credit, have an agile mind, a sense for the epic, for the
grand scheme. This I find most agreeable. Coupled with that is
the fact that you are in a position--how shall I put it?--of substantial breadth. We are, as you can imagine, not without a cer
tain
number of men in government. Few, though, show your	in the wo""'««-This
is ridiculous."
talents. A man with your ability, with your access can be quite
useful. Chained to a bed, the use goes to waste. You see what I
am saying'

If only to please, Bob nodded.

"Good, because in just over a week, this conversation will

?"

"I know, dear. Ridiculous. You go. I'll be there in two minutes."
He kissed the air, smiled, and nodded as she yawned
through her own tired kisses and closed the door. At the sound
of the ever-familiar creaking third step, he placed the phone to

his ear and spoke. "You'll have to repeat that	No, I don't

have no meaning." The man shifted in his chair; a moment	--, . . . ., , ,-„,,,

i r, v f u ia u a t.- 1
"Ti,	n, »»	Taete, was no mistake. You were to shoot to kill	Yes, both

later, Bob felt an ice-cold hand on his knee. They say that time	f ., -ij-t a i_- i_,
i

. , »,o-T u jj i. iT 11	or them ... including Jaspers. Are you having trouble heanng

waits for no man, Mr. Stem. I would add that chaos is equally	ma9 ™ . t, .. , J .. . "

^ J	me i... Then put the license number on the wire.... Because

care what you've been told since then; / am telling you now.

within the next few hours, state police from Ohio to California

will be looking for them	That's not your concern

What?... Disabled the helicopter? How is that... What do
you mean you have no idea who? Someone simply appeared--"
Tieg listened closely. "I see." He paused, then spoke, his words
precise. "You are to eliminate anything that gets in your way, is

that understood? ... Good	Yes, I'm sure that will be the

case."

uncompromising. Today, there is time for you to think. That
time, though, is running out." He removed his hand as another
fit of coughing erupted. " 'Never before,' " he continued, trying
to stifle the spasm, " 'has so much conspired to offer so propi tious a setting and so great an impetus for a change in the
wielding of power.' Never. Remarkable words, are they not?
Written over four hundred years ago by an equally remarkable
man. And as true today as they were then." His tone became
less animated, though no less pointed. "Unfortunately, no one B	He hung up and turned off the lamp. Again, he sat in si-
took
that man seriously. A great pity. Eight days from now, no 1 fence, all too aware of the tightness in his shoulders. He knew
one will have a choice." He paused. "I am giving you such a he would have to wake her, as he always did. And she would
choice. One few have been given. I trust you will not be fool-I
take him, caress his back, rub her strong, thick hands along his
ish." The old man rose to his feet. "Eight days, Mr. Stein. After thighs, drive him to climax and then let him drift off in her
that..." He shook his head, turned, and slowly walked to the K arms. For thirty years, he had wanted no other, had found sal

?.'-£''--I'*&£..-%,.


reports dispatched to stations around the country. A cameraman

transmitting to a private car drew no special attention.	^"HelTo^ Small ^ ^^

Senator George Maxwell Schenten was dead, shot to death

in his upstate home, signs of an extensive battle m evidence.	,	. . iixr	,,

., , \,	,	..	. , .e .	kept waiting. You said it was urgent when you called before.

Already, the newspeople were raising questions about foreign	,,-. ,,	, c , . J

,	- - i.	.
i-	jr-	Yes' answered Votapek. I was hoping not to wake you,

involvement--a reaction to the senator s policy on a united Eu-	i. T j-j ><. i.-i
u »

„ . ' . , , .. „ , ,	. . . , T	but I didn t think it could wait.

rope? An extremist fed up with Schenten s open criticism of Is-	,„	. . . „ . „	„

, . , ,	,- „
>.		,	, ,	I am sure you are nght. Especially given recent events,

lamic fundamentalism? Or was it somehow connected to the	,, . , .. , .,	, ,,., , . „ TT.

Votapek waited, then spoke. Alison s missing. His eyes

348	Jonathan Rabb


vation in no other. She had always understood. She would understand
again.


laurence Sedgewick sat in the limousine, eyes riveted to the
screen in front of him. A Mozart horn concerto filled the space,
strangely incongruous with the images he watched. Bodies lay
strapped to stretchers, others as yet untended sprawled across
the grass and mud, eyes open, deathly still against the constant
movement around the house. Police were everywhere, cordoning
off windows, doors, a collection of guns they had assembled
between two patrol cars. Cameras also dotted the
landscape, network teams busy with questions, early-morning

events that had been occurring across the country? The police
declined to speculate.

The phone rang.

"Yes." Sedgewick continued to watch the screen.

"They've begun to match fingerprints. They should have
Jaspers and Trent within five minutes."

"And the records?"

"Updated to indicate connections to the killings in Germany
and Italy. We're also ready to leak her history in Jordan."

"Good. A slow drip, I hope."

"An unnamed official, excerpts from a confidential file. Acceptable?"

"Difficult to acquire."

"But not impossible. The reference should be enough."

"Agreed. Naturally, you'll let the boys from Washington put

the overseer	349


the pieces together themselves. We wouldn't want any of them
to think that they've been handed their suspects."

"Of course. Do we pursue?"

"Only if asked," answered Sedgewick. "We'll be in touch."


anton Votapek tramped across the open field, the few clumps
of brown grass underfoot the last vestiges of a once-lush soccer
pitch. The rest was a mass of petrified mud, shaped by the
spiked soles of eager cleats, hardened to rigid mounds of soil
by chilled Montana nights. Beyond the goalpost stood a single
building. Votapek mounted its steps and opened the door. The
fire across the room beckoned, as did a pair of leather chairs

planted comfortably by the blaze. He sat and picked up the re-ver
on the small side table.
"Hello."
"Anton." The voice was tired but alert. He did not like to be

remained fixed on the blaze.

"I see."

"It's impossible to say when. Sometime in the last two
days."

There was a pause. "Laurence told you this?"

"Yes."

"And he is concerned?"

"Yes."

"Why was this permitted to happen?"

"We can only assume--"

"The Trent woman," interrupted the old man, his voice no
less steady.

"Yes."

"I find it hard to understand why she is proving to be so difficult.
She was on the train with Pritchard--that is what we

sarah sat across from Xander, her second refill nearly gone,
the waitress too busy to take any notice of the empty cup. In stead, she was chatting with a driver, a young man whose in terests clearly lay in more than just coffee and pancakes. He
had even removed the meshed baseball cap from his head,
smoothing back the greasy blond curls in an attempt to make
himself more presentable; it was having the desired effect, the
young woman's lips peeling up to her gums in a frighteningly
"Of no consequence."	I	toothy smile. Sarah couldn't help but stare, her gaze fixed on

350	Jonathan Rabh


were told by that boy from the NSC. And you mean to say no
one recognized her, that no one realized there could be only one
reason for Arthur to be on that train?"

"It wasn't their priority--"

" 'Their priority'? What could be more pressing than a
woman who is utterly determined to undermine everything we
have been working for? I have made it quite clear. Alone, she
poses no threat, but with Alison ... who is to say what might
be believed? We have no place for such distractions."

"I agree. Alison is of the utmost importance--"

"We have been through this, Anton. Personal sentiment only
gets in the way. Your feelings for the girl, however strong they
may be--"

"Then why do you continue to protect Jaspers?" A log
shifted, flames darting through the tumbled recess.

For a moment, the old man remained silent; when he spoke,
the words were simple, direct. "That has nothing to do with
sentiment."

"You really believe that?"

"You think you understand, Anton? You understand nothing." He had little patience for Votapek's goading. "Was Jaspers
at Schenten's home?"

"Yes."

"And the conversation is on tape?"

"Yes. They knew about the schedule even before Schenten
brought it up."

"And they were eager to find it."

"Very." Votapek began to fiddle with a stray piece of thread
dangling from the chair's arm. Trying his best to sound casual,
he added, "Schenten also told him that he had been... selected. That the overseer--I assume he meant you--had chosen
him. We didn't understand what that meant."

"Did the senator mention my name?"

Votapek waited before answering. "Our men arrived before
he could say anything." He dropped the thread. "His explanation
would have been--"

the overseer	351


"Laurence and Jonas think otherwise."

Votapek heard the deep breath. "And what does that mean,
Anton?"

"It means," he said, a slight waver in his voice, "that they
find Schenten's remarks a little puzzling. We've all been under
the impression that Jaspers stumbled onto all of this accidentally. If it's otherwise ..."

"Yes, Anton?" Impatience now turned to irritation. "What
would that mean? What would Laurence and Jonas have to say
about thatT

"I... I don't know." Silence.

"Of course you do not know, because you speak without
thinking--Jonas the worst of you, his belief that he is somehow
cleverer than the rest. Perhaps that is why it was clear from
such an early age that he belonged in politics. But you, Anton,
you were smarter than that. I always hoped it would pass, that
you and Laurence would see his prattling for what it was."

"He said we needed to eliminate the problem."

"Miss Trent is the problem, Anton."

With as much courage as he could muster, Votapek answered,
"That's not what Jonas said."

Again, he paused before answering. "I see. And what did he
say?"

Votapek remained silent.

"What have you done, Anton?" The words were almost a
whisper. "My God, what have the three of you done!"






m


»* -*£
$S%

r%.

352	Jonathan I\abb


the large yellow teeth, her fatigue stripping her of the will to
turn away. No thoughts. Only smile, teeth, gums. Even Xander
slipped from her mind, his complete self-absorption in the book
lost to her fixation. He flipped a page, the movement enough to

the overseer	353


or every tunnel and bridge leading into Manhattan out of commission,
all in less than five hours? Then it would have been a
little more frightening, a little more overwhelming."
"And that's what they're planning to do?"

She watched him, elbows firm on the table, right hand
clenched in a thick tuft of hair as his eyes flew through the
words on the page. If he was tired, he was doing his best to fight
it, his knee shaking with nervous intensity. All thoughts of
Schenten had clearly been set aside. For the moment, the
scholar was back at work. Sarah sipped at her coffee and continued
to watch. It was good to have him so close again.

"They've got to have an army of people to do all of this,"
said Xander, not bothering to look up from the page. "Rapid-fire
disruptions, phases to be carried out by different groups of
people--one to plant the explosives, another to position them,

draw her attention.	"Replace Oklahoma with the Capitol and you have numbers

one, eight, and seventeen on their list. The first raises the question
of national security, perhaps even foreign involvement; the
others confirm those fears and heighten panic. It's what they
did in Washington and Chicago writ large. You put those little
events together, making sure that their timing is precise, and
you can create the sort of chaos that makes the big events seem
much larger than they are. It's right out of the manuscript."

One on top of another, on top of another. Tieg 's words. "How
many?"

"Forty-eight. The grand finale is the assassination of the
president."

still others to set them off. Where Eisenreich took weeks to in-	Sarah shook her head ,.How original."

"It's not the killing that's important to them." "That's reassuring."

stigate his chaos, they're taking days, sometimes hours. Plus,
they've got things going on all across the country, timed out to

the minute."	«It,s ^ way peapie wjjj see ;t mat wjii j^g the differ
ence.

"I don't follow."

"Think about it. When JFK was shot, people talked about
conspiracy, but most of them regarded it as the act of a deranged
gunman. Sorrow, betrayal, anger--those were the prevailing
sentiments."

"Not mass hysteria."

"Exactly. When they kill Wainwright, his death won't be an
isolated incident, but the ultimate act in a sequence of battering
blows against the republic, a sign that the country has become
too weak or too corrupt to maintain order. Whether it's seen as
a conspiracy won't matter. All people will feel is despair, a
sense that everything has fallen apart."

"Enter Pembroke"--Sarah nodded--"and you have an anti-
"How
long a period are we talking about?" asked Sarah.

"Eight days. Eight days of sequential terror. The irony is that
very few things in here could be described as catastrophic. The
first one on the list"--he flipped back a few pages--"reaches
completion in two days." He looked up. "At least we have some
time before they start by bombing the Capitol."

"And that doesn't strike you as catastrophic?"

"Which is?"	dote to the chaos."

"Suppose something else had happened that day--a systemwide
failure of the computer network at Southwestern Bell,

"From the looks of it, they plan to play up to every major
fear in the book during the buildup--sharp declines in the mar-
"Symbolically,
yes. As a means to social upheaval, no. Look
at Oklahoma three years ago. It was despicable, tragic--however
else you want to describe it. And for two weeks, every
militia in the country got ten minutes on Nightline. But that was
it. We were all horrified, outraged, but then we happily forgot
about it. By itself, that bomb didn't cre'ate the kind of panic our
friends want." He flipped a few pages ahead.

354	Jonathan Rabb


ket, foreign terrorism, urban crime--nothing new, and nothing
startling by itself, but now it's all going to happen in a matter
of eight days."

"Tieg's going to have a field day with the media."

"Of course."

"How many groups are we talking about?" she asked,
pulling the book across the table and glancing at the chart on
the inside back cover.

"About thirty. Each assignment is divided up into four separate
phases, one cell or team--"

"Per phase," she cut in, the words spoken almost to herself,
her eyes now scanning the page with greater intensity.
"Right," he agreed, concerned by the sudden change in her
expression. "What is it?"

She continued to read, ignoring the question. "Jump rota tions, redundancy cells"--she nodded--"and, naturally, sepa-	before
the next one?"

"The lady's going to ask me how I found you." He winked |	Fifteen minutes later, O'Connell sat on the lip of the hood,

rate stagings."

"What do you mean, 'naturally'? What are you talking
about?"

She looked up. "This is ... I'm familiar with this design. It's

a--'

"Pritchard matrix," came a voice from behind her, its sudden
intrusion shocking them both into silence. "Number of cells, assignments,
the overlap. Finish one job, wait for instructions for
the next." The voice paused before adding, "But it's the staging
that gives it away, isn't that right, Sarah?"

The Irish lilt, the clipped words. She turned and looked at
the man. He had slid to the corner of his booth and was staring
directly at her.

"O 'Cornell?"

"Gaelin Patrick at your service." He smiled and looked at
Xander. "The good doctor, I presume?" Xander could only nod.
"You've had a nasty time of it, but you seem to be in one piece.
As for you, you're looking remarkably blond. I preferred the
deep auburn, but, then again, you know my tastes."

"How did you--"

the overseer	355


at Xander. "And I'm going to tell her that another friend of ours
thought it best to keep an eye on the two of you. A man with an
appalling taste for cheese balls."

A loud gasp at the counter forced all three to turn; a woman
was staring at the television affixed to the far wall. On screen,
a reporter stood silhouetted in flames.

"In what appears to be a return to the madness of last week,
a bomb exploded just after six a.m., engulfing the western wing
of the Capitol in flames. Washington has awoken, once again
stunned as firefighters...."


" T

1T changes nothing," answered O'Connell. They were outside
by the VW, Alison seated on the passenger side. "Either they've
gone ahead of schedule or something snafued. How much time

Xander scanned the chart. "There's a gap of about fourteen
hours before number two--the kidnapping and execution of the
English ambassador. In fact, the first six events are spread out
over a two-and-a-half-day period. After that, it picks up considerably,
something every four to five hours."

"That's Pritchard." He nodded. "First few events to make
sure things are playing clean. A mock-up. Then acceleration. It
gives us time--not a lot--but it gives us time. By the way," he
added, "I was expecting two. You haven't introduced me to the
red-haired beauty."

Sarah knelt by Alison and took her hand. "This is a friend,
Alison. His name is Gael."

A blank stare, then a smile. "Hello, Gael," she said. "You
have a pretty name."

The Irishman seemed caught off guard by the comment. He
looked at Sarah, then at Alison. "Thank you. I'm ... rather
fond of it myself."

Sarah motioned for him to join her on the other side of the
car. In a hushed voice, he said, "You'll have to tell me what that
was all about."



y t '*a
^/-->


K

O ' S^.WX*

T	*'


9% % -	#. .

Ir^-* fe

"And we'll need a few pictures detailing the house--lay-
in New York a Mrs-Huber--"

"Details?" interrupted Xander, exasperated by their rapid- I
either of y°u' ^ crazed academic and the former assassin."

leaked Amman. They're saying ... you were responsible for
take that information--and Alison--to someone who can stop

they're targeting--it's all in the schedule. All we have to do is .

J	* the death of the ambassador s daughter. I don t know how they

. . „ . . ,	.	got the information, but there you have it. He saw the reaction

them. Set up security at the various attack points--	I	. c ,,	„„ . . J

„ ,	,, , ,	,	,,	,	I.	in Sarah s eyes. Descriptions of the two of you, the car--it s

And allow them to crawl back under a rock once they real-		J

356	Jonathan Rabb


arms crossed at his chest. He'd heard enough. "It's a hell of lot
more than Bob was letting on. He doesn't even know about the
redhead." He looked at Alison through the windshield. "Jesus,
no wonder she's ..." He shook his head.

"It'll have to be quick, a small strike," said Sarah. "Shut it
down from the center. If we blow up the site, my guess is they'll
have a fail-safe on the computers. Any interference and the signals
on the accelerated stage will go out automatically. We need
to dismantle the system from the inside."

outs, numbers."

"The details are not a problem."

fire exchange. "What do you mean dismantling? We know what

"Agreed," he said. "Probably six to eight men to get into the
compound."

ize they've been exposed?" Sarah shook her head. "They've
been waiting thirty years. If they see anything out of the ordinary,
they'll pull back and draft another schedule. No, we have
to go now. If we don't, I can assure you that none of us, including
Alison, will be around to stop them the next time they
try.','

"Wait a minute," insisted Xander, "you're telling me that not one of your all-powerful government organizations could race
in, save the day--"

"And create the kind of panic that we're trying to avoid?"
Again, Sarah shook her head. "You send out an alert like that,
with the National Guard swooping down on God knows how
many places--people will get very concerned. Remember
Waco? They create the martyrs while Tieg plays up the anxiety.
Abuse of power. Government paranoia. And six months from
now, they fire up--"

the overseer	357


"Another schedule," interrupted the Irishman. "Unfortunately,
it's not an option either of you has anymore."

Xander turned to O'Connell. "What does that mean?"

"Back there, that was the first news you'd seen today?" Both
of them nodded. "I thought so. Since about six, they've been
talking about nothing but the Schenten assassination. You've
both been implicated."

"What!"

"Oh my God!"

"She was found in your office. It's not a pretty picture--of

He looked at Sarah, hesitating before he spoke. "They've

"It gets better." He stopped and brought his hands to his lap.
"It seems, Doctor, that you're also wanted for questioning in
the deaths of a man in Italy, another in Germany, and a woman

all over the wire. That's why I had to make contact."

Xander sat on the hood, head tilted back. "Did they say how

she died?"

O'Connell waited before answering. "You can't let yourself

worry about that, son."

"I'd sent her Carlo's notes, everything. I didn't think--"
"You couldn't have," said Sarah, revelations about her own

past pushed aside for the moment. "And Gael's right. You can't

think about it. You have to think about the men who killed

her--who are so desperate that they're willing to use the police

to try and stop you." She took his arms. "And they are trying to

stop you, whatever Schenten might have said."

Xander brought his head forward, eyes on Sarah. He nodded

slowly.

She turned to O'Connell. "It means we can't risk flying. And

we can't use this car. I'll have to take it into the woods, cover

it up."

O'Connell winked and headed for his bike. A-minute later,	have & chance to pass Qn ^ information »

loud diesel overtones.	take Wm seriously?" ^e old man waited. "You agreed with

through the window at the Irishman's back. "A very nice man."	,„	„ .	.. ..... „,,..,	, ,„

6	J	I... yes. He is a ... a liability. He had to be ... resolved.

"You would have made a very poor actor, Anton. Next time,
Jonas, take more care when you teach him his lines."

"He's a grown man," answered Tieg. "He makes his own de-screaming
at them over the telephone. Each conjured his own	cisions-We att make our own decisions." image of the old man as the sound of coughing erupted on the	MAh " said ** ^ed voice' "so at last we come to '* At last

358	Jonathan Rail


"I'm one step ahead of you. Give me half an hour." He slid
off the hood and placed a hand on Xander's knee. "You're in
good hands, son. Sometime, I'd like to know how you got yourself
out of Germany."

Xander and Sarah were seated in the VW, its engine purring in

"He's a nice man." It was Alison who spoke as she stared

D o you realize how difficult it will be to undo what you have
done!" In three different states, three men winced at the voice

"Sometime," answered the academic, "I'd like to tell you."

line. His fits were occurring with greater frequency, thought
Tieg. It wouldn't be long now. Still, he had survived this long.
"Fifty years---fifty years--you think you know what to expect;
you think that somehow they will rise above themselves and act
as they have been taught to act. But time and time again, you realize
you are wrong, that they remain children, that you have
chosen unwisely, and that they are no more now than what they
were when you first found them." He paused, the sound of
breathing filling the line. " 'The burden shall be his to choose
his pupils wisely.' Perhaps mine was too great a burden." Again
the sound of breathing. "Can any of you explain why you have
made Jaspers a pariah, a criminal... a madman?"

The line was quiet. Tieg was the first to speak. "Because
there were no other alternatives."

"The voice of reason." The old man made no attempt to hide
his disdain. "You were all in agreement, then, that this was the
only course for Jaspers?"

"We all discussed it--"

"I am not asking you, Jonas," he cut in. "I am asking Laurence
and Anton. Or have they ceded that role to you as well?"

Again a pause; Sedgewick: "The recording from Schenten's

the overseer	359


made it very clear to all of us that both Jaspers and the Trent
woman are now in possession of a rather damaging document."

"And to you, there is no difference between this assassin and
Jaspers?"

"You think he would run to the police? You think they would

this, Anton?"

"At this point, no. We might not get to them before they

we see why all the private plotting has become so important. It
has nothing to do with Jaspers, or Alison, or even Miss Trent,
does it, Jonas? It has to do with who makes the decisions, who
has the control." He waited, hoping for an answer. When none
came, he continued. "You stupid, stupid man! You are concerned
with decisions; you know how this will all fit together.
You know nothing] Do you think I do not understand you,
Jonas? Do you think I am so old or so foolish as to have been
blind to what you have wanted all along? Chaos, naturally. It is
what we all want. That, though, is where we part company. Am
I right? Chaos is as far as you wish to go. Order bores you, permanence
and stability--merely secondary concerns for a man
like you. You prefer the freedom that chaos brings, the unlimited
possibilities." His words were laced with contempt. "You
think I do not know, that it is not obvious? It has been obvious from the beginning, the reason I chose you--your egoism, so
vital to the task. Why do you think I have kept the leash so tight
these last few years? Perhaps I was foolish to think you would
not pull at it from time to time. It was my mistake. I shall not
make it again."

The line fell silent. Finally, Tieg spoke, his words con-


*/;,


Silence. "Is that understood, Jonas?"	after you"

The words carried a long-forgotten fire, a venom that
seemed to transport all four back to a cabin, to the Italian sand

and sea, to three young boys sitting in a corner, terrified, as the	.	,	_,/-,,,	. . ,

., , , 3 u- u
«. -i	cry from what Sarah expected. Clearly past its pnme, the car

old man bore down on his oldest pupil.	' , . , Av	}*	v. ...

sported a strip of wood paneling, an odd touch given its dark

I will be flying in before noon. Laurence, you will remain in I "Use the number Fve 8iven y°u as a contact point," he


360	Jonathan Rabb


trolled, precise, clearly masking the fury beneath. "Did you

choose Jaspers?"

"You ask for information that is of no concern to you."
"I have made it my concern, old manl Did you choose him?"
"You will not speak to me in that tone! Is that understood?"

"Tell me, Jonas, why do you try to deceive me? Why do you
not tell me that it was you who forced Anton into the water?"
He slapped his hand across the boy's face, the force enough to
send the young body to the floor. Jonas pulled himself to the
stool, no tears, only the slight shaking of his head. Again, the
man struck; again, the boy fell, this time blood trickling from
his lip. "Why do you deceive me?"

"I didn't--"

"You will not speak to me in that tone! " he screamed, sending
his open fist into the boy's brow, the head smacking back
into the wooden wall, a torrent of tears following, uncontrolled,
wild. "You are nothing. Nothing! But 1 will make of you a great
conqueror. All of you--great conquerors. Do you understand
this?"

Head down, his entire body shaking, he nodded. "Yes," he
sputtered. "I deceived you."

The man reached out and caressed the boy's hair. "You are
a good boy, Jonas," he said, looking at the other two. "Now go
and wash up."


"Yes," answered Tieg, his voice trapped in the memory.

"Good.... Anton, tomorrow you will dismiss the students
for their late-winter recess and then take your own holiday on
the island. Make certain that the staff is prepared for my arrival.

the overseer	351


New Orleans. And Jonas"--he paused, expecting no answer--
"you will be in San Francisco. Is everything clear?"

As one, the voices responded. "Yes."

o'connell stepped from the driver's seat, the wagon a far

"Good. I will correct the mistake you have made. Do not put
me in this position again. I am getting far to old to clean up

green color. At the back, the window was a wild menagerie of
college and high school stickers, the bumper a collection of
strange warnings and even stranger messages, sometimes the
two commingling in a single effort: watch our for the lord-- he don't need no flashing lights. Alison stood rapt, reading
each one with a certain deference, as if she had gleaned a more
subtle meaning beneath the clutter. O'Connell tossed the keys
to Xander and moved toward her.

"The bike's about a fifteen-minute drive from here," he said.
"I'll need a lift." He drew up next to Alison and joined in the
perusal. "It's an odd mix, that's for certain." She continued to
stare. "All this and that, and not much to tie it together. Still, it
makes for a nice bit of reading."

She turned to him, a smile creasing her lips. He started to
move toward the open door, she quick to grab his arm, the smile
no less genuine, the eyes no less gentle. For a moment, O'Connell
stared at her, uncertain as to how he should react. Then,
very slowly, he placed his hand on hers and said, "Why don't
you come sit with me. We'll ride together. How about that?"

The smile grew on her lips, the eyes brighter still.

"Good." He winked and brought her to the door.

Twelve minutes later, Xander began to slow along an isolated
strip of road leading toward the town of Bryan, O'Connell
giving instructions from the backseat. The bike was off in the
woods; he would manage it himself.



**"- >M

"None taken," answered Xander.	WQrds to me appropriate p^ wd me entire mess in Europe

Sarah was not convinced. It s nearly fifteen hundred miles _

^,	, „ , n,	.11 u "	I	project than had his predecessor. His predecessor, he thought,

to the compound, Gael. Plus, you 11 be--	I	r 	. , ,,	-. . , „

*	rntchard. How eager he had been to join Eisenreich. How cer-
He
shook his head.	| cluster of cabins beyond were private property. Schenten's one-

362	Jonathan
Rabb


added. "I can probably have the men together in eighteen hours.
It's open country, so find a place within about seventy-five
miles of the--"

"I know the drill," said Sarah. "We'll be lucky if we get
there by tomorrow morning. We'll have to watch ourselves, especially
with Alison--"

"I'd like to go with him," said the girl, her voice quiet but
clear. All three turned at once, Sarah the first to respond.

"That might be a little difficult, Alison." She tried her best
to reassure. "Gael only has a motorcycle--"

"I know." The voice was no less direct. "I would like to go
with him."

Sarah looked at her onetime associate. The expression on his
face was anything but what she expected. He was grinning.

"And I've got mine. All the easier to keep them both out of
harm's way."

"Might not be such a bad idea," said the Irishman. "Me taking
her." The idea seemed to gain momentum, the smile growing.
"In fact, it might be the best thing to split them up, just in
case...." He looked at Sarah. "You've got your charge--no offense,
Professor--"

"Might be a bit blowy," he said, turning back to Alison and
ignoring Sarah. "And there won't be much time for sleep." Alison
continued to stare at him. "Well"--he nodded to himself--
"I suppose that's that, then." He opened the door and stepped
outside, reaching his hand back to help Alison from the car. A
few seconds later, he ducked his head in, grabbed her heavy
coat, and said, "We'll see the two of you outside of Wolf Point.
Safe journey." And with that, he slammed the door and headed
for the woods.

. Sarah turned to Xander, astonishment etched across her
face. He was smiling.

"What?" she asked.

the overseer	363


"What?"

"She'll be fine," he answered. "Probably do her some

good."

"It's not her I'm worried about."


the twin-engined Packer dipped comfortably over the secluded
airfield, its landing lights flashing along the ground in
bloodred intervals. A few patches of snow remained, but none
to blemish the stark black line that cut through the expanse, a
strip of tar amid a pale sea of rock and earth. Seated beside the
pilot in the cockpit, the old man clutched at his armrest, the
plane already in middescent. As the ground approached, his
thoughts drifted.

would be forgotten. Likewise, the connection to Schenten. Unfortunately,
the young man was proving far less amenable to the

There had been nothing from Stein--now sleeping comfortably
in the back of the plane--nothing that might indicate that
the intelligence officer had come to the right decision, a fact
that troubled the old man only in that he now realized how useful
his "guest" could be, given the situation with Jaspers. A few

tain, how committed. Stein, however, was showing no such enthusiasm.
Chains evidently lacked the necessary allure. But he
was a smart boy. He would recognize the inevitability of it all.
And he had shown a surprising concern for the young professor
while under the narcotic. That, at least, was encouraging.

Within twenty minutes, they had reached the turnoff for the
compound, a half mile of chewed gravel that lent the place a
rustic quality, perhaps even a hint of dilapidation should anyone
venture beyond the no trespassing signs plastered along
the trees on either side. A seemingly cosmetic wooden gate
stood at the end of the winding road, a quaint reminder that the



-^m^mi/',r/--WXff.*' pounds
'
W/^'. '




364	Jonathan Rabb	I	THE OVERSEER


365




time he had retreated to the bedroom for another visit with Ms.
Palmerston. He had always required a certain attention at times
of greatest intellectual excitement. For a man his age, he possessed
a remarkable eagerness; happily for both, he managed to
sustain it with an equally vibrant stamina.

She was asleep as he left the room, her legs draped lazily
across the bed, the single white sheet brushing coyly over her
perfectly rounded rump. He lingered at the door for a moment
and then shut it, moving down the corridor toward the waiting
elevator.

The ride to the subterranean lab took nearly four minutes, a
slow descent to a depth of almost a hundred feet. Monitored at
all times by heat-sensitive cameras, the elevator was fitted with
an automatic disabling device should the temperature rise
above a certain level without prior authorization. The snail-like
pace was simply an added precaution to give those below time
to prepare should anyone manage to circumvent the system.
The doors opened and he stepped out to the bright lights of a
corridor, newly carpeted since his last visit. Paolo stood directly
across from him, a glass of water in one hand, several pills in
the other. The old man smiled and shook his head.

"You are determined to keep me healthy," he said, taking the
pills, then tossing the water back with an exaggerated snap of

At the top of the steps, an attractive woman in a calf-length	his head. He returned the glass and started down the hall, the

skirt and white blouse extended her arm. The old man refused	temperature dropping several degrees as he neared a steel arch-
it
and moved past her into the house. "It's good to have you	way, its metallic sheen jarring against the pristine white of the

back sir"	surrounding walls. Beyond it, the corridor became a balcony

"You will come with me to my room, Ms. Palmerston."	some fifteen feet long, a ledge that extended over a large open

He was halfway down the hall before she turned to follow.	area, the space below filled with computer equipment. Nothing

overly elaborate--keyboards, terminals, one ceiling-high
screen covering the far wall--all relatively quiet save for the

by 4:30, he was ready to assess the linkups with the satellites.	purring of various plastic boxes, all of which he admired from

Two of the tracking specialists had put in an appearance at	a distance. Such things were beyond him, a choice he had made

lunch, each to assure him that everything was in order--codes,	long ago. Others understood them and that was enough. He

transmission sequencing--anything that required an expertise	took his time with the steps before reaching the lower level,

in software. They had returned to the lab while he had phoned , whereupon Paolo began the introductions,
his three prefects with last-minute instructions, after which ,	"This is Angela Duciens," he said. "She is--"

time sanctuary. How much had changed, he thought, in only a
few short years.

As the car pulled to a stop at the gate, a squirrel ventured
across its path, the animal stopping to sniff at the post. It was a
mistake the little creature would not soon forget. Its tiny body
lurched into spasms, the shock lasting only seconds, but enough
to indicate that all was not as it seemed. The men in the car
watched as the squirrel fell to its side, its twitching less and less
animated, until, finding its feet again, it slowly limped into the
woods. The system had been designed so that the larger the animal,
the greater the shock. A moment later, the gate opened,
and the large Mercedes continued through, lumbering past a set
of cabins and up toward a ranch-style building set off from the
rest. A tall, bald man stood waiting at the door.

"How many are we, Paolo?" The old man shifted his weight
forward and stepped from the car without so much as a nod of
thanks for the extended hand.

"Twelve. Not including those assigned to the house and the

lab."

"Excellent. I will take a nap, some lunch, after which time I
would like to see how everything is proceeding. You will then
join me." The man nodded. "I trust we have put Wolfenbiittel
behind us." He did not wait for an answer.


with small blue dots. The final stage.


wanted to be here," she said playfully, "so this is where we'll

"I suppose it would be a little more comfortable, yes." Their
Chaos was at hand.	faces were less them &ix inches from each Qther ..^ you

eyes, "if it's only fair." She slipped past him and moved to the thought we could

366	Jonathan Rabb


"A marvelous field hockey player," the old man cut in. "Yes
of course. At the school in California. I seem to recall a match
in which you scored--what was it, six, seven goals? Wonderful
play."

The young woman flushed. "It was eight, actually."

"Of course." He smiled, his hands raised in the air in absolute
delight. "Eight. How could I have forgotten? Eight indeed.
And against a rather formidable defense, if memory
serves." The woman nodded modestly. "Still, I should have remembered.
You will forgive an old man."

So went all the introductions, eased by the notes Paolo had
prepared for him less than an hour ago; still, the tactic was having
the desired effect. It was also allowing him to scan the large
screen on the far wall, a map of the United States, peppered


she was reluctant at first. Stopping would be dangerous. The
quicker to Montana, the better. Then again, they had made remarkable
time, twelve hours of uninterrupted speed, a slight
delay around Chicago for the late-morning rush hour, and then
open road for nearly nine hundred miles. Even then, it had been
a temporary diversion. Perhaps Xander was right. Perhaps they
could afford to stop. Sleep--the vital weapon. Just beyond the
last tourist signs for Bald Hill Dam, she took them off Route 94.
Xander said the fates were being kind. Sarah knew better.

Six miles from the highway, however, his mood changed
dramatically, the relative calm of the drive all but forgotten
once they stepped inside the room. It was a near carbon copy of
the Tempsten accommodations---small sofa and a bed, a lamp
whose shade had seen better days. Sarah had little trouble identifying
the source of his awkwardness.

"No, no, no," he said quickly, "you use the bathroom first.
You've been driving. It's only fair."

She peered over at him. "Fine," she answered, a smile in her

the overseer	357


bathroom. Half a minute later, she reemerged, to find him bedded
down on the sofa, a pillow missing from under the bedspread.
His back was to her.

Staring across at his long body under the blanket, she couldn't
help but smile. Quietly, she let her jeans slip to the floor, her
T-shirt loose at her thighs. She then flicked off the light and
walked over to the sofa. Without a word, she slowly slid in beside
him.

He nearly jumped, pressing his back against the back of the
sofa and taking the covers with him. "What are you doing?"

"It's a little cozy, but--"

"No, I mean what are you doing?" He tried not to stare at her
legs. "I... I left you the bed." He tossed the blanket on top of
her. "I thought... I thought you'd want the bed."

sleep."

He tried to get up but realized it would mean having to slide
over her. "This ... this isn't going to work."

"It was your choice."

"No. You don't..." His awkwardness was turning to genuine
anxiety. "Look, I don't think this is--"

"Is what?" For the first time, Sarah felt uncomfortable.

"Is ... what we should be doing."

She stared at him for a moment. "I see." She slowly sat up,
her back to him. "What exactly is it that we shouldn't be
doing?" She waited. "I'm not asking you to sleep with me,
Xander, if that's what you're worried about."

"No," he said defensively. "That's not what' I thought. It's
just that I... I don't know...."

"You don't know what?"

It took him a moment to answer. "I don't know ... if I can
do this."

She looked at him. "Do what?" Again, she turned away. "I



™^'<^^Si^ttsiw'jzK'#yzti2


60 did 1. -	gbe puned j,im insjde of her, thighs clenched around his

For a few moments, neither said a word, his cheek somehow	brought Was chest to ^ pressing her breasts against Wm as

closer to her neck, his chest all too conscious of the touch of her	^ continued to surge into one anomer No sound save for the

neck, "which was ... remarkable."	around each othej. ^ could hardly breathe.

368	Jonathan Rabb

"Then why are you doing this?"


while. That's all." There was a caring in her voice. "I meant
what I said yesterday."

back. "It's been ..." He struggled to find the words. "I lost my
wife a few years ago. She was ... she made everything right.
And then she was gone." Tears began to fill his throat. "And
then yesterday, I held you." She could feel his breath on her

"For me, too," she whispered.

Again silence. "Sarah ... it's been a long time since I let
myself--" He stopped.

She remained still. "I understand. I do." She started to get
up.

"No," he said, taking her arm and keeping her on the sofa.
"I don't want you to have to understand. Holding you was ... I
never thought I'd be able even to do that again. Maybe it's because
of what's been going on.... I just haven't felt like that."

She could sense his lips near her neck, her body suddenly
frail, small. She felt his arm slowly begin to trace around her
waist, pulling her closer, pressing her to him. "Like what?" she
whispered.

His arm began to tremble; his lips brushed across her neck,
the very touch enough to shorten her breath, her lungs tighten
with air. "To be held." She turned to him, everything suddenly
numb, eyes lost to one another. And he lifted her up, his hands
cradling her in their grasp, the bed, her head on the pillow, his
breath colliding with hers, the sweet taste of lilac on his tongue.
They kissed, tenderly at first, each a quiet exploration, innocent
desire mingling with the anguish of first touch. Soon, the heat
of her body seemed to envelop him, his hands drawn to the
flesh of her back, his mouth swallowing the nape of her neck,
down to her breasts, the eager curve of her thigh, all semblance
of covering thrown from the bed. She, too, fell into him, driving
her fingers through his hair, forcing him onto his back and rid-
the
overseer	369

waist, driving upward with each thrust. He grabbed at her back,


ing up on top of him, her tongue gliding through the ridge of his
chest, her lips bathing him in an unleashed longing.

gasping for air. Suddenly, she was on her back, his arms engulfing
her, his desire rising, her fingers tearing into him--
back, thighs--pulling him in deeper, deeper, until in an
anguished release, they climaxed, arms clenched so tightly

Unable to let go, they fell asleep, naked in each other's

arms.


the first explosion bolted them upright; the second forced her
to the edge of the bed, flames from outside rising and falling in reflection through the paper-thin blinds. She looked back at him
but could find no words. He, too, was silent. Their reprieve was
over. The world outside had returned.

She stood and grabbed for her clothes, he frozen, his back
rigid against the wall. Pulling her jeans to her waist, she moved
to the window and peeled back a corner of the blind. Outside,
rain pelted at the glass, hardly enough, though, to blur the
source of the explosion. There, in the most distant part of the
parking lot, she saw the engine of a small truck in flames, its
meaning clear. An invitation. An invitation to her. Sarah pulled
on her shirt and peered out again, the handle of her gun wedged
tightly in her fingers. She looked back at Xander; he had not
taken his eyes from her. She slowly opened the door and
stepped out into the downpour.

The rain was cold, at first jarring, then a relief, shocking her
senses into wakefulness. A number of the motel's guests had
also ventured out, the owner of the truck all too obvious among
them, a man lost in utter disbelief, pacing a few yards from the
fire. Several others worked extinguishers in an attempt to tame
the worst of the blaze, but they were only a diversion, a means,



tfSJ


ward the woods	I was a^ Sarah needed. Sensing the pressure lift from her fore-

370	Jonathan
Rail


she realized, to get her out of the room. What other reason
could there be? Somewhere among the faces, she knew a pair
of eyes was watching, waiting for her to emerge. She could
sense them, feel them on her.

This time, the men of Eisenreich had been clever. This time,
they had forced her hand. Searching the rooms would have left
too much to chance. Too many options. A wrong choice and
they would have left themselves open. Better to draw her out.

She spotted the man among the guests. He was making no
attempt to blend in with the growing crowd. Rather, he stood a
few paces off to the right, staring directly at her, an obese
woman clutched at his side. Etched across the woman's face
was the look of abject terror. Sarah understood. He was going
to kill someone. Whom that might be would all depend on her.
Either way, it would not be here. Death in the open would be
foolish. Too many witnesses. He was playing it well.

Certain that she had seen him, the man moved off toward the
trees across from the motel, his arm held firmly around the bait.
Sarah watched as they disappeared. She then turned and whispered
through the open door to Xander.

"Get some clothes on, grab your gun and pack, and get outside.
I want you to work your way into the crowd by the fire."
He started to answer. "Just do it!" Before he could say anything,
she was gone.


xander threw the blanket from his legs and pawed the carpet
for his pants and shirt. Half a minute later, he emerged from
the room, the rain battering at his face as he tried to find her.
There had been something in her voice, something he had never
heard before. So quickly back to this. He wanted to cry out, to
pull her close to him, but there was no place, no time, for such
thoughts. They had stolen a few hours. Nothing more.

He looked to his left--the fire. He peered into the rain--a
darting figure across the road. And then he heard the sirens. Police.
They would ask questions. He shut the door and raced to-

the
overseer	371


sarah slipped through the trees, her gun drawn. The rain had
begun to come down in torrents, lashing at her face from all
sides and forcing her hand to her eyes with greater frequency.
Visibility was next to nil; any hopes of hearing them up ahead
were lost to the percussive hammering of water on a frozen
ground. But they were there. She knew that. He had set the trap,
and he would be waiting.
A shadow skimmed across a tree not ten feet in front of her;
then, from nowhere, the body of the screaming woman came
barreling through the darkness, arms flailing, a useless piece of
bait discarded before the attack. Sarah braced for the impact,
expecting to feel the huge frame collapse into her arms, but it
was not to be. Instead, the woman stopped. For the briefest of
moments, they stared at each other. And in that instant, Sarah
knew. She saw it in the woman's expression, in the angle of her
head. There had never been any bait. There had never been any
terror. But it was too late. The woman crashed her hand down
onto Sarah's gun, leveling her foot into Sarah's chest and careening
her into the grasp of an outstreched branch. As she fell,
Sarah tried to find her footing, but the ground was too slick. Almost
at once, the woman was on top of her, two hundred
pounds of flesh slamming them both to the ground, her massive
arms and thighs straddling Sarah in a viselike grip.

She felt the crack first, then the pain, a searing bolt of agony
through her chest. Her ribs. How many had been broken, she could only guess. Thick fingers began to tear into her neck,
knuckles grind into her trachea, thumbs dig deeply into the soft
flesh just below her chin. Coughing for breath, Sarah felt her
head lighten, the scene around her grow dark, consciousness
ebb. Only the pain in her chest kept her alert, enough to thrust
her knee into the woman's back, the rolls of flesh cushioning
the blow, the attack only spurring the woman to claw more furiously
into Sarah's neck.

But the woman was too eager, her rabid desire forcing her to
shift her knee ever so slightly so as to gain greater leverage. It

n



?*


''If V &

'/$A
a.

372	Jonatkan Rabb


arm, Sarah ripped her hand from its prison and forced her fingers
to the woman's head. In an act of brutal desperation, she
drove her nails down into the woman's scalp, flesh and hair
clawed at in savage frenzy. The woman lurched back, her hands
releasing Sarah's neck. The darkness at once receding, air again
filling her lungs. It was less than a second before the huge
frame again bore down on her, but this time Sarah was prepared.
As the woman leaned forward, Sarah lifted both her
knees into the woman's back, using the woman's own weight to
propel the lunging body forward, too fast to control, arms
forced to reach beyond Sarah's head, thighs forced to release so
as to steady themselves. With a quick burst, Sarah grabbed at
the woman's crotch and pulled herself through the thick legs,
twisting the soft genitalia as she gained her feet. The woman
screamed, Sarah still scorching her nails up into the hairy flesh,
scraping at the tender mound, the woman's mammoth frame
dropping to the ground. She tried to flip over, but Sarah
grabbed her arm and twisted it, wrenching it until the shoulder
pulled from its socket. Without hesitation, she then dug her fingers
into the woman's neck, hoisted the upper torso a few
inches from the ground, and, with her knee, hammered down
into the base of the woman's spine. The sound of a single snap
told her it was over.

The pile of flesh twitched once as Sarah doubled over, the
pain in her chest unforgiving, pulsating through her body with
each gasp for breath. Her mind had gone blank, only now
thoughts returning--the man, the fire... Xanderl She bolted
upright, suddenly aware of what had happened, the reason she
had been lured to the trees. How could I have been so stupid! She began to run, her body bent to one side, her arm pulled in
tightly so as to stifle the pain. Xander. It had been him all along,
everything else a diversion. Images of Amman flashed through
her mind. She needed him to be alive, to be safe. Not again!
Please be by the fire! Please!

"Sarah."

The muted whisper tore through, the voice somewhere up
ahead.

the overseer	373


xander crept through the trees, the gun at his side clutched
in both hands. He had heard something off to his left, the
pounding of the rain making it impossible to determine the
source. He stopped, waited, then whispered.

"Sarah."

Again the sound, and he turned, his gun raised.


sarah pulled herself to a tree, able to make out a figure no
more than fifteen yards ahead of her. It was Xander, the silhouette
unmistakable. He stood with his gun drawn, unaware of the
man who now appeared behind him.

"Xander! " she screamed.

But it was too late. The man crashed the butt of his gun
down into Xander's neck, a moment later hoisting the unconscious
body to his shoulder as he began to weave his way
through the trees. Sarah followed, but with each step, the man
slipped farther and farther from sight. She had nothing--no
gun, no knife--only her will to stop him. But the pain had
grown unbearable.

Staying within the shadows, she turned to her left and
caught sight of the man now thirty yards ahead of her, his pace
remarkable given Xander's weight on his back. He, too, had
kept to the edge of the trees and was showing no signs of slowing.
Sarah tried to run, but her ribs would not permit it as she
watched the man slip behind a curve in the road. Seconds later,
the reflection of taillights bled out into the darkness. She propelled
herself forward and staggered to the bend, only to see the
car vanish from sight.

She stood and stared into the darkness as the rain whipped
through her. Minutes passed before she dropped to her knees,
her face lost in tears.

For herself, for him--she did not know.



JfZtf:

m^-:

the overseer	375


She had put the call through to O'Connell just the other side
of the Montana border.

"We've been waiting to hear from you." His voice was tired.

10

"We?" she asked.

"I've been a bit quicker than I'd originally planned. Most of
the boys are in place. We've set up camp--"

"I've lost Jaspers."

"What?"

Few men nave the courage to...[s]eize the moment
ana dare to alter the very name of supremacy.


-- On Supremacy, dedicatory letter

"I... I let them take him."

He had heard that same tone in her voice only once before.
In Amman. "Take it easy, Sarah. How?" He waited for an answer.
When none came, he continued hesitantly. "Is he--"

"Lost, not dead. At least I don't think he is	"

"How much does this complicate things?" O'Connell needed
to focus her.

), . . .	,	,	"... I don't know."

HE had driven through the night, a torn sheet wrapped	he ^^ ^ ^^ ^	m?,,

so, the stiffness was making it difficult to breathe. She knew

"What?"

there had been no point in going after them. It had taken too	l(They had Mm ^ ^ me ^ ^ enough tQ finish ft ^

tightly around her chest to give some support to her ribs. Even	^ ^ ^ ^^ ^ ^^ ^ ^,(^ m ^^

a knife. Easy, noiseless, safe. Why take him?"

"I don't follow."

"He's not a bargaining chip. Christ, they know we'd let him
die if it meant shutting them down. So why take him?"

O'Connell inhaled deeply before responding. "These aren't
the questions we need to be hearing at this point."

"Xan ... Jaspers was convinced he'd been chosen."

"You'll have to explain that one."

"He thought there was a reason he was involved with all of
this. It's something Schenten said before he died. Does that
make any sense to you?"

"Chosen? Chosen for what?"

"I don't know. I don't know. But they've never hesitated in
trying to kill me, so why not himT She could hear Xander asking
the same question, see him pounding at the wheel as they

long to get back to the motel, too many minutes spent peeling
off the pants, knifing through the shirt to avoid further agony.
Two, maybe three ribs were broken. One would have been
enough. She had tossed the soaking clothes into the center of
the room, a minute later collapsing into a tub of steaming water.
Lying in the darkness, she had rethought every move, every
moment. By the fire! I will come back for you. All she had
wanted was to protect him, to keep him safe. A chance to make
things right.

More than the lapse, though, the minutes of silence had
forced her to confront an equally damning truth. She had taken
a life. Willfully taken a life. This time, there had been no swerve
of the blade, no choice--conscious or not--to disable rather
than to destroy. With quiet deliberation, she had snapped a
woman's back in two. Assassin. "That's not why they chose

you," he'd said. How little he had understood. How close she had sped through the open road--anger in his voice, uncertainty,
had come to believing him.	B And she had promised to protect him....


%&
3g|fc

§^F

',*- -;

Life:

a moment of nausea. Not that he had any memory of the act it-	1	Vlsed otherwise and he fell back to the bed. With considerable

self. In fact, he had no memory at all. Nothing. Only shadows,	I	effort, he moved a hand to his neck and began to probe the area

images flying through his head like the streaks of light glisten-	I	with ^8 fingers. The swelling was sizable, the skin still tender

ing somewhere beyond him. He tried to think back, to recall the	I	to me touch. More startling, though, was the sight of a small

instant before the blackout, but he saw only snatches, disparate	I	bandage on his forearm, a square piece of gauze held in place by

o nnvwi.., C.4-.J	C _ Jl		tt	i	...	*	J

a narrow strip of adhesive. He released his neck and held his arm
out straight. The area around the bandage was horribly discolored,
slivers of vein coursing through a mound of black-and-blue
flesh. He reached over and gently slid his fingers along the
edge of the wound. It, too, was remarkably tender.

With a quick pull, he yanked the adhesive off and stared at
the small hole in his arm, a red dot where a needle had entered.
A needle? The tiny reminder drove the memories back into his
conscious mind--the room, the bed, the voice, his voice but not
his voice, and the blinding light

wouldn't move. It felt compressed to the pillow, weighted down, T^y had drugged him. They had violated his mind and had

so much so that he needed all his strength to turn ever so slightly stolen Was wil1 to resist.

toward the light. Patterns began to appear, flowers along a dis-
But why? what could they have gained? He struggled for an

tant wall, soon the shape of a bureau beneath them, a small answer. They had the disc; they had the document he had put to-

376	Jonathan
Rabb


"And you agree with him?" O'ConnelFs tone had changed.

"... I don't know."

"I see." He paused. "The question is, would it make any difference?
I assume the schedule went with the good doctor." The
silence on the other end of the line was answer enough. "Well,
they're following it. The English ambassador is all over the

news.

That conversation had ended two hours ago. Just before
dawn.

Now, razored strips of bloodred copper breached the morning
sky as she pulled to a stop. A motorcycle stood patiently by
the small cabin, still hidden from a hesitant sun. Sarah watched
as the light crept over the edge of the canyon; like a wave, it
swept along, swallowing O'Connell as he neared.

pieces of the last week colliding in disarray. All without sequence,
without order. He wanted to focus, to find the source of
the light, hoping that it would free his thoughts from their confusion,
but the haze persisted--violence and terror fusing with
the soft caress of a woman's hand.

He swallowed--a burning in his throat--and blinked several
times, the pain slowly bringing objects into view. His senses of
smell and touch were somehow more acute--the scent of
freshly washed linen, the feel of crisp sheets pulled tightly over
him--each helping to rouse him from his stupor. But his head


xander slowly opened his eyes, a dull throbbing in his neck
and the taste of vomit in his throat, the scent enough to rekindle

r


the overseer	377


wooden chair placed at its side. He forced himself to concentrate
on the objects, to imagine the iron coldness of the brass handles,
all in an attempt to regain himself.

A window proved to be the source of the light, cotton drapes
billowing in the breeze. The rest of the room was empty, save for
an oval throw rug placed at the side of the bed. Everything neat,
simple.


He lay still for a few minutes. A certain peace returned, an
order to the memories, but soon, far more disquieting images
began to flood his mind, muffled exchanges as if from within a
fog. A voice, his voice but not his voice, all of it dreamlike, yet
real. Figures standing over him, blinding light searing into his
eyes, thick fingers probing his face, stabbing pain throughout his
body, then nausea and darkness. He tried to hold on, maintain
contact, but the more he struggled, the more they faded to obscurity.

The smell of coffee momentarily distracted him, his first inclination
to sit up. Immediately, a jolt of pain in his shoulder ad-


si^'£&/Jf*jaL
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./sr»:


the overseer	381


This time, he waited. "Come now, Amy, would I risk a sure

380	Jonathan Rail

thing?


"Flying in? . . . I thought--"

He cut the line as the car pulled up to the terminal.

"The situation has changed. Meet me at the airstrip--two
o'clock."

A nice piece of work. Remarkable, given the conditions under
which you wrote it." Lundsdorf had taken a seat on the bed, the
document at his side. "A few holes here and there, but the theory
is sound." There was a knock at the door. "Come."

A woman appeared, a glass of deep purple liquid in her hand.
She extended the glass to Xander.

"I don't understand. We've been given express orders not to
leave--"

"Then make sure no one sees you." He paused. "Do I make
myself clear?"

The response was immediate. "Perfectly."

Twenty minutes later, Tieg sat in the backseat of his limousine,
a phone pressed to his ear.

"And if you're not back?"*The voice on the other end was

Amy Chandler's. "You're getting much too hot, Jonas, to pull 	"Take ll" advised Lundsdorf. "I am told it will relieve the

one of your disappearing acts. A rerun at this point could seri-
knot
in your stomach, reduce the nausea. Primarily beets, a car
,
, ,	.	_ rot or two, some turnips. Nothing mysterious." Xander took the

glass and sipped at the concoction. The woman was gone by the
time he drained the glass. "Last night was no doubt... unpleas
ously
threaten our momentum.		v	& J

"As I said, I'll be back. If not--"

, .... . , . ,	ant," continued Lundsdorf. "You have my apologies."

faxes and E-mails, not to mention the Web site--which was |	"Why?" whispered Xander.

packed. Jonas, this is as close as you get to a sure thing."

"No if nots. Last night alone we had over twelve thousand

"We had to make certain that the information--"

Tm well aware of that. There s a tape in my desk--some- 	,,,T „,.,,.,.

,. T tt. , ,	it.	a »u	t»	1	No, he broke in, his eyes riveted on the old man "Why
thing I put together last week. Just me and the camera. It runs |	r,	J	"*

about forty-five--"

"What? You put something together? Hello, Jonas, remem

Lundsdorf
looked at Xander, then spoke. "Because I knew
what the manuscript had to offer. Because I could bring it to

her me? Remember Amy, the producer."	life."

"Amy ... dear ... I was going to show it to you this after-	"j see »

noon. I had it in mind for next week, but it'll be just as effective	«Do you?» He waited before continuing «You see me re_

tonight. Or would you prefer a rerun?"	sponsibility, the burden such a discovery places on one's shoul-
She
paused before answering. "What's on the tape?"	ders? Long ago, I saw beyond the theory, beyond the words. I

"I suggest you take a look."	saw the reality of order, of permanence, of an end to mediocrity.

Again silence. "I don't like when you do this, Jonas."	In such instances, there is no choice."

"I said I'll be back."	"Really." Xander nodded, more to himself than to the old

"I don't have a choice, do I?"	man. "How brave of you." He placed the empty glass oh the bu-
"Not
really, no."	; reau and added, "At least now I know why I've managed to stay

"I didn't think so. I suppose you know there's a rumor going	alive."

around that you're thinking of jumping ship, a political move.	"That was miscommunication, nothing more."

Tell me it's not true, Jonas. Tell me that's not what I'll be seeing	I "The men in Salzgitter, the train? They seemed pretty clear

on the tape tonight."	f on what they had in mind."

Amy Chandler's. "You're getting much too hot, Jonas, to pull	"Take U'" advised Lundsdorf. "I am told it will relieve the

ously threaten our momentum."	FOt °r tW°' SOme ^^ Nothing mysterious." Xander took the

<1XT ... i , .. i	u j * i .u a	tims ne drained the glass. Last night was no doubt... unpleas-
No
if nots. Last night alone we had over twelve thousand	. „	D.	°	, ,,

, _ ..	. ™, u «. l-i.	a"1- continued
Lundsdorf. You have my apologies,
faxes and E-mails, not to mention the Web site--which was	j r t>

"I'm well aware of that. There's a tape in my desk-some-	,.No>>, he broke ^ ^ ^& ^^ ^ ^ ^ ^ .^

on the tape tonight."	on what they had in mind."


380	Jonatkan Rail


"Flying in? . . . I thought--"

"The situation has changed. Meet me at the airstrip--two
o'clock."

"I don't understand. We've been given express orders not to
leave--"

"Then make sure no one sees you." He paused. "Do I make
myself clear?"

The response was immediate. "Perfectly."

Twenty minutes later, Tieg sat in the backseat of his limousine,
a phone pressed to his ear.

one of your disappearing acts. A rerun at this point could serf-
"As
I said, I'll be back. If not-
packed.
Jonas, this is as close as you get to a sure thing."

"And if you're not back?""The voice on the other end was

thing I put together last week. Just me and the camera. It runs
about forty-five--"

"What? You put something together? Hello, Jonas, remember
me? Remember Amy, the producer."

"Amy ... dear ... I was going to show it to you this afternoon.
I had it in mind for next week, but it'll be just as effective
tonight. Or would you prefer a rerun?"

She paused before answering. "What's on the tape?"

"I suggest you take a look."

Again silence. "I don't like when you do this, Jonas."

"I said I'll be back."

"I don't have a choice, do I?"

"Not really, no."

"I didn't think so. I suppose you know there's a rumor going
around that you're thinking of jumping ship, a political move.
Tell me it's not true, Jonas. Tell me that's not what I'll be seeing

the overseer	ssi


This time, he waited. "Come now, Amy, would I risk a sure

thing?"

He cut the line as the car pulled up to the terminal.


A nice piece of work. Remarkable, given the conditions under
which you wrote it." Lundsdorf had taken a seat on the bed, the
document at his side. "A few holes here and there, but the theory
is sound." There was a knock at the door. "Come."

knot in your stomach, reduce the nausea. Primarily beets, a car-
glass
and sipped at the concoction. The woman was gone by the

"Why?" whispered Xander.

"We had to make certain that the information--"

A woman appeared, a glass of deep purple liquid in her hand.
She extended the glass to Xander.

you?"

Lundsdorf looked at Xander, then spoke. "Because I knew
what the manuscript had to offer. Because I could bring it to
life."

"I see."

"Do you?" He waited before continuing. "You see the responsibility,
the burden such a discovery places on one's shoulders?
Long ago, I saw beyond the theory, beyond the words. I
saw the reality of order, of permanence, of an end to mediocrity.
In such instances, there is no choice."

"Really." Xander nodded, more to himself than to the old
man. "How brave of you." He placed the empty glass oh the bureau
and added, "At least now I know why I've managed to stay
alive."

"That was miscommunication, nothing more."

"The men in Salzgitter, the train? They seemed pretty clear

384 	Jonathan Rail

the overseer 385 What I sought was the means to release us from such medioc rity."	meaningless banter; then the conversation turned to the theory.

"I see. So you picked Votapek, Tieg, and Sedgewick. Ge-	A"d with each new questi°n, Xander heard himself--reluctant

niuses all."	at first~~a§ree With Lundsdorf, accept his construct of order, au-
The
old man looked at Xander for a moment and then, with-	thority, even sacrifice.

out the slightest warning, burst into laughter. "Touche," he said.	Lundsdorf: "So you agree that there are a select few who

"I will not pretend that they do not leave something to be desired	have the v'SHance, the integrity, the wisdom to rule--surely they

in that quarter. Then again, we both know they are not stupid	also ^ve the responsibility to do so?"

men--far from it. They simply need guidance. They allow petty	If they--"

detail to cloud the mind."	"Yes or no ? Should we cede them responsibility? "

"And you, of course, have the vision to guide them."	"Yes, if--"

"You say it with such cynicism." Lundsdorf stopped and	"S° " would be best to permit them to guide the rest so that

peered over at his onetime student. "How different from last	the balance may be maintained?"

night."	"Yes, but you're assuming--"

"... Last night?"	"Only'whatyou have told me. They possess vigilance and in-
"When
we spoke." Lundsdorf's tone was far more cordial.	tegrity; they promote the primary functions of the state; they will

"You were far more interesting then."	make the mediocre better than they are."

"Last night," repeated Xander, "I was drugged."	"Yes.. .but I--"

"Exactly. What better time to speak the truth?"	"And their methods are justified by the end they seek--the

"The truth? The truth about what?"	balance, the permanence and progress of the state and its peo-
"Chaos,
power, the role of deception. You were quite candid,	pie."

quite supportive."	. "Yes... but you--"

The impact of his words was immediate. "I don't believe	"They have the wisdom, the integrity. You have said so your-
you''	self.
Surely they know better than the rest? "

Believe what? answered Lundsdorf casually. "I have said	"Yes but they	"

nothing. I am merely recalling what you said last night. Perhaps	"Surely they know better than the rest "

it is you who knows that we do not think so differently?"	"Yesi Yes' Yes'"

Xander turned to the window. 'Trust me, I could never think	Xander sat amazed, his faith in himself slipping further and


"IsthatsorLundsdorfreachedintohiscardiganpocketand	^^^ ^ ^ "^ ^ ^"^'^]a^ pulled out a small tape player. He placed it on the side table and	£ ™™™* °f Iong-ag° dlscussl°ns' "^tor and apprentice-asked,
"Would you Like to hear something from last night?"	eth ° g "*" ^f8" l° P.leaSe' S°°n' he *»» to hear Without waiting for an answer, he pressed the play button and	enthusiasm creep into his own voice.

sat back. A moment later, Xander listened as his own voice filled	' " °ff" A"™8 Wh° Sp°ke"

the room	But some of ^ most intriguing dialogue is yet to come,"

The words were heavy, slurred, but the voice was clearly his \ Lun£?dOrf rep"?d "You-"

own. A second voice began to ask questions. Lundsdorf. At first	ir,1"71!!!

The old man smiled and picked up the tape player, pressing


f^SJ


JiUfe.-,



384 - Jonathan
Rabb I	THE OVERSEER 385


What I sought was the means to release us from such medioc- I
i v .. i. i_

rit „ I	meannv^essbaater, tosvv \te CQiwere^otv tamed to toe \heory.

1	And witl1 each new question, Xander heard himself--reluctant

at first--agree with Lundsdorf, accept his construct of order,
thority, even sacrifice.

Lundsdorf: "So you agree that there are a select few who


have the vigilance, the integrity, the wisdom to rule--surety they _i	»_. .1	.....

au-
"I
see. So you picked Votapek, Tieg, and Sedgewick. Geniuses
all."

The old man looked at Xander for a moment and then, without
the slightest warning, burst into laughter. "Touch6," he said.
"I will not pretend that they do not leave something to be desired

in that quarter. Then again, we both know they are not stupid	I	alsoithave the responsibility to do so?'

men--far from it. They simply need guidance. They allow petty	I	^Ifthey--

detail to cloud the mind."	I	("Yes °r no ? Should we cede them responsibility ?"

"And you, of course, have the vision to guide them."	I	Yes, if--

"You say it with such cynicism." Lundsdorf stopped and		"S° il would be best to permit them to guide the rest so that

peered over at his onetime student. "How different from last	I	the balance may be maintained?"

night."	I	"Yes, but you're assuming--"

"... Last night?"	I	"Only what you have told me. They possess vigilance and in-
"When
we spoke." Lundsdorf's tone was far more cordial.		tegrity; they promote the primary functions of the state; they will

"You were far more interesting then."		make the mediocre better than they are."

"Last night," repeated Xander, "I was drugged."	I	"Yes... but I--"

"Exactly. What better time to speak the truth?"	B	"And their methods are justified by the end they seek--the

"The truth? The truth about what?"	B	balance, the permanence and progress of the state and its peo-
"Chaos,
power, the role of deception. You were quite candid,		pie."

quite supportive."		"Yes... but you--"

The impact of his words was immediate. "I don't believe		"They have the wisdom, the integrity. You have saidsoyour
y°u"	I	self-Surely
they know better than the rest?"

"Believe what?" answered Lundsdorf casually. "I have said	B "Yes... but they	"

nothing. I am merely recalling what you said last night. Perhaps	B	"Surely they know better than the rest."

it is you who knows that we do not think so differently?"	B	"Yes! Yes' Yes'"

Xander turned to the window. 'Trust me, I could never think	|	Xander sat amazed, his faith in himself slipping further and

like you.	B	further as each minute passed, the voice of Lundsdorf leading

"Is that so? Lundsdorf reached into his cardigan pocket and	BJ	on memorip,; nf inna *™ a- .,
lcau">£

pulled out a small tape player. He placed it on the sidefcble and	I	£ «r ever^~ g ^T^' " ^ appKniKe~

Led, "Would you Like to hear something from last night?"	I	2ST«^ T h ^ ? "' * ^ * *"

„,., . . , , , , , , ^ ,		entnusiasm creep into his own voice.

Without waiting for an answer, he pressed the play button and		"T,,m;t^ff"T* v j

... . v .,... r-ii j	K	lurn it on. It was Xander who spoke

sat back. A moment later, Xander listened as his own voice filled	K	««„*,.„„ f»u

.		But some of the most mtngumg dialogue is yet to come,"

^ ^ u , ,4 u u - ,
, u-		Lundsdorf replied. "You--"

The words were heavy, slurred, but the voice was clearly his	^B	,™ . V, „

a j-l , t j j _r a r- »	I'll	Turn
it off.

own. A second voice began to ask questions. Lundsdorf. At first	wt	_, ,,

^»	ine old man smiled and picked up the tape player pressing



**"TS
!/ -3


<s r>
*&*', .


^ ^£^'''''


' &"


"I'm sure you've got the next little trio already picked out." 	"This," said O'Connell, "is the special package we'll be tak-

386	Jonathan
Rabb


down on the button as he did so; Xandef remained by the window.
"Are you surprised?"

"Surprised by what?"

"Come now, you readily admitted that there are those who
are born to lead, that they have vision--"

"Your word, not mine."

"Semantics."

"Whatever condition I was in--whatever condition you put me in--I was speaking theoretically. Not practically. You
were putting words in my mouth. None of it had to do with
Eisenreich."

"It had everything to do with Eisenreich." Lundsdorf paused.
"If it was all theory, why did it provoke such hesitation at first?"

"I was disoriented--"

"Really? Why, then, are you so eager to stop listening now?
As you say, it was merely an academic exercise. What is the
harm in that?"

"I have no interest in--"

"Or shall I play you an excerpt from our discussion of the
overseer where you explain the intricate relationship between
knowledge and deception? Or perhaps the exchange in which
you offer solutions for some of the more troubling sections of
the manuscript? Your remarks are quite convincing."

"Why are you doing this?" asked Xander. Lundsdorf said
nothing. "Pang of conscience? Is that what this is--you need to
hear that everything you've done is acceptable, noble, that we
should all thank you for taking on the responsibility? Sorry. You
won't get confirmation from the ivory tower--"

"I do not seek your approval."

"Then why?"

Lundsdorf placed the tape player in his pocket. "As you said,
men are fallible."

"That's not an answer."

"I, too, am concerned about my three 'geniuses.' They will,
of course, have to be replaced at some point. Perhaps sooner
than later. Three others will be chosen, groomed, made ready."

T


the overseer	387


"No," said Lundsdorf, a look of fond recollection in his eyes.
"I have played my part." He peered over at Xander. "There,
someone else must take the reins." The two men stared at one
another. "How did Eisenreich put it? A man with the insight of
Aurelius, the self-command of Cincinnatus." Lundsdorf picked
up the papers. "A man with the wisdom and integrity to sustain
the vision." He turned again to Xander. "I know of only one."

The room fell silent. Xander stood absolutely still, suddenly numb to the breeze on his back.


votapek began to backtrack. It was half a mile to the turnoff,
another half mile to the gate. He had been careful, more so than
usual. An assumed name on the airline ticket, several connections
along the way, three separate drivers for the last hundred
miles of the trip. He had thought about calling to explain his arrival,
but he knew the old man would only have convinced him
otherwise. The old man. It seemed strange to think of him as
such. They were all old men, now. A lifetime spent in the pursuit
of... what? It had become far more difficult to explain of late.
Perhaps Jonas was right. Perhaps they had been under the yoke
long enough.

The future, however, was not the reason Votapek had made
the trip. He had come for her. About that, there would be no discussion.


it was 3:11 when the last of them arrived, a small, fine-featured
man with a razor-thin beard. He looked no more than
twenty, his hands wedged deep within the pockets of a coat a
good two sizes too large for him. He remained by the door of the
cabin as O'Connell moved from behind the table to greet him.
Introductions were kept to a minimum. His name, Tobias Pier-son;
his passion, computers. And, from his appearance, he
looked completely out of place among the six men and two
women who nodded in welcome.




^

Y.r- .„*''/ <&f~Z 1

^


388	Jonathan Rail


ing into the compound. If it's got a keyboard, Toby here can play
it. He's a virtuoso."

Pierson rocked back and forth on his heels but said nothing.
The others turned back to the charts, O'Connell taking his place
at the head of the table. Only Sarah continued to stare at the
strangely unobtrusive specialist, his demeanor a complete surprise.
Cool to a fault--almost indifferent to the surroundings--
he glanced around the room, clearly uninterested in the group at
center. The sight of the refrigerator, however, prompted a momentary
raising of the eyebrow, and within seconds he was at
the door, examining the contents within. From the expression on
his face, Sarah could see he was not pleased. After several near
choices, he reached in and pulled out a can.

"Nothing that's not diet?" he asked, expecting someone at
the table to acknowledge him. When no one answered, he
shrugged. It was then that he noticed Sarah. "I don't like diet,"
he said. "It tastes kind of gray. You know, like washed-out carpets."

Sarah stared at him for a moment, then nodded. What else
was there to do? Evidently, their computer expert lived in his
own little world. Better not to disturb him. In that respect, she
realized how well he fit in with the others in the room. Sarah
knew three of the six, all men who belonged to a select group of
onetime Pritchard operatives, each, for reasons unknown, having
fallen from grace. Their stories were familiar. Cut adrift,
hunted for a time by the men who had trained them, each had
managed to survive to become independent contractors. Men
without allegiance, men beyond malice. Now all that mattered
was the price. She knew O'Connell had been right to choose
them. COS had been compromised; only those outside its reach
could be trusted. Only those at home in their own little worlds.
For some reason, the image of Xander flashed through her mind.

"These," O'Connell began, "are the original plans for the
building. The layout of the grounds, the fence--they're exactly
as you see them here. One difference is that they did some work
on the place about a year and a half ago. Trouble is, we don't
know what that entailed. A lot of material, but not a single

the overseer	389


change to the main frame--no extra rooms or floors. Which
leaves only one option. All those nice little additions must have
taken place underground. So, gents, getting inside is only half
the job. We're going to have to make sure that the access to the
lower level remains open. In other words, we're going to have
to make our way in very quietly. Good news is, there's no sign
of animals; bad news... well, you know the bad news. It'll be
trip wires most of the way up. Once inside the house, it's anybody's
guess." He paused again and then nodded toward Sarah.
"Our female colleague here will take charge of young Toby.
Hold his hand, as it were."

Still rummaging through the refrigerator, Pierson popped his
head out and said, "Just as long as she's holding it on the way
out."

"We go at seven," said O'Connell, his attention back on
those around the table. "You've each got copies of the prints--
that includes you, too," he said over his shoulder to Pierson.
O'Connell then looked at his watch. "Let's say an hour. Familiarized
and with specific options." The group dispersed, and
O'Connell made his way to the door, nodding to Sarah to join
him. A minute later, they were outside.

"How are the ribs?" he asked.

"Stiff, but I'll survive."

"You've had worse." He sat on the ledge of the porch. "You
don't have to do this, you know. You can monitor it from here."
Her silence sufficed as response. "It's a motley crew," he continued,
"but worth every penny. They'll get us in and out."

"If we can find some nondiet soda," answered Sarah. She sat.

"Ah, yes, Toby. Met him in Benghazi. Good lad. Couldn't
understand why he was roaming around a city that barely had
enough electricity to boil water; then I found he'd met someone
who was interested in a Mossad tracking system. A certain
Colonel." O'Connell squinted, trying to remember. "I think he
made Toby a lieutenant. Might have been a major. Toby just
liked the hat."

Sarah laughed, then stopped.

"You can't worry about him," added the Irishman.



m


391

r

the overseer


390	Jonathan Rail

As if on cue, Lundsdorf entered, a second man just behind
him at the door. "I see they have gotten something for you to eat.
Splendid. I trust you are feeling up to it?"

"Not much of an appetite, no."

"Understandable," Lundsdorf said as he sat across from Xan-der,
"but you would do well to try a few mouthfuls. Recover
your strength." The second man remained by the door.

"I hear Votapek's arrived," said Xander. "Another unexpected
guest?"


Lundsdorf smiled. "Try the hollandaise. It is really quite
good."

Xander stared at him. "Have you told them?"

'Told--ah, you mean about our conversation."

"I'll save you the trouble. I've considered the 'position.' I de-

"It's
not our computer friend I'm worried about."

"I know," he answered. "They had a clear shot and they
didn't take it." Sarah said nothing. "Chances are, Jaspers is still
alive."

"But for how long?" she asked.

"That's why we're going in quiet." O'Connell paused. "Now,
you don't think I'd tell that lot in there about it, would I? You've
got Toby. I'll take care of the professor."

Sarah smiled. "Alison was right. You're a nice man, Gaelin.
A very nice man."


xhe two academics had barely begun to talk when a woman
appeared at the door.

cline.

For a moment, Lundsdorf said nothing; then, in his most
comforting voice, he spoke. "What a strain this past week must
have placed on you-. I, too, was hesitant at first. But, as I said, in
such matters, there is no choice. Such things demand more of us
than perhaps we are able to see. In a less disoriented state, you
will look on it quite differently."

"I see. Read the manuscript and become a disciple?" Xander
pushed the plate to the middle of the table. "You seem to forget.
I did read it; and I didn 't convert. I'm sure, though, you can find
someone equally spirited from within the ranks. Isn't that what
those schools are all about?"

"What you read was a piece of theory written over four hundred
years ago. And we both know your mind and heart were not
exactly in the right place to appreciate it. You read from the
standpoint of uncertainty, from fear. It is not, to say the least, the
best position to be in when passing judgment."

"My judgment--"

"As to choosing from within the ranks," he continued, "that
was never a possibility. After Tempsten, we were forced to revise
the curriculum, concentrate on the more immediate goals.
We designed schools to produce soldiers, individuals who could

"What?" Lundsdorf had barked, his irritation apparent.

"I'm sorry to disturb you--"

"Yes, yes. What is it?"

"Mr. Tieg has just arrived."

Xander had seen the momentary look of surprise in the old
man's eyes, though Lundsdorf had been quick to recover.
"Thank you, Ms. Palmerston. Tell him I will be with him
presently." Turning to Xander, he had added, "Nothing you need
concern yourself with. In fact, some time alone might give you
the opportunity to consider your... position."

That had been nearly two hours ago. Since then, Xander had
showered, shaved, and dressed, venturing out into the maze of
hallways for a tour of the house. Not once, though, had he
stopped thinking about Lundsdorf's words, the enormity of their
implication. "/ knew from the start, from those first days with
your dissertation." Lundsdorf had spoken with absolute cer tainty. "Here was the mind I had been waiting for. Here was the
spirit to sustain the vision. It was simply a question of when to
introduce you to it." Xander had stood in utter disbelief. "You
are the one to succeed me. You are the one who must take the
reins." Even now, having been ushered into a small dining room
to face a plate of poached halibut, Xander found it hard to sum mon an appetite, despite the gnawing pit in his stomach.	§ carry out the tasks set before them.

394	Jonathan Rabb

«« , u	I	the °verseer „«,,
It you can t see the difference... I was protecting myself."	I	„., . 5

"And 7 was protecting something far greater than one life.	I	..^Ong1*wth its Pr°mise of manipulation, brutality hatred?"

How easily you have taken on the role of moralist. I do not think	I	W(, . If "* ^W, Xander. Temper it. You alone can do rtm

it suits you."	I	we both know that men will never abandon the"


perhaps because it's not in keeping with your usual com-	I	wajTcSLTmSetpSte^toa *' ^ *** ™"«^


The smile disappeared. Lundsdorf returned to the asparagus.	I	f* *? resP°nsibility to do so. You have troten ofThokS "t

"And the same for Ganz and Clara?"	I	agree' l *» telling you that chaos is inevitable The au t

"By then, it was a matter of security, but yes. I needed to	I	J™®:£ "* d° ,not stePin, then who? The military? It is as You

know what you had found. Mrs. Huber was ... the most obvi-	I	S,^?^ f^' Fois^haos on a people and you

ous choice. I knew you would send it to her. Her death was ... a	I	^ ^ ^ bef°re *"* run to *eir generals for in

mistake. You might find some solace in knowing that the	I	c7nSn u I™ PKfei that?" He P-used. "Render

woman responsible is no longer capable of such things."	I	pi™ .^i "e had no love of power, no desire to rule hm

"I don't."	I	™ Isttw	°Se^e>andheobeyed-Sadly, he abandoned


Xander waited before speaking. "So once again, everything I	Z^l**0**' f" alone to *ape'tte pratss whereby w^av

had to be just right for me to appreciate the manuscript. So I	~"h t" ™**t " WitWn US' Surely y°u c™ see the nobilitv

much for my 'genius' if you thought you had to hold my hand I	«T u

while I read it." I	J1 *« same way that Votapek, Sedgewick and TieP Hn?"

"Not at all. I have known you for fifteen years, Xander. I I	"j^foTh f ^ *" Wamith ^^^ from Lundsdorf'f eyes

have seen your mind develop, have helped to guide it in that de- 1	£~™
?°llsh °f me to ««* flat it's the promise of power It

velopment. You can be assured, I know exactly what it is that I	£l *^™' "f their 'nobility.' " Something suddenly strurk

compels you." I	h™-^X
s why they're here, isn't it? That's why the
"You a/M^ thought you knew what I wanted. That was the I	VIS15 ft.'S time to see who's ™ control." SUIpnSe

problem." I	<<1 said that need not concern you."

Lundsdorf pulled the rubber-banded Machiavelli from his I	1'^ ^ as ea8er for me to take the reins as you are?"

pocket and placed it on the table. "I, too, have always been I	"'« or no consequence."

rather fond of our Italian friend. The tapes from last night only I	allv^f" f Snuled'For *e &* time in days, he smiled "You rP

confirm what I have known all along. Even now, you are grow- I
.	t * y°U C3n C°nlro1 dl of ^s. don't you? Me '\toaJt

ing more and more intrigued-" I	^g^ manuscript says it»«« be so, ^j ^^ /^

"I've formed my opinion of your 'vision,' whatever you I	. vi~,, V1I™OUS man to make the world right. One man to make

think those tapes tell you, and no amount of intellectual jousting I	3 ^ of brutal'ty and deception." emantomake

is going to change that." 	., 3K not thinking clearly."


"Xander"-Lundsdorf again in gentler tone-"when the I	"77,'™"^!?^, "^ been dearer'" Xaflder paused

chaos has run its course, you will understand why the manu- I	^^7^
" 1S" He Picked UP the Machiavelli "All

script is our only hope for a future. You will embrace its promise I	™'^ " can ever be."

of permanence." f	No' Xander, you know--"

see it

"What I *»0w-what you have taught me-is mat to

396 Jonathan Rabb	t.. .^

397

J	the overseer

any other way is madness. No matter how seductive. And I will	revealed \t\a ?m-vn c^w.^

have nothing to do with it."	^oS tSrt ^T * ^^ ^ ^ * ^™*t,

"You JL»	oTuTJel, % m 3 ^ ^WaiSt KniVCS hmgon *e si**

"You'll have to kill me, you know that, don't you?" Lunds-	looo-the uSet™* u^ lnnocently **°^ an open

dorf did not answer. "Tieg? Votapek? Have they disappointed	iaritv^men we f! h th eXfditions' worn wit* the famil-
you
as well? Oh, but then who will lead us out of the chaos?	straneelv at P»«? ^ " ^ °f infiltration-Sarah
felt
Now there's a practical dilemma."	posslEo ™ ? °W" ^ alth°Ugh her ribs made * ™
"You
need time-"	S too m,^7 anyth^g on her shoulder, even the weight of a

hours."


Wo/" Lundsdorf barked, the first hint of frustration in his	of roadhalf'fm^T ,?* Carpulled to a st°P aJong a stretch
voice. "I will not permit you to do this. When the time comes,	got out and w™ edlilenT^f,1116 ^IM and Sarah you will accept your role. You must take the time to consider	tUen hiehw™ 'nH I ^ "i1611 dr°Ve into ^ 8ulley be-more
carefully."	ulder hrfh ^^ W,ood; five mm*™ later, the car lay hidden

Calmly, Xander pushed back his chair and stood. "No. That's	tossed ST^l r ^-f^f ° refleCt°r C3pS from *e %hts

not going to happen." He tossed the Machiavelli onto the table	Slng hle' "^ "^S311 to wa]k-
and
moved to the door.

"There « no time. You've seen to that, for the past eighteen	of a fuss ' Y ^taken hers without to° much

"You will reconsider," answered Lundsdorf, regaining his	jonas Tieg entered the studv an all t t ; ,

control. Busy with the asparagus, he added, "Oh, yes, I meant to	stomach. The pain had grotn^ ^ ^ *"* ™ ^


^^,^»°^^^^^	%^?^~«^'%S£l


Xander stopped for a moment, his back to Lundsdorf. If	Lg^^^^,^ ^ ^"^ -««.
nothing else, he had no intention of giving Lundsdorf the plea-	old man behind the desk w^ZnS?*' ? ^ ag^' ***

sure of a reaction. Slowly, he stepped past the guard, only to no-	acknowledge him. Tonight however th^w th^ "g l°

tice a second man off in the shadows, thin to the point of frailty,	Without looking up from feteol 7^^ ,

^^^^^^^^^^	r^rco?^

^WUhoutacknowledgmgh^Xandercontmueddown^	aj^


		the'ddmltTt" ^ r Were l° ^Ve t0night'" only now did

the first car left at 7:07, the second eight minutes later. Only	within the north™!?' ^ ^ d°Slng °ff aCC6SS to *e lab

Alison had remained at the cabin. O'Connell had mentioned an-	not here when that occurs°" "' " ^"^ ^ ^ if y°U Were

other woman, someone who would arrive to take care of her. He	"I was hoping to	" "

had not explained; Sarah had not asked.	"I j,ave neard

Each operative wore a turtleneck and black wool hat, the	answer. Do I make mysdf cS'^ * ^ y°" understood mX

clothmg pulled to the limits so as to leave a minimum of flesh	"Absolutely," answered Tieg, "except you forgot to tell me


f v "">' '^ " ' «r

Jif 7%/T*,f	'.*	,	' t-
&//
/


ge$
<. ^


*"& *.


clothing pulled to the limits so as to leave a minimum of flesh 1	"Absolutely," answered Tieg, "except you forgot to tell me


396	Jonathan Rahh


any other way is madness. No matter how seductive. And I will
have nothing to do with it."

"You will--"

"You'll have to kill me, you know that, don't you?" Lundsdorf
did not answer. "Tieg? Votapek? Have they disappointed
you as well? Oh, but then who will lead us out of the chaos?
Now there's a practical dilemma."

"You need time--"

"There is no time. You've seen to that, for the past eighteen
hours."

"No!" Lundsdorf barked, the first hint of frustration in his
voice. "I will not permit you to do this. When the time comes,
you will accept your role. You must take the time to consider
more carefully."

Calmly, Xander pushed back his chair and stood. "No. That's
not going to happen." He tossed the Machiavelli onto the table
and moved to the door.

"You will reconsider," answered Lundsdorf, regaining his
control. Busy with the asparagus, he added, "Oh, yes, I meant to
tell you. There will be no last-minute attempts to interfere. Miss
Trent is dead."

Xander stopped for a moment, his back to Lundsdorf. If
nothing else, he had no intention of giving Lundsdorf the pleasure
of a reaction. Slowly, he stepped past the guard, only to notice
a second man off in the shadows, thin to the point of frailty,
a set of nervous eyes trying to avoid contact. Xander recognized
him instantly. Anton Votapek. And he knew he had heard every
word. Without acknowledging him, Xander continued down the
corridor.


the first car left at 7:07, the second eight minutes later. Only
Alison had remained at the cabin. O'Connell had mentioned another
woman, someone who would arrive to take care of her. He
had not explained; Sarah had not asked.

Each operative wore a turtleneck and black wool hat, the

f


the overseer	397


revealed. And each carried a revolver fitted with a silencer,
strapped tightly in a holster at the waist. Knives hung on the side
of the belt, garroting wire coiled innocently through an open
loop--the usual fare for such expeditions, worn with the familiarity
of men well schooled in the art of infiltration. Sarah felt
strangely at ease in her own gear, although her ribs made it impossible
to carry anything on her shoulder, even the weight of a
pack too much to sustain. Toby had taken hers without too much
of a fuss.

It was 7:57 when the first car pulled to a stop along a stretch
of road half a mile from the compound. The three men and Sarah
got out and waited while O'Connell drove into the gulley between
highway and wood; five minutes later, the car lay hidden
under branches and foliage, plastic reflector caps from the lights
tossed into the trees. In single file, they began to walk.


jonas Tieg entered the study, an all-too-familiar knot in his
stomach. The pain had grown less acute over the years, but it
had remained an essential part of the ritual, a connection to a
past beyond which he had never quite moved. Willingly or not,
Tieg became the frightened twelve-year-old all over again, the
old man behind the desk aware of his pupil, never choosing to
acknowledge him. Tonight, however, that would change.

Without looking up from his book, Lundsdorf spoke. "I

thought you were leaving, Jonas. You should be in California for

the next few days. Or does your television show not need you?"

"I can leave in the morning," answered Tieg, taking the chair

across from Lundsdorf.

"I would prefer it if you were to leave tonight." Only now did
the old man look up. "I will be closing off access to the lab
within the next hour or so. Again, it would be best if you were
not here when that occurs."
"I was hoping to--"

"I have heard your concerns, and I trust you understood my
answer. Do I make myself clear?"


400	Jonathan Rabb	I	THE OVERSEER


what too believing when it conies to that young woman. Nom*^- I
himself through the two pieces of strip wood. He was inside. No
less, he was quite clear as to your intentions." Tieg reached for the f alarms nq jQ,ts Of dectricity He pulled me device from Was

401

		-	,	, .	*	^K	»	J --~«"« "~» luiow. i w oji^ uju ou, oii^ saw lilt 1U1IC UgUlG

moved yet another device--this one no larger than his palm-		rf a guard_rifle stm in hand_lying f not more man

and aimed it at the first of the three boxes. No sooner had he		^^ feet from her E]oQd ^^ from ^ ^ Of ^ ^ &

done so than a thin strip of light seemed to jump from the gate		pinpoint shot tQ ensure g ^^ death Almost immediate,y ^^

to the first box, then to the second, then to the third and tmauy		more f/wfe tore ^^ ^ ^ ^ somewhere off to her left

to the far post, a razor-thin beam dancing two feet oti the	£	Sarah crawled after me Qthers her gun now ^ hand her ^

ground. He then placed the device under his hood and squeezed	g	momentarily forgotten. As she drew up behind Toby, she saw the

desk, only to have Paolo's hand clasp his shoulder and press him
to the chair. "And, of course, Paolo." Lundsdorf nodded. "His
penance for Wolfenbiittel has been most helpful." Lundsdorf
pushed back his chair and stood. "You know, I did not anticipate
this. So you see, I, too, know when it is necessary simply
to... react." He stepped around the desk and, in a strangely affectionate
gesture, placed his hand on Tieg's cheek. "You played
your role as best you could, Jonas. Take comfort in that."

A minute later, Tieg's head fell to the side, his eyes frozen in
death.


o'connell had led most of the way, angling the quintet
through the trees, the two men behind, followed by Toby and
Sarah. Twenty yards from the gate, he raised his hand and
dropped to his knees. The others did the same, save for the taller
of the two hired hands, who continued on, prone to the ground,
snaking his way through the underbrush on his arms.

They watched as he positioned himself about halfway between
the gate's wooden pilaster and the first fence post some
eight feet farther down. Two pieces of strip wood lay horizontally
between the two columns, the picture of a simple country
fence designed to keep out only the largest of animals. To the
party crouched in the trees, however, it was anything but simple.
They continued to watch as the man removed a small box from
his pack and placed it on a two-foot tripod about eighteen inches
from the lower rail. A second box, then a third appeared, each
placed at specific points between the two posts in a triangular
formation. The man then seated himself within the triangle, re-
hood,
disengaged the beam, and signaled for O'Connell to take
his position. One by one, they each entered the triangle; and one
by one, they waited for the beam before breaching the fence.
Though considerably more advanced, it was nothing more than
a slip loop, much like the one Sarah had used to gain access to
Schenten's house. Within three minutes, they all lay prone inside
the grounds of the compound.

Directly in front of them, the grass rose on an incline to a flat,
open area; a cluster of five cabins dotted the far horizon and
formed a strange pattern against the deep black of the sky. The
main house stood apart, off to the left on another raised plain,
though nearer than any of the cabins. Light from inside spilled
out onto the grass, creating a gentle aura around the building. It
was on that hill that they knew they would find the trip wires.

O'Connell checked his watch. He nodded to the second man,
who immediately dashed up to the summit. Crouching, he pulled
a set of lenses from his pack and began to scan the grounds. Infrareds.
Less than halfway through his sweep, he suddenly
pulled the glasses from his eyes and reached back to his holster.
In the same motion, he signaled to the group below to flatten
themselves on the grass. Pressed to the cold ground, Sarah heard
the sound of a single thwit break through the silence. A moment
later, she looked up. The man had moved off. O'Connell nodded
for the rest to follow as Sarah took up the rear behind Toby.

Bending into the hill, she felt the first strain on her ribs. Up
to this point, she had been able to put the pain from her thoughts;
now it became a constant reminder. Reaching the top, she took
a moment to readjust the bandage that O'Connell had wrapped
tightly around her torso. As she did so, she saw the lone figure



fv*.

<*


*^. ^^

, .> ?8*

«*t^ "*'

v«p* .

400	Jonathan Rahh


what too believing when it comes to that young woman. Nonetheless,
he was quite clear as to your intentions." Tieg reached for the
desk, only to have Paolo's hand clasp his shoulder and press him
to the chair. "And, of course, Paolo." Lundsdorf nodded. "His
penance for Wolfenbiittel has been most helpful." Lundsdorf
pushed back his chair and stood. "You know, I did not anticipate
this. So you see, I, too, know when it is necessary simply
to... react." He stepped around the desk and, in a strangely affectionate
gesture, placed his hand on Tieg's cheek. "You played
your role as best you could, Jonas. Take comfort in that."

A minute later, Tieg's head fell to the side, his eyes frozen in

the overseer	401


himself through the two pieces of strip wood. He was inside. No
alarms. No jolts of electricity. He pulled the device from his
hood, disengaged the beam, and signaled for O'Connell to take
his position. One by one, they each entered the triangle; and one
by one, they waited for the beam before breaching the fence.
Though considerably more advanced, it was nothing more than
a slip loop, much like the one Sarah had used to gain access to
Schenten's house. Within three minutes, they all lay prone inside
the grounds of the compound.

Directly in front of them, the grass rose on an incline to a flat,
open area; a cluster of five cabins dotted the far horizon and

death.	I formed a strange pattern against the deep black of the sky. The

main house stood apart, off to the left on another raised plain,


_ though nearer than any of the cabins. Light from inside spilled
O'CONNELL had led most of the way, angling the quintet | Qut Qnto (he grass> creating a genfle aura ^^ me buiidjng. It

was on that hill that they knew they would find the trip wires.

O'Connell checked his watch. He nodded to the second man,
who immediately dashed up to the summit. Crouching, he pulled
a set of lenses from his pack and began to scan the grounds. Infrareds.
Less than halfway through his sweep, he suddenly
pulled the glasses from his eyes and reached back to his holster.
In the same motion, he signaled to the group below to flatten
themselves on the grass. Pressed to the cold ground, Sarah heard
the sound of a single thwit break through the silence. A moment
later, she looked up. The man had moved off. O'Connell nodded
for the rest to follow as Sarah took up the rear behind Toby.

Bending into the hill, she felt the first strain on her ribs. Up
to this point, she had been able to put the pain from her thoughts;
now it became a constant reminder. Reaching the top, she took
a moment to readjust the bandage that O'Connell had wrapped

through the trees, the two men behind, followed by Toby and
Sarah. Twenty yards from the gate, he raised his hand and
dropped to his knees. The others did the same, save for the taller
of the two hired hands, who continued on, prone to the ground,
snaking his way through the underbrush on his arms.

They watched as he positioned himself about halfway between
the gate's wooden pilaster and the first fence post some
eight feet farther down. Two pieces of strip wood lay horizontally
between the two columns, the picture of a simple country
fence designed to keep out only the largest of animals. To the
party crouched in the trees, however, it was anything but simple.
They continued to watch as the man removed a small box from
his pack and placed it on a two-foot tripod about eighteen inches
from the lower rail. A second box, then a third appeared, each
placed at specific points between the two posts in a triangular

formation. The man then seated himself within the triangle, re-	M	ti^lly ^^ her torso As she did SQ she saw ^ ,one f

moved yet another device--this one no larger than his palm-	|	rf a guard_rifle stm in hand_lying fa not more man

and aimed it at the first of the three boxes. No sooner had he		^^ feet from hef Blood ^^ from ^ ^ rf ^ ^ g

done so than a thin strip of light seemed to jump from the gate		pinpoint sh(jt {o ensure a ^^ ^^ Almost immediately ^^

to the first box, then to the second, then to the third, and finally		more f/w/ft tore ^^ ^ night ^ somewhere off to her left

to the far post, a razor-thin beam dancing two feet off the		Safah crawle(J after ^ q±^ ^ ^ nQw ^ ^ ^ ^
ground. He then placed the device under his hood and squeezed		momentarily forgotten. As she drew up behind Toby she saw the



£„

1','fl
1,,/ff>

y<,J%,

X-


r

402	Jonathan Rail


second and third victims of the point man. They lay some sixty
yards apart from each other, at either end of the base of the hill
leading up to the house. It had been their misfortune to appear at
the same moment. The victim of the third shot, however, was
nowhere to be seen.

"Spread wide," came the whispered command from O'Connell,
the signal that the approach was clear. O'Connell and the
two men darted about halfway up the incline, where they were
met by the other trio, the men from the first car, who had secured
the approach from the back of the house. All six flanked out
along the hill, each donning a pair of infrared glasses. As one,
they began to crawl to the summit, Sarah noticing the electron-
the
overseer	403


followed by Xander, Paolo a few paces behind. Xander glanced
over his shoulder at the Italian; he recognized the bald head at
once. "Did you enjoy Germany," he asked, "or was London
more to your liking?" No response save for a quick adjustment
of the gun in his hand. The message was clear. However much
Lundsdorf might be willing to trust his onetime protege, Paolo
clearly had no such illusions. Anything amiss and he would
shoot, perhaps not to kill, but certainly to incapacitate. Xander
knew it would be but a short reprieve. Soon enough, the old man
would recognize the truth. In some strange way, though, the
threat of death was once again having a calming effect. As with
the woman in Frankfurt, Xander felt quite at peace. Somehow he

ics wizard from the fence placing a series of small boxes in his 1 knew it would make the violence to come less jarring.

wake. The pace was excruciatingly slow, Toby more than once I	They reached the elevator and waited for the door to open.

shifting nervously next to her. "Patience," she whispered, as I Lundsdorf motioned for Xander to enter, then Paolo; he then

much to herself as to him. A minute and a half later, the sextet
had made it to within ten yards of the house, keeping well back
of the light shining from the windows. The man from the fence
once again pulled the device from his hood, aimed it; this time,
two thin beams of light appeared, forming a narrow path up the

^,,,-1, *~ K-~,~if oo *~ i.:™ * ™--*----'
" u"1f '"*-- *u~ --*-* » stepped inside himself and tapped the button, all three in quiet

darkness as the small chamber descended. Very gently, Paolo

slid his hand under Xander's elbow, a move Lundsdorf failed ._
notice. The two younger men exchanged a glance. Another subtle
reminder.

hill. Wide enough for one person. They had discussed it before-	"We have managed all the stages from below " began Lunds

hand. Neither Toby nor Sarah, with her broken ribs, could be ex-	dorf. "The first trial in Washington and Chicago the--what did

pected to
wriggle under the trip wires. Too many risks. Instead,	Arthur call the business with the Capitol, the ambassador, and so

they would wait for the electronic path while the others split into	forth, Paolo?"

teams of two, each pair targeting a window on one side of the	"The mock-up," answered the Italian

house. By the time Sarah and Toby reached the top, the men	"Quite right. The mock-up. And now the third stage--the ac-
were
gone. She picked up the device, disengaged the path, and	celeration. As with all things great, always in threes A shame he

crouched in the grass.	will not be able to see the best part." He turned to Xander. "But


		you sha11-You will see how things must be, how you must take

« r,	your Place. how destiny must play its part "

remove the lock, Paolo "The Italian did as he was told, then	Destiny. Lying awake, Xander had not been able to deny with
opened the door for Lundsdorf. Inside, Xander lay on a bed, his	complete certainty the force of the manuscript's logic Perhaos
arm pulled over his eyes in the pose of sleep. Paolo waited by	- even
its practical application-^rder, social perfection perma
the door as the old man entered.	nence. The tapes from last night had made that all too clear. The
You have had some rest, I trust, said Lundsdorf. You will	question remained: If the chaos were to come would he be able
need it. Put on your shoes and come with me."	to find the strength, the will, to reject the theory? Would he be-Within
a minute, the three were in the hallway, Lundsdorf	, come as blinded by it as Lundsdorf?

to
~i: J i_:-i «
*


»-'<-'
: i$ij£S?




:,mtim


^:^


T "$*,


the fluorescent strips above flicked off, replaced by the dim	doncl und^tand, said Xander.

glow of blue lights, the sound of an alarm echoing throughout	, , S*m m°ve'*aw?y 'foln ** wall> toward <** bed-A
moment

the hallway. Lundsdorf stopped at once and turned to Paolo. Be-	^^ *™M "* ""^ **** hdf "n

fore Xander could take advantage of the moment, however, he	y^ f ^ i i u i_ j j _, , ?

« ,>. *« of ** ^ „„ h,Uppet m ta s^,«. j jr^xSu?* hT	" A

ving into his flesh. Again, Lundsdorf did not seem to notice. A
woman appeared behind Paolo.

course, is up to you. For the time being."	B hours ago. The size of beer cans, the canisters were pressurized

4O4	Jonathan Rabb


Xander stared at the small man standing in front of him. And
he knew. He knew that one of them would have to die to make
certain that the chaos would never come. An hour ago, he had
justified the decision as an answer to Sarah's death. Then, pure
brutality had inspired him; now a colder rationale guided his
thoughts. Somehow, the line had blurred. Perhaps Lundsdorf had
been right to dismiss it as moral indulgence. "I kill, that's what I
do." Her words came back to him. It would simply be a question
of how.

The doors opened and the old man stepped out without a
word. Paolo gestured with his head for Xander to follow just as

"Disengage the elevator!" barked Lundsdorf to no one in particular.

Paolo turned to the woman and spoke, maintaining his grip
on Xander. "Seal the house, and make sure you open up the secondary
vents for the lab." Xander remained silent as several
others appeared in the hall, Paolo quick to shout out orders.
Lundsdorf, meanwhile, had moved to the lab, undeterred by the
events; as the alarm stopped chirping, the lights returning to
normal.

Lundsdorf was talking with a technician below when Paolo
appeared on the balcony, Xander in tow. "Where do you want
Jaspers?"

Preoccupied with the technician, Lundsdorf replied, "That
depends on whether he means to behave himself." He now
looked up, an odd smile on his lips. "Truly exhilarating down
here, would you not agree? Everything but a moment away. I
cannot imagine that you would want to miss it, but that, of

the overseer	405


Xander said nothing. "I could put him with the other one,"

suggested Paolo. "Let him think about it."

Lundsdorf slowly began to nod. "Yes. Excellent." He started

to move off, then turned back to Xander. "Use the time wisely."
Several mazelike corridors later, Xander found himself in a

darkened room, enough light to make out a figure in the far

corner.

Silence. Then a voice. "You must be Jaspers."

"Yes," he answered, still trying to gain his eyes. "Who--"

"Stein. Bob Stein. Today must be the open house."

The outline of a bed off to the left began to come clear. "I"

the house went black. Toby turned to Sarah, but she was already
crouching her way to the near wall, signaling for him to
stay where he was. They both knew this had not been part of the
plan. Silently, back flat against the wall, she inched closer to the
window; then, raising her head just above the sill, she peered
into the darkness. Nothing. Toby was suddenly by her side.

"What the hell is going on?" he whispered.

"Quiet!" she said, not bothering to explain. Instead, she
watched as a mist began to collect on the inside pane, thousands
of gray specks frosting the glass. It took her less than a second
to realize what was happening. Gas. Sarah reached for her gun
so as to shatter the window, only to stop as the sound of a motor
broke through the silence. Before she could react, a steel door,
the height of the window, began to slide across the sill. It was
only then that she spotted the narrow runner guiding the door to
the far wall. Turning to Toby, she grabbed the pack, hunting for
the canisters of liquid Mace she had placed inside less than two

"Don't shoot, Toby!" the command echoed in her mask. It I ognize their own failure." He turned to Votapek "And yet they
was O'Connell. Sarah peered around the Irishman and saw Toby I would not touch Xander. They would save him"--the smile
kneeling in the doorway, his gun raised. Two other men from the | grew wide--"thus forcing him to witness the chaos to come

406	Jonathan Rabb


and made of reinforced metal, dense enough to slow the door's
progress. She pulled out the three cans and positioned them
lengthwise on the sill. She then removed two gas masks from
the pack.

"Put this on!" she ordered. Hers was already in place when
the sliding door met the first canister, the door's motor grinding
more angrily, her gun smashing into the glass an instant later, a
wave of gray smoke pouring out as she hoisted herself to the
ledge and forced her way through the shards of glass. She then
reached out and pulled Toby to the sill as the first canister began
to let off a high-pitched squeal, the sound of imminent explosion.
Without prompting, Toby tossed the pack through and
dove in, his pants leg ripping on an errant piece of glass. Sarah
yanked him free as the strain on the can reached critical, both of
them falling into the room before the can exploded. A moment
later, the other two canisters spun harmlessly from their perch as
the steel door slid shut against the wall.

A harsh residue of gas hung in the air, biting at their unprotected
skin, both of them quick to pull their turtlenecks higher
on their cheeks. Sarah found a flashlight in her pack and flicked
it on, watching as a thin beam cut through the dusted air. The
room seemed to shimmer, tiny flecks of moisture spinning from
the ceiling in strands of fine wire. She handed the pack to Toby
and pulled her gun from its holster. Without a sound, she eased
the door open. The hallway stood dark and empty, a heavy mist
settling on its wooden floor. Sarah darted out, stopping some
twenty feet down in front of a second door; she motioned for
Toby to stay back. She reached for the handle.

From nowhere, an arm reached out and grabbed her gun, the
strength of the grip enough to pull her into the room. Her flashlight
streaked to a distant wall; somehow, she managed to hold
on to the weapon, discharging two bursts in the direction of her
assailant. The shots flew wild as a figure appeared out of the
darkness, its massive frame outlined in a strange glow.

the overseer	407


team now appeared, one quick to take the gun and place it in
Toby's holster. The other signaled all was clear. Within a minute,
all five were moving along the corridor, the point man raising
his hand as they approached an archway, the living room beyond.
Inside, three others waited. The gas, Sarah realized, had
been a blessing in disguise. It had forced Eisenreich to take shelter
below.


'Trace the corridors for anything that might get us downstairs.
Let's be quick about it, lads." Turning to Sarah, O'Connell
added, "You and Toby stay here." Sarah watched as the five
men disappeared through the various archways. Three minutes
later, a voice broke the silence.

"We have an elevator in the eastern corridor. Steel door.
Sealed. We also have six or seven people who didn't quite make
it out before the gas."


"Move them," it was O'Connell, "but don't touch the elevator.
We'll be right there."


lundsdorf sat at a desk, the area slightly elevated, though
tucked under the balcony and secured behind thick glass walls,
his eyes closed, his hands folded gently in his lap. A message
flashed across the large screen. Five minutes to code initialization.
Votapek sat at a smaller desk to Lundsdorf's left, far less
comfortable amid the preparations.

"And if they do find a way through?"

"They will not," .answered Lundsdorf. "There are no other
ways through, except for the elevator, and that has been disconnected
and sealed."

"Yes, but--"

"Even if they do come, Anton, they will be too late." A curious
smile spread across his lips as his eyes opened. "It is quite
possible that both you and I will be killed. Oh, yes. It is often the
response of the violent to lash out when they are forced to rec



the overseer	409


some reason uninterested in the wires it had just revealed. Scraping
out the excess with his knife, he explained, "Only eats
through metals."


The electronics man now stepped in and stripped the casing
from the wires; he pulled what looked to be a voltage meter
from his pack and tested each line. Then, removing yet another
box, he clamped it to two of the exposed wires and flicked a
switch on its side; a moment later, the elevator door released and
slid about two inches from the wall. "Magnetics reversed," he
said. Immediately, the man with the clay wedged two cylinders
into the opening, placing them about four inches from the ceil ing and floor. Very slowly, the tiny objects began to expand,
pushing the door farther and farther from the wall; locking in
olace. thpv rrpat»H ;><» >-	'	"

408	Jonathan Rabb


Only then would he be granted his treasured choice: watch a
world destroy itself, or make use of the structure I have set in
place. Ironic, no? By saving him, it is they who will have made
the choice for him. In the end, he will not be able to deny the
force of the manuscript. This I know, Anton. And for this I am
willing to die." Votapek could only nod, unable to find the
words. Lundsdorf glanced at the clock on the wall. "Four minutes
before the final codes." He looked back at Votapek. "Mark
my words. Xander will thank me. One day, he will thank me."


the smallest of the five men crouched by the elevator, pressing
his thumbs into a thick claylike mound, making sure to

.._,-- 	,	0	„	_	__	„..„ nuuiw uuiu me wan; locKme in

smear the entire lower-right-hand corner of the door with the	P'ace, they created just enough room for a single body to slio

substance. He then pulled a thin metal strip no bigger than a	through. O'Connell peered down the shaft,

stick of gum from his pocket, shaped a tiny hillock within the	"It's about a hundred feet," he said, scrutinizing the area with

mound, and wedged the strip into it. "Step back," he said.	his flashlight. "Bad news is, the cables have been cut"

Sarah watched as the mound began to heat up, soon bubbling	He stepped to the side as two of the other men now removed

into a red mass, a lick of a flame at its center. In a sudden flash,	long coils of nylon line, clipped them to the top cylinder and

a spark ignited and began to race up the length of the elevator, a	tossed the lines into the shaft. One by one they rappelled down

fuse seemingly in search of explosives; halfway to the ceiling,	The remaining six watched as the cords stretched taut, twin lines

the spark darted right, momentarily gone, then reappeared as a	beating out the descent in contrapuntal intervals. Half a minute

pulsing dot coursing behind the wall's plaster.	passed before a voice came through. "Solid steel boys the

"Locates the source of power," said O'Connell. "All very	whoje way down." The twang was Deep South "No chance of

much in the experimental stages."	getting into that car. It looks like we're goin' to have to go

About three feet from the door, the dot flared bright and then	huntin' for hollows." Sarah turned to O'Connell for explanation
vanished, the man already at the point of implosion to chisel out	"Ducts or vents behind the shaft," he answered. "Another toy
a section of the wall. The sound of steel on steel forced him to	we>re using these days. A little device that sends out a high-stop;
he began to apply another wad of clay to the area, this time,	pitched tone, then checks for resonance. Determines location
though, much thicker. The man worked far more delicately, care-	and size-We'll
see if we get lucky."
ful to leave a thin border of steel untouched. He then pulled sev-	Two minutes into the search, he had his answer "We got us

eral wafer-thin strips of something resembling dried mud from	one ab<>ut twenty feet from the base," came the voice from

his pack and placed each one in the mound in a little rectangle.	below. "By the sound of it, might even be wide enough for you

Again, he produced a strip of metal, sunk it into the clay, and	O'Connell." No sooner had the information piped through than

stepped back. This time, there was no spark, only intense heat, a	*e man with the clay reached for a line and disappeared into the

blue flame that literally ate into the steel. Within seconds, it had	snaft-Within
a minute, a blue glow began to emanate from the
cut through to open air; almost at once, the flame fizzled out, for	darkness.


^gj^f'.'


410	Jonathan Rabb


It wasn't long before the Southerner once again broke the silence.
"We got us an openin', folks. Time to go huntin'."

the overseer	411


a shame, though. To have come all this way and to miss such a
perfect moment."



sarah was the last into the vent, the aluminum casing leaving
her about four inches to maneuver on either side. To make
things easier, the man at the front had been greasing the duct
as he went; even so, she could feel each metal seam as she
pulled herself along, her ribs throbbing. The grease, though,
had been more for O'Connell, the Irishman having taken several
stabs at entry before squeezing himself in. Amused by it
all, Toby had chosen that moment to describe his strict aversion
to tight spaces, prompting O'Connell to say something
about other tight spaces. Toby had quickly taken the line,
hoisted himself up, and had slipped quietly into the vent.

About thirty feet in, the small convoy stopped. "It splits off,"
said the lead man. "Looks like six different tunnels."

"Slice out a look," ordered O'Connell, his breathing already
heavy from the jaunt. Lying on her stomach, Sarah pressed her
fingers into the metallic walls and understood what he had
meant. A sharp knife would be able to penetrate the casing and
give the man a view of the area below.

"It's insulation strips and a lot of wiring," came the response,
"most of it heading along one of the left-hand branches, back the
way we came."

"Is there any green coiled wire?" It was Toby who spoke, his
tone more serious than Sarah expected. "Anything that
looks ... like a thick Slinky?"

Silence. "Yeah. Wrapped in something like Saran Wrap. It
runs separately, but in the same direction as most of the wires."

"That's it," answered Toby. "It's what they're using for the
satellite hookups. Whichever way it goes, that's where you'll
find the op center."

"Then we go the other way," O'Connell cut in. "Some place
nice and quiet to get out of these vents. Pick another tunnel, then


reverse the last two in the sequence, then reenter," said
Lundsdorf, his eyes scanning the three terminals directly in front
of him. He removed his finger from the intercom and sat back.
"You see how simple it is, Anton. How simple a thing it is to
alter the very name of supremacy."

"Yes, I... can see that," answered Votapek. He had grown
far less comfortable in the last four minutes. "I thought Jonas
would be joining us. And Alison. That everything had
been ... cleared up."

"Do you think we should have Jaspers here when it engages?"
Votapek said nothing. "You know, it suddenly strikes
me, Anton, Xander has never seen all three of the manuscripts
together." Lundsdorf caressed the ancient volumes on the desk
in front of him. "What a treat that will be." He pressed down on
the intercom. "Paolo, would you be so kind as to fetch Dr.
Jaspers?"

There was a pause before the Italian responded. "Do you
think that would be... wise, to have him out in the open
while--"

"Are you questioning me, Paolo?" Lundsdorf waited. "Good.
Then bring him." He turned again to Votapek, a quizzical smile
in his eyes. "You look troubled, Anton. Am I wrong to think you
would prefer not to be here? Is the prospect of death so frightening?"
Votapek remained silent. Lundsdorf nodded. "Perhaps
you are right. Perhaps you should go." Lundsdorf reached under
the desk. Before Votapek could react, a door cracked open behind
the old man, a sudden burst of cold air streaming into the
booth. "So you see, there was another way through. Paolo's
idea. I never understood, but now, of course, I see it does serve
a purpose. A tunnel. A car waits at the other end." Votapek hesitated,
then stood. "Do not run too far away, Anton. I will need
you in the weeks to come." Votapek moved to the door. "What 1 move your ass

412	Jonathan Rabb


paolo clutched Xander's arm as he led him down the corridor,
neither saying a word, no explanations of Stein or Tieg. The request
had been curt, the gun an unnecessary inducement. Now,
as they neared the elevator, the Italian suddenly stopped. No
warning as the grip on Xander's arm grew tighter. For a moment,
Paolo stared into the distance; he then cocked his head to
the left, eyes lost in concentration. He spun quickly to his right,
his expression far more animated as he began to sniff at the air.
A moment later, the radio was at his lips. As the Italian spoke,
he stared at his captive.

"Professor.... Yes, I have him	No, but traces of the gas

are coming in through the vents.... Exactly. I suggest--Yes, of
course." Paolo pulled the radio from his mouth, flicked a switch
on its side, and spoke again. "Seal the vents.... Fine, then open
up the auxiliaries. I'm also going to need men.... No, they
could be anywhere.... Start wide, pull to the center.... And
lock down the lab. I'll be with the professor." Paolo returned the
radio to his belt and ushered Xander down the hall. A moment
later, the fluorescents disappeared and the blue lights reengaged,
Paolo's grip on his arm having grown considerably tighter.
"Your friends are making this more entertaining than I expected.
Don't worry. The fun's about to come to an end."


sarah was the last to jump from the vent to the cement floor,
a storage room with boxes piled high. "Toss the masks," said
O'Connell as he knelt at the door and drew his gun. He tried the
handle--no luck. Moving away, he nodded for the man with the
clay to take care of the lock. A minute later, O'Connell pulled
back the door and slowly edged his face out into the blue light.
No sooner had he done so than he raised his gun and fired.

The point man quickly darted out into the hall, only to return
with a dead woman in his arms. He placed her on one of the
crates, drew his gun, and nodded for the others to follow. Five
seconds later, O'Connell and the electronics man slipped out,
then three more, and finally Toby and Sarah.

the overseer	413


She found herself scurrying through an open area, a space
perhaps twenty-five feet by thirty, six numbered doors along
each wall. The only exit stood in the middle of the far wall, the
point man leading them toward it and--according to Toby's
green-wire theory--the operation center. Weaving her way
through tables and chairs, Sarah noticed a pool table and television
set on opposite ends of a galley kitchen--all the trappings
of living quarters for those planning to spend an extended period
of time underground. A bunker, she thought. How appropriate. At the exit, she heard the sound of a snap. Like the others, she
stopped. The man at the front was cautiously edging his way
around a distant corner, a second snap moments later to indicate
all was clear. Once again, they started moving in pairs. Sarah
matched Toby stride for stride until another snap, another junction
of corridors. She watched as the point man and O'Connell
spoke, both of them nodding before O'Connell turned to the
team and strapped on a second set of lenses they all carried. The
rest did the same, Sarah unsure what he had seen to warrant
the change. He then disappeared around the corner, Sarah the
last to make the turn.

Instantly, she knew they had made a mistake. The corridor
was too long, too narrow, and with no place for them to take
cover. Instinct screamed at her to pull Toby back, but before she
could turn, men had appeared at either end of the hall, guns
drawn. The next few seconds were the longest she had ever
known as she waited for the icy lance of bullets to drive into her
flesh; instead, a bright flash exploded all around her, her sight
momentarily lost, gunfire everywhere, no time to ask why she
was still alive. She scrambled to her left, firing behind her
wildly, her eyes clearing to reveal the men of Eisenreich scattering
in confusion. She watched as they groped for the walls,
for one another, for some way out of the darkness; then she understood.

The flash had blinded them.

O'Connell had known, and he had been ready. He had
baited them out, and they had come. Within fifteen seconds,
the corridor had fallen silent again.


414	Jonathan Rabb


Seven men lay dead, one wounded, none from the team who
now pulled the lenses from their eyes. O'Connell moved to the
wounded man and hoisted him to his feet, pressing his fingers
into the soft flesh of the man's throat.

"You're the lucky one, aren't you?" he whispered. "So I'm
going to ask you once, and then not again. You may choose to
answer, or you may choose to die." O'Connell drove his fingers
deeper into the skin. "Where are the computers, and how much
security?"

The man shook his head once.

Without hesitation, O'Connell aimed the silencer and shot
the man in the kneecap, all the while holding on to his throat so
as to stifle the scream. Saliva dripped from the man's mouth, his
entire body shaking. "I didn't say how I'd kill you," added the
Irishman, "but now that's my choice, isn't it?"

"Third corridor... left," came the choked response, "vault
door... ten technicians... unarmed--"

O'Connell swung his gun across the man's chin and let the
body fall to the ground. Two minutes later, the team passed the
elevator and stopped ten feet from the steel door that guarded
the entrance to the lab.

"I don't think I trust our friend back there," said O'Connell,
the demolitions expert already at the door. "Not likely they'll be
unarmed. Keep Toby back. And put on the lenses." He turned to
the computer man. "We wouldn't want to lose you this late in
the game, now would we, Toby?"

Half a minute later, the air lock on the door released, leaving
a space wide enough for two more of the small cylinders, this
pair far more powerful than their predecessors. The sound of
voices and running feet spilled from the lab, the movement in
stark contrast to the easy posture of the man at the door; he
calmly removed two canisters, twisted the tops of each, and
tossed them through the ever-expanding gap. Bracing for the
explosion, he turned away as a series of blinding flashes erupted
beyond the door. Then, dropping to a crouch, he spun through
the opening and into the lab, four others from the team quickly
behind him. O'Connell followed. Sarah waited until her old

the overseer	4151


friend was through the opening and then slipped past the door,,
Toby in tow.

The scene from the balcony was unreal, men and women i
below fumbling along the floor, others against the wall, hands
and fingers trying to give direction to their sightless eyes. Still
others sat in front of terminals, staring aimlessly into screens
they could no longer see. A few guns lay scattered here and
there, dropped or lost at the instant of blinding explosion, none
a threat to the men who cautiously descended the stairs. Sarah
scanned the faces for Xander, the team already tying up its captives,
O'Connell pulling explosives from his pack. As she
reached the bottom step, a hollow pain rose in her stomach--too
easy. And there was still no sign of Xander.

"Welcome." A voice boomed from an unseen monitor; almost
at once, a series of steel slats snapped open from underneath
the balcony, revealing a glass-encased booth. Inside,
Xander stood at center, his arm in the grasp of a second man,
still another man seated to their left, behind a desk. It took Sarah
a moment to recognize the face. "Ah, Miss Trent," continued
Lundsdorf, "you are alive. How interesting. One of these others,
no doubt, is our mysterious motorcyclist--perhaps the large fellow
with the explosives?" Sarah kept her eyes on the glassed-in
trio. "No matter," he added. "As you can see, Dr. Jaspers is here
with me; together, we have just witnessed a most remarkable
moment. Can you guess, Miss Trent?" He paused. "Quite right.
The codes--all transmitted. You and your friends are naturally
free to tie up my staff, but it would appear that you have come
a bit too late. The final stage cannot be reversed."

Sarah looked at Xander. His face showed no emotion, no reaction
to Lundsdorf's words, only a vacant stare. For several
seconds, all movement seemed to stop, until Xander turned toward
the glass, his gaze fixed on her, his expression unchanged.
"Blow it up," he said, his voice as distant as his eyes. "I'm dead
anyway. Just--"

"That would not make any difference," interrupted Lundsdorf.
"What Dr. Jaspers does not realize is that any attempt to do
so would only trigger an... automatic pilot.... I believe that is

the overseer	417

"I said, put it away."

"You even have an audience," he continued. "Doesn't that excite
your--"

"Enough," said Lundsdorf, a pronounced anger in his tone.

"Paolo knows I'm right, don't you, Paolo?"

The Italian looked at Lundsdorf. The old man spoke. "Put it
down."

Paolo hesitated. "He'll never do what you ask of him."

"Put it down, Paolo! You do not understand. I will not tolerate
another Wolfenbiittel." Lundsdorf looked at Xander. "Stop
this foolishness at once."

"What do you think, Paolo?" prodded Xander. "Do you understand?"

"Let me finish it," insisted the Italian. "He's not worth--"

"Has no one heard me!" roared Lundsdorf. "You think I do


not know what you are doing, Dr. Jaspers? You think I cannot
"I don't know. These are substations, secondary terminals. They	see ^^ mis m& n]se? It ^ a yery dangerous gamb,e you

416	Jonathan Rabb


what Arthur called it. Something to do with satellites and stored
information, that sort of thing. You may, of course, do what you
will with your devices, but you should know that even an explosion
here in the lab would have little impact. True, our ability
to monitor the teams over the next few days would be
severely limited, but the overall results would be the same. A little
less control for me, but one learns to adapt as one grows
older." He smiled again and looked at Jaspers. "Does that surprise
you, Xander?"

Jaspers said nothing; O'Connell turned to his computer man.
"Is what he is saying true?"

"I... don't know," answered Toby. "I'd have to--" He
stopped and looked up at the booth.

self."

Toby turned to the nearest terminal and typed in a few words.

"Go right ahead, young man," said Lundsdorf. "See for your-
process
information only when they're hooked into the mainframe.
Otherwise, they stay dormant. Right now, they're off.
Until I see the big boy, I can't be sure."

"Oh, you can be sure, my young friend," answered Lundsdorf.

Sarah had kept her focus on Xander throughout the exchange,
drawn by the strange detachment in his eyes, a look she
had seen only once before--at the motel when he had recalled
Feric's death. Now, however, she sensed something behind the
stare, a strength. It seemed to grow, focus his thoughts, until,
with a sudden explosion of movement, he lunged across the
desk at Lundsdorf.

Immediately, Paolo was on him, a gun pressed deep into his
neck. The Italian pulled Xander to his feet and lowered the gun
to his ribs.

The surprise in Lundsdorf's eyes was all too apparent; Xander's
expression, however, remained unmoved. "Put that away,
Paolo," ordered Lundsdorf as he adjusted himself in the chair.

"Why?" asked Xander, his voice quiet. "Why wait? You
killed Tieg; you're going to kill me. Why not be done with it?"

take."

Xander stared into the Italian's eyes. "Do it, Paolo. Save us
all the time. Pull the trigger."

The Italian looked again at Lundsdorf, then at Xander. His
jaw tensed; a moment later, the sound of a single shot rang out
inside the booth. For several seconds, nothing seemed to move.
Then, very slowly, Paolo dropped to his knees, his eyes wide in
disbelief. He fell, his head smacking against the floor. "He
would have done what you asked," said Lundsdorf, his voice
once again controlled, a small pistol in his hands. "I could not
permit that."

Sarah and the others watched as the bizarre scene played out,
Xander now moving to the desk, reaching over and taking the
gun from the old man.

"But you knew that," smiled Lundsdorf, his expression almost
childlike. "And now, you will kill me. How well you have
managed the situation."

Xander remained strangely calm, the gun held between them.
"No," he answered, "you're going to tell me how to stop all of
this; somehow, I don't believe it's as irreversible as you say."

.... ... . . , ,. c	knew exactly what they were doing.

side, the smile imprinted on his face.	_	*	3 . °

„ ,	j i_ i i i i. i-r i i. j rt.	»-ii 	The booth became very quiet. What about Pntchard? The

Xander stared helplessly at the lifeless body, the gun still in	,	J^	" rnuiiaiu.

,.	, , TT	. jrt. i .UJ.-.J.	three at the desk looked up. It was Xander who spoke,

his own hands. He spun toward the glass, threw the gun into the	<„	„„ .JrT,^	.„. ,., ,.F. . .

trt. u uj» j .o i, "f w	u <-,	Excuse me? said Toby, unwilling to hide his irritation,

corner of the booth, and stared at Sarah. Find me a choice. Get	J	e

418	Jonathan Rabb


"Trust me," answered Lundsdorf, "there is nothing you can
do."

"Really?' Xander aimed the gun at his own chest. "What happens
if I use this on myself?" He paused. "Where would that leave
you and your destiny?"

The old man's smile slowly fell from his face. "You would
not do that."

Xander stared into Lundsdorf's eyes. "Do you really believe
that?"

Neither moved for nearly half a minute. Then, very slowly,
Lundsdorf leaned forward as if to say something. For an instant,
Xander relaxed. The old man grabbed at the gun, pulled it to his
own chest, and squeezed the trigger. A momentary tremor in his
shoulders, and he slumped back in the chair. Lundsdorf stared
up at Xander, a weak smile on his face.

"The question, it would appear," he whispered, "is, What will you do?" He coughed once. "The generals or the manuscript?
Violence or order? Chaos or permanence?" Blood appeared on
his lip. "The owl of Minerva has taken wing. And now, there is
no choice. There never was one." Lundsdorf's head fell to the

your damn computer expert in here and find me a choice!" He
pressed a button on the desk and a door opened under the stairs.
Toby was the first through, eager to take a seat in front of one
of the keyboards; within seconds, the sound of rapid-fire typing
filled the space as O'Connell entered the booth. Xander had
moved to the glass wall, his arms folded at his chest, his eyes
fixed on the ground. There was nothing he could do now. The
typing stopped and he looked up. O'Connell had moved to
Toby's side, both scanning the various screens for any hint of
how to disarm the programming. It was then that Xander saw
Sarah at the door. Their eyes met; neither said a word. The typing
resumed and she moved toward him.

the overseer	419


"They told me you were dead," he said, his hands clenched
even tighter at his chest. "I--"

"A few broken ribs. I'll survive."

He nodded just as Toby's frustration took focus.

"Jesus, what the hell do they have in here?" He continued to
stare at the screens as Xander and Sarah turned to him. "The old
guy wasn't lying. There's no way to reverse what they've sent
out. If I try to recall any of these command codes, the system'll
lock me out. The whole thing'll shut down, and the computers
will take over the tracking. I can't even get inside the compiler
to try to reroute it in binary."

"So there's nothing you can do?" asked Sarah, now at the
desk.

"No." He started to gnaw at his thumbnail. "It's just that we
might be here awhile."

"What about names?" asked O'Connell. "There has to be a
list of who's out there. We get that, we can stop them before they
get their relays."

"Been there, done that," answered Toby. "I almost got frozen
out of the terminal. These guys weren't fooling around. They

"Didn't you say it looked like a .:. Pritchard matrix?" Xander
continued, ignoring the computer expert. "Wouldn't that
give you some idea--"

"Pritchard." O'Connell nodded. "Nice point, Professor. He'd
have put something inside, wouldn't he?"

"Hello." Toby was beyond frustration. "What are you talking
about?"

O'Connell ignored him and turned to Sarah. "Well?"

"I don't know." Her eyes began to wander. "It could be any
number of--"

"Would Stein know?"

Again, all three turned to Jaspers. O'Connell spoke. "Bob
Stein?"

The longer he kept her as a target the easier it would be for you	^ ^^ ft ^ ^^ ^

to get at Safed. You never had a chance to save her He gave you	^ ^

no choice. Bob let the words settle, then turned to O Connell.	6-7 6 .F J

II. u u j u- *
u u\i» i, it *™i	How many? asked Sarah, once again fully focused.

Arthur had a thing for timing. He had to have complete control	J 6 }

over each phase of an operation. That's what he would have put	„ ,,,„,„

into the system--the one thing that would circumvent the lock-	^uess> P^ded O Connell

Anything that would take place, say, within the next six


"Would someone mind explaining to me what the hell you're	hours,

talking about?" Toby piped in. "Or does the computer guy not	"^^ at most t^66 more events'" he "id-"I
can live with


420	Jonathan Rabb


"He's here. Could he help?"

O'Connell continued to stare at Jaspers. The Irishman nodded
slowly. "If it's computers and Arthur--"

Two minutes later, a slightly disoriented Stein sat in the chair
next to Toby, Sarah and O'Connell speaking at him in quick
bursts.

"Override relays," Bob said softly. Both stopped and stared
at him. No one answered. "Remember?" Sarah shook her head.
"The delay commands in Amman?" He paused. "Arthur had a
thing for override relays."

Sarah's eyes slowly went wide. "The delays came from PritchardT

"Yes." Stein nodded.

The confirmation only seemed to add to her confusion. "Wait
a second. So that would mean--"

"Yes," he answered. "It's why you couldn't have saved her."
Stein was looking directly at Sarah. "I went back and checked.
Pritchard created the delay because he needed the girl as bait.

need to be in on this?"

"A delay command," answered Stein. "It won't allow you to
establish new directives, but it will let you delay the ones that
have been transmitted--indefinitely."

"A delay command?" repeated Toby. "Meaning ..."

"Arthur liked the timing to be perfect," he answered. "If anything
was off cue, he'd send out a delay until he could bring
everything into line. He'd have buried some sort of delay command
deep in the programming."

"So you'd just sit there," asked Toby, turning to Sarah, "and

the overseer	421


wait for the next series of commands after the delay? What if
nothing came?"

"Then nothing came," she answered, more to herself, eyes
still distant, the memory growing clearer.

"You'd wait for contact," added Stein, "and, if and when it did come, it was always prompted by a different set of codes."

"So we're talking a delay pattern with altered sequencing."
Toby was back in his element.

Again he began to type, fingers and eyes working at breakneck
speed as myriad screens appeared and disappeared, all
filled with strange symbols.

For the first time in the last minute, Sarah looked up. She
gazed at Xander. Neither said a word.

After a very long three minutes, Toby stopped and sat back.

"Nice pop." He nodded at the screen. "You're looking at your
back door. A simple delay switch. Two problems, though. At this
point, I can't be sure that the command to delay would reach
each team."

that. And the second problem?"

"According to this, I send out the delay and everything gets
erased."

"Correct," Bob agreed. "That was why the codes were different
in Amman."

"Where he'd be forced to reinitialize the system in order to
send out the new relays." Toby smiled, wrapped up in the banter.
"An op reinterface: new relays, new codes."

"The software lesson aside," asked O'Connell, "what do you
mean, 'erased'?"


422	Jonathan Rabb


"I mean every last byte of info gets flushed, wiped clean.
Zippo."

"There's nothing you can do about it," nodded Stein.

"It means," added Toby, "whoever set this thing up didn't
want anyone to send out the delay without a pretty good reason.
It also means that it was designed so that if anybody were to find
the back door--like us--they don't get to look in the cupboard
once they've broken in."

"We lose everything?" asked Sarah.

"Am I not being clear here?" answered Toby. "Nada. Nothing.
Not even a cursor. You won't need any explosives because
there won't be anything worth blowing up." No one spoke. "So
what's it going to be, folks? Delay or not?"

For several moments, no one said a word.

"There are going to be a lot of people sitting around waiting
to hear from Eisenreich," said Sarah, "and we won't know who
they are." She looked at O'Connell. "We also won't know how
many schools are out there training a whole new generation of
disciples."

"And the other alternatives?" broke in Xander. "If we don't
send it out, we'll know exactly who they are--they'll be the
ones turning this country upside down during the next eight
days."

"So we just let them disappear into the woodwork?" asked
O'Connell.

"They're already out there," Xander explained. "Waiting. So
we'll tell them to wait a bit longer. Let's not forget how Eisenreich
set it up, what the manuscript stipulates: role playing. With
Lundsdorf dead, where's the source? Who'll send out the new
codes? Votapek? Sedgewick? I'm sure those are exactly the kinds
of loose ends one of your national security agencies can eliminate."
Xander looked at O'Connell, then at Sarah. "The best we
can do is let the boys and girls of Eisenreich wait for an order that
never comes."

"And when they grow up?" she asked.

"Without the manuscript, without someone spoon-feeding
them 'the word according to Eisenreich,' they won't do any-
the
overseer	423


thing. They need to be told what to do, and there won't be anybody
around to do that."

O'Connell took in a long breath. "You're putting a lot of faith
in a four-hundred-year-old theory, Professor."

"No. I'm putting my faith in the men who followed that theory
to the letter. They wanted to create disciples, not leaders. We
just have to hope they were successful." He turned to Toby.
"Send the delay. Tell them ... to remain patient."

Toby looked at O'Connell, who looked at Sarah. She nodded.
A moment later, every screen in the lab went blank.


toby had been right, almost to the minute. For six hours, the
nation lived through a series of near tragedies. First, the attempted
assassination of Lung Tse Pao, senior member of the
Chinese trade delegation. Luckily, the gunmen had been discovered
only minutes before her televised speech, both killed, no
names released. Questions, however, remained. Where had security
been? Was this somehow connected to the ongoing incidents
in Washington? New Orleans? The ambassador? Two hours later,
computer malfunctions at LAX only fueled speculation. There,
too, last-minute heroics prevented certain disaster; even so, a
sense of disbelief, perhaps hints of panic, began to flood radio
and television news programs. Were the police and other agencies
helpless? Had the United States finally fallen prey to worldwide
terrorism? Still other, equally jarring stories continued to
trickle in--the worst, the near meltdown at Southwestern Bell--
each uncovered in time to prevent catastrophe, yet each only
adding to the already-high levels of anxiety. So many threats in
so short a time. Were things spinning out of control?

News of real tragedy, however, came just as the evening
news programs were airing. The body of Vice President Pembroke
had been discovered in his office, the cause of death heart
failure. In an address to the nation, President Wainwright spoke
of the great sadness his friend's sudden death had brought to the
entire country. A man in perfect health only a few months before,
the forty-five-year-old Pembroke had succumbed to an

the overseer	425

424	Jonathan Rabb

Amid all the confusion, however, discussion of the show quickly
faded. Articles were written, a retrospective on his life aired, but
within a few weeks, a new, rising star appeared on another network
--more abusive, more abrasive. And the Tieg phenomenon


unknown virus evidently contracted during a recent trip to
Malaysia. Doctors at the Hopkins Center for Viral Disease
could offer little more by way of explanation.

The president then turned to the more disturbing matters of
the day. He spoke with the easy familiarity that had long ago endeared
him to his public.

"Over the last week, we have witnessed an unspeakable series
of attacks, each meant to shake our spirit. And yet, at each
turn, we have triumphed. At each turn; we have thwarted those
who would seek to lay siege to our peace of mind, to a way of
life we have come to cherish. And though--I have no doubt--
there were moments of fear, perhaps panic, not once did we give
in to those threats. No. We saw them for what they were--a banner
by which to make clear to a watching world the resilience
and courage of the American people. These attacks were mad,
outlandish, but we must grant them no more than their due, and
we must recognize how they most certainly pale when compared
to the real loss of this day--the death of Walter Pembroke.
"We grieve at the tragedy, we accept its truth, and yet, we
also learn from it. The death of the vice president must help us
to put into perspective the bizarre events of the last week. They
did not shake us. They did not undermine our trust. The country
is strong, safe--safe to mourn the one real tragedy of the day.
We must now look to ourselves and put our apprehensions to
rest. It is, I know, what Walter Pembroke would have wanted."
By week's end, few questioned the president's sage advice.


sadly, tragedy did strike again two days later when Tieg Telecom
announced the death of their inspiration, their shining light,
Jonas Tieg. He, too, had fallen prey to heart failure, and though
his adoring public mourned his loss--and Amy Chandler his ratings
--they were all far too caught up in the aftermath of recent
events to take more than passing notice. There were some questions
about the strangely prophetic program aired on the night before
his death, the tape on which Tieg seemed to anticipate
several of the near tragedies that had occurred the following day.

slipped easily into a forgotten past.


that same week, news of Laurence Sedgewick's mysterious
disappearance made it to the back pages of several national papers.
His bank accounts untouched, files intact at his offices in
New Orleans, it looked as though he had once again been caught
with his hand in the till.


not quite the same attention was given to the death of a rather
esteemed, if obscure, political theorist, whose passing managed
only a few lines in the New York Times. Herman Lundsdorf had
died in his sleep, so they reported, at the age of eighty-six. A
solitary man, his books remained his only legacy.


few of the articles, however, elicited more than a moment's perusal
from the residents of a small farm in Maryland. They were
too busy with other things. The owner, an Irishman somewhat
famous among the locals for his reclusiveness, had begun to
show real signs of life, chatting up customers at the town market,
and even inviting one or two out to the house. Most of the
gentry attributed the sudden change in O'Connell to the young
woman who seemed to be always at his side. She, too, was flowering,
more and more at ease with each passing week. Haiden
Dalgliesh, the groundskeeper at the farm, had even started up a
pool--how soon before the Irishman would make an honest
woman of young Alison. Not usually a betting man, Gaelin had
put a fiver on a date in late September.



epilogue


Jr atches of snow peppered the wide expanse of manicured
grass. The augurs had promised it would be the last of the season;
the clear sky seemed to be proving them right.

Xander and Sarah sat on a bench a good distance from the
grave, neither much interested in the inscription, neither absolutely
sure why they had made the trip. He had phoned and
asked her to come, the first time they had spoken in several
weeks. The time apart had been particularly hard on him, the
strange good-bye, the sudden aimlessness, but he had known it
was for the best. She had said she needed to spend time on her
own, start again, find her way back. He should try to do the
same. The week on Hydra, however, had done little to help.
Only memories of Fiona. Still, it had been time away.

Now, sitting side by side, they peered at the name Lundsdorf.
Perhaps they needed to see it for themselves. Together,
one last time.

They had both missed the funeral--or rather, they had been unavailable that weekend, sequestered at a small house somewhere
in the Virginia countryside. The debriefing specialists
had been rather unhappy to learn that there were no names or
files to help them mop up the loose ends. Manuscripts and documents
were evidently not to their liking. Xander had pleaded
with them to destroy everything. They, in turn, had assured him
that they would "handle the material with the utmost sensitivity." Not good enough, he had explained. Not his concern, they

the overseer	427


had answered. It was only when the president had called to
offer his personal guarantee that everything would be fully secured
that Xander had backed down. What else could he do?
There was still the small matter of the charges connecting the
two of them to Schenten's assassination, Huber's death, and
whatever else had cropped up along the way. "You let us take
care of this, Doctor, and we'll forget about all of that," the president
had said. "Of course, if there's anything else ..."

Bob Stein had been a bit more helpful, but even he had admitted
that the boys at Langley didn't like to share, even with
the folks who had started the ball rolling. Pritchard's role had
placed COS in a rather delicate position; they would need a little
time to win back the skeptics. Until then, everyone would
have to trust that the manuscript was in safe hands, or at least
that it had been locked away somewhere. For the time being,
though, he would be cleaning house. That is, of course, after
some well-earned vacation time. Two days chained to a bed had
left a few scars. The Bahamas, Bob had heard, were especially
nice this time of year. He'd be in touch.

That had been two weeks ago.

"What are you thinking," asked Sarah, arcing her back to relieve
the strain in her ribs.

"I don't know. Votapek, Sedgewick. I'd like to know that
they've been handled with the 'utmost sensitivity.' " He continued
to stare out at the undulating rows of stones. "Feric ..."
He looked at her. "Anyway. Are those better?"

"They will be." She smiled. "As long as I keep them out of
air vents and computer labs. They'll be fine. Just like everything
else." She turned to him and took his hand. "Xander, I
came here because I need you to know that. Things will begin
to make sense. They always do."

He nodded. "So once again, I have no choice but to trust
you, do I?"

"You have to let it go. It's never going to leave on its own,
so you have to let it go."

"And do what?" He took in a long strain of air. "Academia
isn't exactly the most appealing place right now. Not that

428	Jonathan Rabi	THE OVERSEER


429







they'd have me back. Even exonerated assassins don't really fit
in."

"Then look to what you know."

He paused, then turned to her. "Right now, Sarah, that would
be you."

She squeezed his hand tenderly. "I wish it were that easy."

"So do I," he answered. "So do I."

She waited and then pulled an envelope from her bag. She
placed it on his lap.

"What's this?"

"Notes. A manuscript." She looked at him. "I took it from
Lundsdorf's lair, buried it before we were picked up. Maybe
you can start there. I thought someone who understood it
should have it."

Xander slowly opened the flap and stared at the pages inside.
The Italian version. He then looked at her. "You should
have burned this."

She shook her head and smiled. "That's up to you." She then
let out a deep breath and stood. "Have we seen what we came
to see?"

"I suppose." He closed the envelope. "I'm still not exactly
sure what that was."

"A beginning." She looked out over the expanse and then
turned back to him. "There's an eight o'clock flight out of
Kennedy. I'd like to try and make it."

He looked up at her, nodded. "I understand. I'll give you a
lift." He stood; they began to walk.

Very gently, she slipped her arm through his. "Have you
ever been to Florence in the early spring, Professor? I hear it's
quite beautiful."

"That's what they say."

"I've only been once. I was very lucky, though. I had a
charming guide. I was thinking ... it would be nice to find him
again."

Xander stopped. He turned to her and peered into her eyes.
"Are you asking me along, Ms. Trent?"

She smiled. "It does look that way, doesn't it?"

"On doctor's orders?"

"Intuition." She took his hand. "Let's just call it a beginning.
Right now, I think that's the best either of us can do."

A light rain began to fall. She pulled him to her side and they

t^nft <-„	11_

started to walk.

translated by alexander jaspers

institute of cultural research

columbia university

From Eusemus Jacobus Eisenreicn to His Holiness, the Most Holy Father, Pope Clement VII


3,


't is now the preferred course for men who seek patronage to
offer some gift of inestimable worth to those of great dominion,
some token that expresses both deference and ambition. Men
bestow lands, jewels, even daughters in the hopes of currying
favor with one of high station. But such things have fleeting
value, and all too often serve only to quell a passing fancy. The
true gift must stand the test of time.

Sadly, lands deteriorate, stones lose their luster, and young
girls grow to be wives. But the practice of shrewd statehood, the
proper wielding of sovereignty, never strays from our minds.
The noblest gift, then, must take as its principal concern the
stability and longevity of states; and in so doing, it must prescribe
the methods most proficient for maintaining and enhancing
sovereign power.

I will not waste words extolling the virtues of the small book
I send to Your Holiness; nor will I indulge the current habit of
fawning that humble men tend to indulge when addressing men
of your exalted station. I offer only my experience as practitioner
and perceiver of politics, my understanding of subtle
commerce, and my insights to the nature of men and their disposition
in a commonwealth as proof of my merit.

The book contains no lofty ideals or artful flourishes. It is a
simple and frank treatise of the sort only one other has dared to
write. The limitations of Messer Niccolo's tract are now revealed
so that the true nature of power and its capacity may be
set before you. In your wisdom, Holiness, do not shy away from


433


the brutal truths that lie In the pages before you. Do not be as
Plato's cave dwellers, who, fearing the light from outside, return
to the darkness within, happy to hide from a power they
cannot understand.

Find within these pages the tools whereby you may achieve
the greatness that fortune and your genius make all but certain.
Few men have the opportunity to turn the very course of history.
Few men have the courage to act in those singular moments.
Such a moment is now present. It is my greatest desire
that you, most devoted servant of God and man, seize the moment
and dare to alter the very name of supremacy.


Content:


I.	I nat sovereignty is a many-headed creature

II.	That the true nature 01 sovereignty remains unknown

III.	How to achieve stability
IV.	The third way to stable government

V. vv hy the nature of men and the nature t>i power are so
well suited


VI. Those components which make up the state


VII. Why it is vital to maintain the appearance of separation
among the three realms

VIII. How a state may be made ready for true supremacy
IX. The roads to chaos
X, The road to political chaos
XI. The road to economic chaos
XII. The road to social chaos

XIII.	How the three realms together create chaos
XIV.	How to build From chaos
XV. Why it is important to cultivate hatred
XVI. Why the state must be the only competitor
XVII. The military
XVIII. The law

XIX. The ideal form of government
XX. An exhortation to action






434



a«*«««K


On ^upranacg

I. that sovereignty Is a many-headed
creature


@fc.

; For most observers of states, there seem but two choices
in sovereignty. Either one man must rule on his own or there
must be division among many. In the first case, birthright, victory,
or usurpation gives authority its force; in the latter, legislation
institutes a sovereign body to act as a collective. The
Empire of Rome under the Emperors and the Republic illustrates
well the distinctions between the two forms.

But men are fools who choose only from the choices they are
given. In truth, sovereignty is nothing more than a courtier's
word for power, and it is unwise indeed for those who wield
such power to claim that they know how to limit it. Sovereignty
is neither the handmaid of the virtuous or crafty prince nor the
entitlement of a justly formed body of lawmakers. It is a prize
to be won and ridden; ridden by those who can at one moment
exert a princely autonomy and at the next appear models of republican
virtue. To choose to rule by one form of sovereignty is
to lose sight of sovereignty's caprice, its whim. Power seeks not
those who hope to tame it. Power clings to those who recognize
its discord and who can turn that discord to dominance.


II. that the true nature of sovereignty
remains unknown


sfc,

; If the nature of sovereignty is as I describe, I shall have
no easy task giving examples of its proper use. For I would
claim that none to this point in the long history of men's affairs
has dared to recognize the true nature of such power.
And thus none has put it to practice. I can offer no gripping
tales of deceit and cunning, no moral stories of compassion to
illustrate to the full this unleashed and changeable power. In
that respect, Messer Niccolo 's Prince shows a greater reverence
for the past than do my few pages.

Yet history is of little concern to men with vision. That states


439


Melos was a fine example of a state too eager to maintain its	IV. THE THIRD WAY TO STABLE GOVERNMENT

isolation and, because of that shortsightedness, fell prey to the	\ ^5^

ravages of an Athenian leviathan. An island of importance to	j Sim Thus, neither fear nor friendship can lead to long-lasting
both Sparta and Athens, Melos contented itself with neutrality	stability. Men are anxious animals who crave change and chal-during
the first fifteen years of the Peloponnesian War. And so	lenge as surely as they crave bread. They are not content to
it prospered. But no prize sits long unobserved. (If only the	work so that things remain as they are. Isolation and alliance
small island had cultivated its wretchedness, then perhaps it	rely on such meekness. The only alternative is to feed the
would have escaped the greedy Athenian eye! But such is not	\ human desire to move forward, the need to assert one will over
the way in statecraft.) Athens demanded tribute, the Melians	another. The longevity of any state thus rests on its ability to
sought mediation, and soon the once proud island was brought	] cater to the aggressive desires of its people. Stability is no corn-to
ruin in death and slavery. No state is an island, whether sur-	panion of tranquillity.

rounded by waters or not. And no people may rely solely on the	Any student of human nature will see in the preceding lines

sweet words of politic men to save them. In short, isolation is	\ a prescription for self-indulgence that, to some degree, may

but an invitation to slavery.	lead to happiness. But the shrewder observer will ask how such

The second path to stability relies on the good intentions of	practice can hope to achieve stability within a state. Allowing

all states; that each honors its word and abides by the agree-	i a mob to light upon policy based on whim is surely the quickest

ments laid down in a few pieces of paper. Why do I say that all
must be virtuous? Because if even one state chooses to play the

way to anarchy. We are forced to admit that, while aggression
is vital to longevity, the vast majority of men are unable to see

rascal, then all others are in jeopardy. And because it is diffi-	I	how to put this power to proper use. Men are dimwitted,

cult, if not impossible, to determine the future attitude of each	gullible creatures who are as likely to follow a Saint as a ser
pent.
They can be coddled and flattered, bullied and beaten,
and, for a time, will go where they are told.

But only for a time. Then they will feel the lure of change,

state, it is equally impossible to extend trust to any such states
over a long time.

It may be true, however, that a group of states could arrive

at a pact so as to protect themselves from the one miscreant	\	the need to put their private wills onto the stage. So they will

who threatens the overall peace. The most powerful of recent	i	destroy all that has been built up for them by men of learning

memory was that which united the five great states of Italy.	j	in order that their own aggression may come forth. Such is the

Each, for a time, laid aside their petty disputes, eager for the
rewards their Treaty ofLodi could bring them. Soon, however,
Lodovico Sforza saw the gains to be won for his own Milan by
inviting Charles of France to Italy. And so ended the temporary

calamity of history. Such is the work of men in politics.

This is the central lesson that too many men of politics fail to
grasp. It is not enough to sweep away the danger and set in its
place a government of one man or many. Again, Messer Niccold

is right to conclude that to make such an argument is perhaps the surest way
to find consistency between Machiavelli's Prince and Discourses.

friendships, proving that such alliances help little the cause of	wants us to believe that his prince will build a strong authority
long-lasting stability. The momentary success of the treaty was	i from the chaos, and that his bold leader will then yield his power
due more to the chance concurrence of self-interest among the	\ to a republican body that will endure throughout the ages.*
five states than to the nature of the treaty itself. Private inter ests ultimately tear such treaties apart. Thus we find that while	I	*Although Machiavelli does not expressly detail this transition, Eisenreich

friendships and alliances are pleasant things, they do not reflect
the deeper parts of men's souls.


442	*«


bounds of social stability. But they must never sense the walls	<	,-„«.</	li- u,
,	/-,


, ~ r , , f	j j	times, then truly a republic would be the government of choice.

around them. It is the task of government and education to	D	,	,,,,,, . ,

. . . ... , . * 6	Butmenarenotsuchcreatures.Norshouldtheystrivetobe.lt

maintain that delicate balance.	.	, ,	,

Yet we might ask, Is not aggression the very seed of up-	'	" n° SeCret hat 'here are moments when men covet even

heaval? How will control of the pupil help to keep the father	tyranny openly or not. He who claims otherwise is either a liar

from rebelliousness? For those who understand revolt, this	|	oraf°°L ^ *" the world seen so """>* V™'5 tfmtfi>rthe

question is easily dismissed on several counts. First, upheaval	'	very reason that every man >"" a secret lonSinSto be one? That

is forged through generations; teach the child well and loyalty	\	is' to wleld ultlmate contro1' to assert his wil1 over All °thers-leaves
no worn for doubt. Next, upheaval is the product of a	I	AndJust as men seek such P^werfor themselves, so they esteem

ness its power over self and others, can sate the private tyrannical
need in all men.

As I have said, men are children. And it is not uncommon for
children to seek out the strong hand of authority from a ruling
parent. As with all passions, however, the child grows tired of this

that hostility considered expression and it ceases to threaten.
And third, the cry of the malcontent is against exclusion, mistreatment,
or injustice; such harsh expressions take years to
develop and can thus be quelled within the young long before
such excitements grow to dangerous proportions. And this is all

hidden resentment that bubbles up so as to destroy peace; allow	lt m others-To llve under an empire-building tyranny, to wit-I
shall say on the presumed dangers of rebellion.	°ne in time. But it is a wise parent, like a wise government, who

knows when to play the bully, when the coddler. Power reflects the

desires of the people; and the people are most content when catering
to the whims of power. Tyranny, which is often little more than
monarchy disliked, does, at times, satisfy a human passion.

Here, then, is where the nature of men and the nature of
power join hands. Power does not suffer well the shackles of
quietude; neither do men. Power follows caprice; so, too, do
men. Power sates its thirst through far-reaching, if not limitless,
conquest; so, too, do men find distraction and entertainment
in political expansion. Thus do the ways of power and the
needs of men suit one another to perfection.

V. why the nature of men and the nature of
power are So well suited

VI. those components which
make up the state


Thus far, I have spoken in general terms. I have explained
that men must be left free to act upon their aggressive
desires (within certain limits of which they are
unaware); that power is a driving, capricious force that ex-

Sim
Likewise, leaders must pay close attention to the subtle
changes in attitude that hint at discontent. And it is for that reason
that governments must be willing to play different roles as
time dictates. As the restlessness of a people begins to show itself,
so the government must have the skill to change its very face
both to appease and to distract the volatile crowd. The change
may be only superficial (and more often than not is best served
through deception), but its effect can be momentous. Would that
there were examples from the past to illustrate this policy. But
none with opportunity has yet dared to implement it.

3*

One reason that governments have been unwilling or unable
to master this technique is because they have believed falsely
that all peoples seek liberty at all times, and that a mob is most
content either under a republic or a democracy. But why should
men choose to live under one constant form of sovereignty
when they themselves exhibit no such consistency within their

souls? If all men were infused with the republican spirit at all	,„-,,.,«. ~n,,~,..i.- j
»t // j «l < l

J	J	r	r	racies, oligarchies, and the like; and that, where governance

tends far beyond the confines of the sort imposed by democ-
447

n trie re/jurjiicun spirit ui un 446

bounds of social stability. But they must never sense the walls	.. .. . ,	... ... ,	, . .

, , . , , r	, j 	times, then truly a republic would be the government of choice.

around them. It is the task of government and education to	_	. l . »/ i u i l. ,

. , ... . . J °	Butmenarenotsuchcreatures.Norshouldtheystrivetobe.lt

maintain that delicate balance.	.	. „. . .	.

. , , ,	. ,	, r	is no secret that there are moments when men covet even

Yet we might ask, Is not aggression the very seed of up-	.	.. , . . , .... ,.

, ., „ ...	, , .	., , . „ , .l 1 .if	tyranny, openly ornot. He who claims otherwise is either a liar

heaval? How will control of the pupil help to keep the father	/,„„,, ,,	.,.

from rebelliousness? For those who understand revolt, this	or af°°L Wh? ^ the worl<! seen so "*"* V™15 lfnotfor [he

question is easily dismissed on several counts. First, upheaval	ver? reaso" f/f eve^ man Ms a secret lonSlnS to be one? That

is forged through generations; teach the child well and loyalty	"' to wield ultlmate control; to assert his wil1 over alt others I
shall say on the presumed dangers of rebellion.	one m time. But it is a wise parent, like a wise government, who

knows when to play the bully, when the coddler. Power reflects the

souls? If all men were infused with the republican spirit at all	mcies oligarchies> and the uke; and that whgrg governance


446	w

leaves no room for doubt. Next, upheaval is the product of a
hidden resentment that bubbles up so as to destroy peace; allow
that hostility considered expression and it ceases to threaten.
And third, the cry of the malcontent is against exclusion, mistreatment,
or injustice; such harsh expressions take years to
develop and can thus be quelled within the young long before
such excitements grow to dangerous proportions. And this is all

V. why the nature of men and the nature of
power are So well suited

3*


Likewise, leaders must pay close attention to the subtle
changes in attitude that hint at discontent. And it is for that reason
that governments must be willing to play different roles as
time dictates. As the restlessness of a people begins to show itself,
so the government must have the skill to change its very face
both to appease and to distract the volatile crowd. The change
may be only superficial (and more often than not is best served
through deception), but its effect can be momentous. Would that
there were examples from the past to illustrate this policy. But
none with opportunity has yet dared to implement it.

One reason that governments have been unwilling or unable
to master this technique is because they have believed falsely
that all peoples seek liberty at all times, and that a mob is most
content either under a republic or a democracy. But why should
men choose to live under one constant form of sovereignty
when they themselves exhibit no such consistency within their

T

And just as men seek such power for themselves, so they esteem
it in others. To live under an empire-building tyranny, to witness
its power over self and others, can sate the private tyrannical
need in all men.

As I have said, men are children. And it is not uncommon for
children to seek out the strong hand of authority from a ruling
parent. As with all passions, however, the child grows tired of this

desires of the people; and the people are most content when catering
to the whims of power. Tyranny, which is often little more than
monarchy disliked, does, at times, satisfy a human passion.

Here, then, is where the nature of men and the nature of
power join hands. Power does not suffer well the shackles of
quietude; neither do men. Power follows caprice; so, too, do
men. Power sates its thirst through far-reaching, if not limitless,
conquest; so, too, do men find distraction and entertainment
in political expansion. Thus do the ways of power and the
needs of men suit one another to perfection.


VI. those components which
make up the state


gfc


Thus far, I have spoken in general terms. I have explained
that men must be left free to act upon their aggressive
desires (within certain limits of which they are
unaware); that power is a driving, capricious force that extends
far beyond the confines of the sort imposed by democ-


is certainly hinting at it. I have chosen the word social because it seems to	„ , . . . . *i & . 	j? tl. .

..	.	,,.	,.	.	. .	How, then, do they bring their efforts into accord? That is,

capture the expansiveness 01 his usage. Moreover, the term is consistent

is concerned, men and power seek the same end. It remains
for us to ask the central question: How is that end met?

From here, I will confine my observations to those who wield
authority. I have said enough about the people. They remain a
concern, but only in so far as they follow the few who lead. To
understand the aggressive desires of the general crowd is a necessary
step in leadership. To contrive by stealth a change in
their desires so that a state may thrive is the more difficult task.

Success in that endeavor requires a keen understanding of
the nature of the state. It is no longer wise to describe the state
as a single realm, as an inseparable entity. I do not mean to
make the obvious point that sovereignty is divisible. The Roman
Republic is proof enough, what with its Senate and Consuls and Tribunes, that such division is not only possible but perhaps
even advantageous to stability. No. I mean to assert that states
are made up of three separate realms, each of which plays a
distinct role in the relations of leaders and people. These
realms are the politic, the economic, and the social. *

The first is the most easily defined, the most tangible of the
three because so much ink has been used in its exploration. The
second is, if modesty allows, a designation of my own meant to
define those activities of trade and commerce within and without
the state. For centuries, the term has designated the maintenance
of households. Thus Aristotle's numerous references to
"oeconomia" throughout his Politics and Nichomachean
Ethics. But is not the state a household writ large? It is, therefore,
only logical that we treat the maintenance of states as we


*Thi$ was by far the most difficult term in the translation. Eisenreich uses
the words communitas and humanitas. sometimes together, often interchangeably
when describing this realm. It is difficult to believe that he
would have recognized this as a "social sphere" in the modern sense, but he

with the realm he describes--one where educational and cultural manipulation
take place. That the term as we know it only appears in works of
political philosophy 250 years later should only confirm Eisenreich's extraordinary
talents as a student of statecraft.


448

wVl

treat the upkeep of households and thus develop a more expansive
notion of economy. As to the third, it is the most abstract of
the three. For now, I will simply remind the reader that education
is at the heart of the social realm, and I will leave more detailed
discussion for later.

Heretofore, writers of theories, both practical and impractical,
have thrown these three realms together, more often than not
taking the political as the central governing force. Economy and
society have appeared as little more than echoes of political
power. This approach, though oft of use, fails to reveal the truly
complex nature of the state. Those who take this path are like the
simple diner who, upon tasting the stew, remarks that the beef is
of good quality, and that consequently the entire dish is satisfactory.
But it is the epicurean who notices the subtle flavor of
the potatoes, the leeks, the carrots, and the broth who truly appreciates
the dish, and who knows how to maintain its delicate
balance. Should the stew fail to please the simple diner the next
time round, he will look only to the beef as cause for his displeasure.
The epicurean has subtler tastes, a more discreet sense
for the ingredients, and he knows where to investigate when the
stew no longer satisfies. So, too, in states, leaders must recognize
the different ingredients of the politic, economic, and social,
and balance them well so as to maintain stability.

And as there are different cooks for different dishes, so, too,
there must be separate Prefects for the separate realms within
the state: one man who understands political relations, another
who rules the economic realm, and another who decides social
policy. And because each must remain solely in his own realm,
he must take no heed of the designs set down by those of equal
authority within the other realms. The demands of each realm
are so severe that, for those who lead, there is no time to attend
to anything but their own tasks.

how, if each gives care only to his own realm, will the designs in
each serve the best interests of the state as a whole? Surely,
without some principal agent overseeing all actions within each
realm, we shall have anarchy. Therefore, one man must stand


449


They will also be convinced at all times that the form of the
state meets their desire. When, for example, the crowd cries out
for aristocracy, the social realm will dominate. When those
same voices beg for oligarchy, the economic realm will hold
sway. And when, capricious yet again, they shout for a prince,
the political leader will emerge. Thus will the face of government
change with the winds of public interest nand enthusiasm
in order to keep the people diverted and satisfied. And thus will
behind the three to guide them with subtle suggestion and wise
counsel. This single individual need not be well versed in the
dealings within the separate realms. Rather, he must tend a
larger vision--with the insight of an Aurelius, the self-command
of a Cincinnatus--a capacity to enable the rivalries between the
realms to strengthen the bonds among them all. He is no prince,
no sovereign king whose single authority dictates the path of the
state. Only at certain moments does he assert such power. At all
other times, he sits and observes, happy to remain above the	\	the aggressive desire of the people never have cause to tear at
These alterations, it will be apparent, are built more on de
fray.
He is not hungry for power, yet he can harness it when the	the fabric of a state that slakes their thirst for change.
occasion calls upon him to do so. For him, supremacy is but a
the trappings of a democracy one day and a tyranny the next, it
would be no state at all Consistency must be the watchword of
reflection of stability, and he knows that such stability rests upon	\	cej>tion than reality-For lfa state were-in al'truth' to assume
the push and pull of the realms that he oversees.
A short digression is needed to consider the character of this
man whom I shall call the Overseer hereafter. Only one man	I	its leaders'As "^ have ""*»*** a state « much like a shiP-
his
sailors, and even less with the difficult question of who controls
the wheel. Rather, the similarity lies in the design of the
from the past has displayed the proper disposition of the Over-	But the metaphor has little to do with the role of the captain or
seer. Cincinnatus, summoned from the plow during the Minucian
consulship so as to fight back the Aequi, accepted the post
ble during the turbulence of battle or revolt, a ship relies on a
of Roman Dictator with the single purpose of restoring order to	whole' To keeP ^elf afloat, to weather any swell, to remain sta-
the
Empire; having done so, he returned to his plow in six
months. His ambition rested solely in bringing stability to the	solltary devlc*> ^ddenfrom all eyes The keel. The keel remains
Empire, not in securing his own authority. Our Overseer is no	constan\ at att tlmes-Perh°P*the shlPtakes n™ salls'a hl^r
plowman, nor could he ever leave the central halls of authority,	™st> a la^er ^ew-such changes appear to alter Us form, but
, ...	f	„ , ., ,„	,	.	the foundation remains the same. That which keeps it stable
but his use of power must show the selflessness and narrow aim	. _		^
„/-,*. t , j	never varies. So it is within a state,
that Cincinnatus upheld.
The relations among the three Prefects and the Overseer	,,»,-.,, ,,„,
will determine the well-being of the state and, as important, the	V[L why it Is Vl™L TO MAINTAIN THE
control of the people. Each realm must maintain autonomy. Or	APPEARANCE OF SEPARATION AMONG
at least such separateness must seem real to the people. That is,	THE 1 HREE REALMS
men will rarely need to learn of the Overseer, who keeps the	J5*
three realms in harmony. To the simple crowd, the politic, the
economic, and the social will be guided by separate hands,
each in some way a check to the ambitions of the other two. In
this way, republican virtue will blanket the government because
power will seem divided among the many. The neat appearance
of limits and balances (to borrow again from Polybius) will sat-
Overseer
and Prefects must remain always at the core of government.
Their roles never change in relation to one another,
only in relation to the people and to other states. That is, the
apparent superiority of one realm over another at any given
time depends on circumstance, whether the state must seem
C*«W // follows, then, that the unwavering arrangement of
isfy the whim of the people.

451
more politically dominant, economically forceful, and so 450
forth. And it is the unseen element, the Overseer, that makes	Prince>then-^
more practical to the practitioner of statecraft
seer, a unity unseen by all others. A second maxim of leadership	^^

Qim Men are governed by their own wills and by the will of

possible all the transformations a state will endure. It is his
hidden relationship with the Prefects within each realm that
grants the state its much prized stability.

That is not to say that the four act in alliance with one another,
each aware of the detailed actions required for success
within the separate realms. No. Only at certain moments do
their efforts unite. The real power of the Prefects rests in their
unfailing devotion to their particular realms, together with
their knowledge of the unity they must observe under the Over-
is
therefore: To rule effectively, men must see to their own tasks,
outwardly alone in their pursuits, but with the hidden understanding
of common fellowship. In this way, the full extent of
their power remains masked through feigned indifference to
one another. True supremacy will thus emerge through concealed
association.

To this point, were this a book of ideas alone, I could be well
satisfied for having explained the essence of supremacy and the
nature of stability. But what a hollow victory it would be if I fail
to offer even a single word on the means whereby shrewd leaders
may be able to achieve this end. It now remains to see how
a state (as I have described it) may come into being, and how
it may flourish. Many before me have written on this subject,
but most have done so with the fanciful intent of describing
states as they ought to be and not as they are. And they have
thus relied on equally fanciful notions of virtue, strength,
courage, and the like to ensure stability within these imagined
realms. Even Messer Niccolo, with his desire to represent reality,
has given us a prince who seems to appear from the mists
of providence, his boldness and cunning intact long before we
meet him. Likewise, this prince has fortune to thank for creating
chaos within the state so that he may exhibit his virtu. As
Messer Niccolo himself admits, his heroes from the past and
present slip away all too quickly--even those as revered as Ce-sare
Borgia--unable to maintain their arrogance, their steadfastness,
their foresight for any long period of time. Is this

than Plato's philosopher king or the virtuous princes we find in
the writings ofSalutati, Guarino, or Poggio? No. They are pure
fantasy. In short, my small book will be no more useful than
theirs should I stop here. The rest, therefore, must attend to the
practical. And for that, we must again start with a clean sheet
so as to determine how we might build a state for the ages.


VIII. How a state may be made ready for
true supremacy

fortune, and it is the battle that rages between these two that
determines the well-being of states. The extent to which one of
these wills may dominate is of central importance to us.
Messer Niccolo would have us believe that the two fight an
equal battle. To be fair, he is the first to give men an honest
chance in the struggle, even if, by his own examples, he proves
all too well that fortune is history's victor. Even he must admit,
though, that men cannot win because they cannot adapt with
sufficient speed to the demands of time. Long-lasting stability
(the core of true supremacy) remains a golden dream.

But certain men are more capable than we might believe,
even more capable than Messer Niccolo's prince. Their capacity
lies not in their virtu or Thesian cunning. Unlike Messer
Niccold's prince, these men need have no superhuman quality.
Nor do they do battle with fortune as their single nemesis.
Rather, their strength lies in their faith in the state itself, in the
state's capacity to achieve permanence in the face of fortune's
whim. Underneath all its many changes, the state keeps an enduring
quality, an immortality. Yet most men are unaware of
this durability. For this reason, they are reluctant to tear down
the faulty structures on which the state rests for fear that they
will be left with nothing but anarchy. So great is their fear that
they choose to amend the flawed structure and produce the
same errors over and over again rather than attempt to build
something of worth. What they fail to grasp is that only in the



452	«8


chaos of destruction can strong foundations be established.
And only those who place their trust in the capacity of states
(and not of men) understand how stability may be achieved.

It follows, then, that leaders who wish to create a stable and
long-lasting state must first be willing to throw the present state
into chaos. In short, there must always be a place for sacrifice.
My purpose here is not to shock but to reveal plain truths.
Messer Niccolo certainly understood this point, albeit less
completely. His prince reached the heights of power because he
knew how to take advantage of a situation mired in chaos. Yet
the prince had no cause to know how to instigate such chaos.
That task was left to the caprice of fortune. In that way, Messer
Niccolo yielded greater power to fortune than to men. But those
willing to take the bolder step and to send the state into the
chasm wrest such power from the fickle goddess and thus shape


slate must be clean if the new state is to be unaffected by the
cankers and disease of the previous regime. It is not enough
to replace a tyrant with a legislature, a mob with a king. The
facade may be different, but the core remains the same. A
smooth transformation from one form of governance to another
merely reveals the underlying decay. To put it slightly
differently, it is but a stay of execution. That which eroded the
first regime lingers to undermine the next, and the next, and
the next.

The problem is due to men's lack of imagination. They cannot
see beyond the walls of the past, and thus find security only
in what has come before them. Yet real courage asserts itself
when faced with possible failure. The unknown provides such a
test. To retreat to a flawed but well-tried structure displays only
a weak will and an utter resignation to mediocrity.

their own destinies.	There can be no easy way to the state I have described. For

I have asked that leaders see not only themselves but the state
they hope to rule in an entirely new fashion. There is nothing
from history to which they might cling so as to make the change
more palatable. Nor is there anything from the past that can explain
how they might establish the realms and the Overseer. As
with all things novel, attack is the best path. It follows that
those who hope to rule must seek the total destruction of the
standing regime.

But only at a certain moment. It would be folly to create
chaos if these leaders were not prepared to build new structures
to replace the old, to fill the void created by the destruction they
themselves will have caused. I need pause only briefly to explain
the craft of such a tactic. It is difficult, if not impossible,
to provoke sweeping change in a state that has but the slightest
residue of comfort and familiarity; that is, in one that reeks of
the same mediocrity for decade after decade. Eliminate quietude
and complacence and the specters of uncertainty and disorder
will rush the people eagerly into the arms of a new
leadership. In that way, the bold few will contrive a vacuum
that they can fill with their own brand of supremacy so as to re-
The
choice is not so drastic as it might appear. Take, for example,
the mathematician who struggles to create an indisputable
proof. He clutters the slate with theorem upon theorem,
axiom upon axiom, but to no avail. His calculations do not lead
to certainty. And so he cleans the slate, save for the one or two
statements he considers absolutely necessary for the ultimate
proof. And yet, over and over again he arrives at uncertainty.
What can he do? His fellow scholars believe that the few statements
he has kept are essential to the task. Without these basic
statements, they argue, he would not know where to begin. But he
is wiser than they and has real vision. And so he wipes the slate
clean and begins unencumbered by their outmoded wisdom. He
trusts the science and not the men, thus showing his courage to
plumb the depths into which the others dare not venture.

had the courage, nor the insight, to begin from nothing. The


455

place the vanquished regime. 454

So is it with states. To elicit real change, leaders must be
willing to tear down every structure that has been built on
faulty foundations. For two thousand years, men have
erected and destroyed cities', states, even civilizations in the
hopes of constructing one perfect realm. But their efforts
have been in vain for the simple reason that they have never

The task is not as Herculean as it might appear, for much of
the preparation will depend merely on four men; one above all
who has the wisdom both to instruct and to choose his three disciples
so that they have access to the three realms. I will not
deny that this is the longest and hardest portion of the process:
the three men must be plucked up at an early age, when their
minds are open to innovation, and when they do not shy away
from that which seems impossible. Aristotle's tutelage of Alexander
proves that, if given sufficient direction from an early age,
and if inspired with a passion for innovation, young men can
grow to conquerors. The world has not seen the likes of an
Alexander since, nor have there been such tutors as Aristotle to
set down the course for such remarkable invention. But if a select
few are given a glimpse of what might be, a glimpse into the
limitless power to be won through a strict division of the realms,
it will not be hard for the Overseer to gain their undying commitment.
The burden shall be his to choose his pupils wisely.

Furthermore, the Overseer need not worry that each of
these boys will be overwhelmed by the vastness of the ultimate
task, because each will be limited only to that field, that realm
which is to be his domain when the new state emerges. At the
same time, though, each will be aware of the larger goal, confident
that his two colleagues have engaged themselves as rigorously
as he. The finer details of this initial stage will be
determined by the way the Overseer interprets the few words of
counsel I have set down here. For that reason, I will not attempt
to describe the course of that training. I cannot anticipate circumstances,
nor can I determine the future demands of any of
the realms. Suffice it to say, each man must become an expert
in his given realm, so much so that he is in a position of considerable
influence when the moment to provoke chaos arrives.
That the Overseer should choose from men who have the capacity
to arrive at such positions is obvious. Yet certain aspects
of the instruction will become clearer as I depict the later
stages of this enterprise.


456

IX. the roads to chaos

efc


Any one of the realms can, by itself, plunge a state into

_ r» _ i -.. i	*		- -

*	V
*"O~™ "**«*' "*»'

chaos. Political upheaval due to rebellion or assassination,
economic ruin caused by failed ventures or a drain on goods,
or social disorder prompted by plague, famine, or other disasters
can cause temporary havoc. Events in England of the
past eighty years are sufficient illustration of how political intrigue
can shake the very foundations of a state. The various
murders and plots before the arrival of Henry Tudor brought
chaos to England on more than one occasion, the worst after
Richard Plantagenet's accession to the throne. The country
was at war with itself, and in the end found salvation in a conquering
prince. But did the English make the most of that
chaos? Did they seek to expunge from the state those traits
that had made all the devastation possible? Probably not. The
Tudors have restored a peace, but one must wonder how long
lasting that security will be, since the current Henry has no
male heir. Will these battered English be forced to fight the
same battles once again?

As to economic ruin, you will recall that following its war
with the Numantines, the Roman Republic experienced vast difficulties
brought about by the thousands of peasant workers
who were unable to find land to till. Food began to grow
scarce, with only corn brought from abroad warding off rebellion.
So great was the economic strain that the tribunes led
popular agitation against the senate and consuls. The danger
began to spread to the military, and the entire state, already descending
toward chaos, seemed on the brink of total collapse.
Had it not been for Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus, men of extraordinary
gifts, whose reforms restored order to commerce
and agriculture, Rome might very well have fallen long before
any scheming dictator could bring her to her knees.

For social disasters I need only remind the reader of the
plague in Athens as evidence of the devastation of such phe
nomena.

In each of these cases, the advent of chaos did not suffice to


457



dissuade men from erecting the same institutions that had made
the state so weak in the first place. Thus, for chaos to serve its
proper end, all three realms must erupt together. The question
naturally arises: How? In the examples we have cited, the catastrophes
were not wished for, nor were they the product of
human design. Perhaps Richard Plantagenet recognized the
usefulness of the chaos his actions provoked, but it would be
foolhardy to ascribe a human cause to the economic failure in
Rome, and blasphemous to do so in the case of the plague. Yet
if a stable state is to emerge, the few must take it upon themselves
to create chaos; they must destroy all power so as to create
power.


X. the road to political chaos


Sire The roles of each realm are distinct and any one may
lead the way in the move toward chaos. Yet it would be wise
to explain how difficulties are most likely to arise in each
realm before we consider their united efforts. For the political
realm, there are three roads to chaos: first, by assassination;
next, by military or foreign threat; and third, by a
popular demagogue. History is too full of instances of the
first to warrant long discussion, but a few stand out among
the many. The most obvious is Caesar, whose death at the
hands of the twenty-two left Rome in the midst of a bloody
civil war, which ended with the loss of the Republic and the
rise of Imperial rule. The few years of confusion and uncertainty
as Brutus and Octavian fought for dominion were the
immediate consequence of the assassination. A less effective
example, but one which occurred within the memory of our
own fathers, was the partially successful attempt upon the
lives of Guiliano and Lorenzo de' Medici. The Pazzi conspired
to rid the city of its two leading citizens and, during
the holy Easter Mass, set upon the two brothers, killing the
first but allowing the second to flee with his life. Until word
of Lorenzo's escape became known, a panic flew throughout
the city and, had it not been for a few words of assurance on

the steps of the Cathedral from the young Lorenzo, the
Medici might have seen all order abandon Florence. So cunning
a member of that illustrious family was Lorenzo that he
turned the failed attempt to his advantage, making changes
that strengthened his control over the government. But in
truth, such an outcome is highly uncommon, and resulted
more from Lorenzo's own qualities than from his circumstances
after the attempted assassination.

Even when successful, assassination places states only temporarily
into chaos, from which an altered, though equally
weak sovereignty emerges. For those who win sovereignty
through conspiracy and assassination, there is little to look forward
to save fear, envy, and the terrifying possibility of revenge.
Princes raised by assassination inspire others to seize power in
the same way, and thus soon fall prey to the very means that
brought them to the fore. To build a government on such foundations
is to condemn the state to retribution upon retribution.
While such events will bring cities into a continuous state of
chaos, it is not a chaos from which true supremacy may emerge.

The second road may lead to more stable leadership than
the first, but it is equally suspect, and far more difficult to follow.
For military men (of whom I will speak in greater detail)
are not easy to control, nor are they likely to yield sovereignty
to a leader once they themselves have tasted the sweet fruits of
power. Too much has been made of the loyalty of such armies
for their generals, and for the leaders who direct those generals.
In a time of true heroism, perhaps such esteem held sway.
But we live in an age of mercenary troops who fight for a day's
pay, no matter who holds the purse strings. Soldiers switch
sides in the heat of battle if they are given sufficient reward. To
trust military men--even those of a city's own militia (again
Messer Niccolo displays an unsuspected naivete)--is to allow a
fickle crowd to determine the course of events. Loyalty is no
match for power's subtle lure. Thus, to create political chaos
through military force is to doom the state to martial law (no
matter how sweetly that law be imposed). It cannot be denied
that military rule offers some stability, but only for a while. Am


458		*»


bition is the driving quality of all soldiers and too many have
the means (a regiment here, a garrison there) to seize power.
No state stands long that must endure the constant struggles of
military intrigue.

Foreign threat is even more difficult to predict and nearly
impossible to control. Furthermore, the only men in history
who have won power through conquests made by others have
been spies and traitors. These are the worst sorts of men and
deserve any and all vengeful reprisals that fall upon them.
There is nothing more to say on the possibilities created by foreign
threats.

The first two roads to political upheaval share a basic shortcoming:
Neither takes seriously the need to contrive with
stealth the opinion of the people. Assassination is alone a tool
of the few or of the lunatic. Military upheaval takes place in a
small portion of the state. Those who follow either of these two
roads fail to recognize that, although incapable of rule on their
own, the people are the most powerful force in a state, and thus
any change in power must ride upon the wave of their passions.
The people would not willingly bring the state into chaos, but
they must be led to do so. There is but one way to accomplish
that end: A demagogue must rise who captures their devotion
and who recognizes the need to catapult the state into ruin so
that he (and others) may create stability from the rubble.

Once again, Florence provides a fitting example in the person
of Savonarola, who became the city's leading citizen during
the last days of its first republic. Only last year, Signore
Michelangelo Buonarroti told me that to this day, thirty years
later, he could still hear the sound of Savonarola's voice as he
preached. Driven by his desire for sweeping change both in the
church and in his fellow citizens, Savonarola filled his sermons
with prophecies of the purifying scourge ready to descend upon
Italy. When his prophecy was given truth by the invasion of the
French in the year of our Lord 1494, he won control of the city
and the opportunity to create his holy realm out of the upheaval.
But he was a man of narrow vision, who desired little
more than a strengthened republic guided by the motto "Christ


460

King in Florence." His body soon burned on a pyre in the Piazza
della Signoria, a testament both to his influence and to his
limits.

Among the many demagogues over the centuries few (if any)
have taken this role with the sort of foresight necessary to prepare
for the state I envision. Our demagogue must be a man
ready to take the reins within the political realm once chaos
erupts. Therefore, he must be well aware of the other realms,
and see his role as one of limited importance. It is crucial that
he play the demagogue, rather than be one. For if he were to
take on all of the attributes of such a leader, he would never be
able to slake his own thirst once the new foundations of the
state were set. Thus he must not appear on the political stage
simply by happenstance; that is, by the good fortune of a few
ringing sermons. No. He must study the temper of the people,
understand what they crave or disparage in the current state,
and then use that knowledge to cater to their desires. He must
speak as if he speaks for them all. He must be a shrewd observer
of men, and he must know when to enter the fray. He
need not strike with a bold blow; but rather, he should build
slowly from small beginnings. Let word of his deeds and of his
opinions give rise to his popularity. Let the people call on him,
not he on them. Then, when the moment is right, when the Overseer
has counseled a sudden movement from all realms, let him
take his people into chaos. They will not flinch. They will have
given him their trust and their devotion. It will take time to conjure
such loyalty, and it will be the circumstances that determine
his progress. But all that is required of both demagogue
(the political Prefect) and Overseer is that they be able to read
men's hearts, a skill honed through years of study.


XI. the road to economic chaos


6<m Such are the paths to upheaval in the political realm. Within the economic realm, there are also three paths: first, by
natural depletion; next, by foreign blockade; and third, by designed
ill-use. The first is most likely to cause strife among the


461


various groups within a state; that is, setting the landed
wealthy against artisans and merchants, and against the peasants
and the poor. When goods are insufficient to meet the
needs of each group, those who are deprived will find cause to
revolt and send the state toward ruin. Oft the fault lies with the
peasantry, for they are unable to recognize the ebb and flow of
commerce and trade. When food or other necessities are
scarce, they blame the landed, who are no more to blame than
the peasants themselves, for it is nature, not greed, that causes
the dearth of grain, wood, metals, and the like.

Nowhere has this farce been more common than in the German
states of the last one hundred years. Guildsmen fought
against merchants, peasants against lords, weavers and miners
against merchants, until, with a sudden explosion, the Peasant
wars erupted, leaving behind the rule of dictators throughout
the German region. The chaos created by the economic discontent
did naught but return the old rulers to power with even
greater control than before. Natural depletion was ill-suited to
send the state in a new direction.

As foreign military threat is difficult to control and equally
difficult to cause, so, too, is foreign blockade. If any have been
foolish enough to encourage a threat from abroad so that they
might reap the benefits such chaos allows, they are indeed the
worst sorts of fools, for there is little room for sweeping change
once the blockade serves its end. Too often the besieged turn
with sunken cheeks to their vanquishers, happy to accept any
rule that promises bread. The few who have led the starving
mob may insist that all choose death rather than submission.
But men are inclined more by their stomachs than by honor or
loyalty. The only change such action breeds is the rule of conquerors.
And for those who ally themselves with the new rulers,
they have only to look to history to see the fate of such traitors.

We are left with one choice: designed ill-use. Leaders cannot
wait for a natural decline in trade and commerce to cause
a panic; nor should they place their fate in the hands of a foreigner
or an enemy. Instead, they must choose one area within
the world of buying and selling that is susceptible to severe dis

turbance.
Do not befooled that this action must be of the most
drastic sort. Those who wish to cause mayhem need not burn
all the grain, nor ravage all the land. All they need provoke is
one event that will shake the confidence of the people; one area
where a sudden change will cause the crowd to doubt the security
of all. This has happened more by fault than design
throughout history, but the lesson is the same.

We may look to Milan for illustration. When a certain duke
of that fair city, a devotee of the Guelfs (I shall spare his memory
the indignity of giving his name), secretly ordered one of his
own ships to be sunk, for fear that both friends and enemies
would discover his mistress, a woman of the Ghibellines, to be
on board, he mistakenly sent a vast quantity of wool and silk to
the bottom with her. The duke's actions may have prevented a
nasty dispute between the two warring factions, but he created
far more trouble by arousing the wrath of the merchants and
weavers than if he had let the ship reach port. The silk and cloth
manufacturers feared that their losses from the downed shipment
would send their entire trades into ruin. Without goods or
payment, they reasoned, how could they hope to continue? To
limit the damage, they thought it wise to shut down almost half
the shops throughout the city. The people, quick to take fright,
concluded that the trouble would soon spread to all other areas
of commerce. The ensuing panic forced the duke to offer large
privileges to members of every guild, draining his coffers, and
weakening his position with the Ghibellines. And all because of
one small ship and a few rolls of silk and wool!

The duke had no intent to cause such alarm, but the lesson
is clear: Those who willingly cause such mayhem can reap the
greatest rewards, for they control when and how such eruptions
occur, and they are able to anticipate the people's response. The
Overseer, together with the Prefect of the economic realm, must
therefore determine a single area within trade and commerce
that can bring the same response as the wool and silk trade in
Milan. As the demagogue must read the hearts of men, so this
Prefect must understand the natural vicissitudes of economy,
using that knowledge to master one small area of trade. And



462	,	^


like the demagogue, this Prefect will need years of experience
and training to make this decision. Thus, while the demagogue
gathers his followers, so the economist (again, a word of my
own making) establishes himself within the most powerful circles
of commerce. When the moment is right--that is, when the
moment meets the demands of the other realms--it will not be
difficult to send the state into economic panic.


XII. the road to social chaos


G>fa But what of the social realm ? How might a Prefect create
havoc there? The few examples I have been able to collect
from history lie entirely on the side of fortune (or God's will),
and have nothing to do with the plans of men. Certainly none
but the Almighty rains pestilence and plague upon humanity,
and no matter how clever and wise men become in the ways
of disease and death, it is unlikely that they will ever seek to
create such afflictions. Yet there is a subtler way to prepare
the social ground for a new state; a way that calls for drastic
change and thus might well be likened to a sort of chaos.

I have explained that this realm finds its base in education:
to control education is to hold the social realm in one's hands.
Thus, the change must occur within the halls of learning. It follows
that, for this change to have any influence over the populace,
the educational institution that imparts its message must
be widespread. Unfortunately, we must admit that at this moment
no such institution exists.

Unless we look to the most holy Catholic Church as a beacon
of learning. Within its sacred walls, men's hearts may be altered,
directed, and encouraged to reshape the world. Were it
not for the mighty institution that emanates from Rome, it
would take decades, if not centuries, to set in place a means to
touch so many hearts and minds. And within those halls, an upheaval
of sorts must take place. The Church must expand its vision
so that it may guide men not only toward eternal salvation
but also toward an enduring state here on earth. I would not be
so forthright, nor would I risk the brand of impiety, were there


464

no other institution so well suited to the demands of longevity
and stability. Perhaps in days to come, some such educational
institution may arise to release the Church from this heavy burden.
Until that day, however, Rome must take up the reins and
lead with an iron fist. Beat back the heretics and muster the
strength of her faithful. To do so, she must revitalize her means
of guiding the people and develop a new way of learning, a way
to inspire passion and devotion to a well-dictated stability.

I do not speak without just cause. We need only look to any
number of German states to understand the imminent peril. Already,
a great danger has appeared in the form of a rebel priest,
a man who strives to wrest authority from its rightful place. If
a single man may turn the wills of so many to heresy, imagine
the strength of the true Church to determine the actions of men.

It is well understood that the ways to Heaven and the ways
to a stable state require separate instruction. Yet Rome must
recognize that such instruction may come from the same
source. It would be blasphemy to claim that the Church was
meant to take as its mission the affairs of this world. But I do
not make such a claim. Rather, I believe that a stable state in no
way contravenes the higher end of eternal salvation and that
the Church may counsel both without contradiction. The words
of Aquinas, William of Occam, Duns Scotus, Peter Lombard-- these schoolmen gave shape to this mission centuries ago. For
them, reason and faith fight an eternal battle. Therefore the universities,
Cathedral schools, and monasteries devoted themselves
to questions surrounding that struggle; a struggle that
continues today and that remains the test of men's devotion to
the Holy Spirit.

But now a new topic sits atop the table and demands equal
consideration: power, whose own struggles test men's resolve
in the political and economic realms. One educator must, therefore,
develop this new area of teaching and alter certain institutions
within the Church. The care of the Spirit should remain
in the hands of the larger Church. But reverence for political
and economic expedience should become the domain of this
new area. It should not be difficult to see how the educator may


465


indignity. Let the demagogue paint all the ills of society as reflections
of poor moral guidance by a regime incapable of setting
men on the right course. The economic upheaval will thus
appear as the final misdeed of a state mired in immoral deeds.
How better to convince a grumbling crowd that the slate must
be cleaned entirely than to call on its self-righteousness? Men
are quick to praise their own sanctimony. Let them believe it
best to cleanse the state so as to cleanse themselves. Chaos will
become the welcome release from a general iniquity.


XIV. How to build from chaos


Sim And where better to look for redemption than to the
realm of education, which recognizes the worth of stability?
Where better to wash away the decay than in a school
wrapped in the arms of the Church? The people, if well directed,
will eagerly abandon all that reminds them of their affliction,
all that rests on faulty foundations, and rush to
commend their collective fate into the hands of the Prefects.
In that way, they will willingly venture into the unknown, but
an unknown that seems firmly rooted in a commitment to virtuous
and long-lasting governance. It is therefore vital that
the institutions of schooling be in place; or if not in place entirely,
then at least to a degree that will excite and appease the
querulous mob. For the people will need a safe haven in
which to stand as they watch their champions tear down the

old institutions.

With the educational realm reshaped, the first task of a new
state must be to rid itself of the most hardy elements from the
previous regime. What I mean here is men. Reeling from the chaos,
these enemies of the state will be in precarious positions, but it
will be for the new leaders to make examples of them. Set them
before the people as authors of the corruption and decay and
let them, as goats to the desert, carry all the sins of the past to
their graves. Much should be made of this cleansing so that all
y feel that they have had a hand in the resurrection of

men ma

the state. Furthermore, such acts will encourage a self-restraint
within the people as a whole.

To be sure, it is a worthy aim to instill fear in the hearts of
men. Take heed, though. Excessive displays of brutality will
raise fear to dangerous levels. Fear can be an elixir that, if
meted out in proper doses, may rouse enthusiasm. But given in
too large a quantity, it turns to dread, dread to rage, and rage
to hatred. And, as Messer Niccolo counsels well, that sort of hatred
is a beast without master. Power sits uneasy when hatred
prowls the streets. Therefore, the Prefects must make certain
that the cleansing process suits the circumstances of the day
and feeds but a pan of the vicious hunger of the mob. Their aggressive
passion will always cry for more blood. But be
warned. Do not sate this desire fully. Keep the people hungry.
Such is the way to turn fear to excitement and aggression to fer
vor.

The story of Raphael Ormetti teaches well this lesson.
Friedrich von Keslau, a man of extraordinary gifts in the ways
of establishing new states, won control for a time of Hamburg,
eliminating many of his enemies in the city, and hanging their
bodies in the central square both to delight and frighten the
people. Von Keslau could not have known that his actions
would unleash a wild passion within the people who screamed
for more blood. Soon the city was infested with roving bands of
cutthroats. In order to regain control of these madmen of Hamburg,
von Keslau sent Ormetti to the city so as to pacify the mob
by whatever methods necessary. This Raphael was a man for
whom cruelty was married to efficiency, and in a short time, he
had brought the people to their knees. But cruelty has its limits,
as von Keslau well knew. Not wanting to incur the hatred of his
newly won people, and wanting no blame for the brutalities inflicted
by Raphael, von Keslau sent a second emissary to dispose
of Ormetti, whose body appeared one morning cut into
separate pieces, each piece impaled on one of several spears
directly in front of the castle ofAdolph III. This act both won
von Keslau praise as a savior and inspired in the people of
Hamburg a healthy fear of their new master. Alas, his reign


468

lasted only a few months, until Lbeck again regained control of
the city, whereupon von Keslau's body joined that of his brutal,
if unfortunate, disciple.

Yet cleansing the state need not be a singular act. From time
to time, as circumstances dictate, the political Prefect should
find cause to eliminate other enemies, those who threaten the
stable core of obedience and expansion that the three realms
promote. There are several ways to determine who shall live
and who shall die, but it is best if there is some reasonable
cause for choosing victims. Acts of arbitrary will serve no useful
end. Thus, he must light on a particular group that, whether
in truth or not, poses a threat to the order of the state. Furthermore,
the people must believe that this one group stands in the
way of perfect stability. And the mob must grow to despise these
outcasts. The best choices would no doubt be members of certain
religious sects or citizens of foreign nations who reside in
the new state.


XV. why it Is important to cultivate hatred


@fc


Once again, Messer Niccolo fails to consider the animal

passions that drive men's souls. Leaders must assuredly avoid
being hated by their people. But hatred, if directed properly, is
a powerful tool for control of the people. To good effect, the Romans
persecuted the Christians, the Greeks limited the freedom
of all noncitizens, and many have taken the Jews as ready targets.
Keep the people preoccupied with a common enemy, and
their aggressive passions (served best by a pointed hatred) will
strengthen the bonds of the state. The demagogue must, therefore,
cultivate this malice within the people, a malice that best
serves stability when it reflects the moral righteousness that
prompts the first upheaval.

To build from chaos, then, it is vital to hold public gatherings, games, and festivals that ridicule and mistreat those selected
for abuse. Such events are not foreign to men. The
spectacle of lions tearing into the flesh of unarmed Christians,
the pageantry of public executions, even the simple puppet


470


shows in which the old Jew is beaten to death for his usury sate
a basic human desire. Furthermore, they present vengeance in
its most basic guise. That is, such shows are never more than
what they appear to be. No hidden meaning lies below the surface;
no complexity to confuse or agitate a people. In short,
these gatherings and exhibitions cultivate a passion for simple
answers, which, in turn, makes the people docile and unimaginative.

The rewards of this policy are many. First, it is always more
beneficial to rally a people around a common aversion than
around a common love. Men seek fellowship with those who
share their aggression, and nothing serves that common desire
more than a single enemy. No one would be foolish to claim
that anything more than their loathing of French and Spanish
invaders holds the loose confederation of Florentine cities together.
If a foreign threat can unite these factious peoples,
imagine how well a state would maintain its unity if there were
a common enemy within. Second, as long as the people direct
their venom toward a small group, they will have no cause to
vent their aggression on the leaders within the separate
realms. Fear of popular uprising, or even of high levels of dissatisfaction,
will become things of the past. Keep the people
preoccupied and they will have little concern for the power
that is theirs to wield. And third, any malcontent may be
branded a member of the outcast group, whether he be one or
not. It is then easy enough to dispose of him, as long as the
people believe he is a threat to the security of the state.

Perhaps most important, this malice knows no limits and
can ultimately take the people beyond their own borders. There
will come a time when the tide of men's hatred runs dry within
the state, when all members of the odious sect have been eliminated.
At that moment, the demagogue (through pamphlets,
agitators, and the like) may invent a new threat in the guise of
yet another group; or, more prudently, he may determine that
the threat has merely stolen away to another state, one which
therefore needs cleansing.

How perfectly suited to human nature is this tactic. Men are


471


wretched creatures, pompous, weak, and greedy, with less reason
than brutish desire to guide them in their wayward lives.
Allow them their aggression and they will cause little harm.
Limit the reach of their claws, however, and they will destroy
everything about them. So the demagogue must focus that aggression,
unleash it beyond the state, and in so doing enhance
the state. Expansion, fed by hatred, is the surest means to security.

It should be clear that the group accused of endangering
stability is but an invention of the Overseer and the Prefects.
No single sect could possibly determine the life or death of a
state. But reality is not a concern for those who seek a well-ordered
realm. All that is necessary is that they convince the
people that the peril is real. And where better to teach the people
how to direct their hatred than in a school that claims to
fight moral corruption? What, then, should be the lessons? Cultivate
distrust, and the'people will seek out those who pose even
the smallest threat to the state. Cultivate righteousness, and the
people will attack all enemies with vigor. Cultivate simple answers
and aggression, and the people will vanquish evil beyond
their own walls, feeding power's lust for conquest in the name
of virtue. In that way, education and aggression work hand in
hand to assure stability.


XVI. why the state must be
the only competitor


&Ot To build from chaos in the economic realm requires almost
no contact with the people. Instead, the Prefect here
must, for a time, take full control of all commerce, trade, and
exchange. The people will offer little resistance. Ill at ease
from the sudden explosion of chaos, and well directed by the
demagogue, they will recognize and accept the need for drastic
measures. Only the economist will stand as an incorruptible
force. Furthermore, as long as food appears on their
plates, the people will consent to all efforts to cleanse the
state of corruption. All lands will become the jurisdiction of


472

the state. All guilds will yield power to the state. Those who
resist will find themselves labeled enemies, a name to which
the people will not take kindly.

If any doubt that one man, with the people's consent, may
seize considerable authority in a single economic area, think
only of the upstart Henry in England. It is no secret that he intends
to take all Church lands within that realm for himself
should Rome not resolve to his liking the question of his divorce
of Catherine. This king well knows that the people will pose no
obstacle to his desires, for he has convinced them that he is ridding
England of a corrupt institution; that is, the most sacred,
holy Catholic Church. Even the threat of excommunication is
no match for his heretical designs and his people's prideful
sanctimony.

Overarching control is thus vital if the economist is to use
the institutions of trade and commerce in the service of the
other two realms. Equally important, as enterprises come
under the command of the Prefect, so the state as a whole will
become like a single trader, with the full force of the state's economic
power behind it during negotiations with others. The
state will then find expansion an easy task. In time, the economist
may delegate control of the realm to smaller traders, manufacturers,
and the like. But should he desire fuller control in
the future, he need only raise the specter of corruption by the
outcast sect in order once again to restore control to his own
hands. Thus will expansion and stability reflect well the natural
ebb and flow of commerce and trade.

In short, to build from chaos requires ample control within
each of the realms. To eliminate enemies and foster a pointed
hatred is to control the political realm; to remove all competition
within the state so as to dominate competition with those in
other states is to control the economic realm; and to cultivate
aggression and righteousness through education is to control
the social realm. Expansion will be the natural outgrowth of
such control and will ensure long-lasting stability.


473


realms. Do not be afraid to destroy those within it who begin to XVII. THE MILITARY	j	amass too great a following or who show any signs of ambition.


state's well-being. Furthermore, it is best to keep the laws sim
--"-	"~
I

474

/""" -- > -- 		,	.,	.	_

must, therefore, be like a handmaiden to those who control the

9

475

Siw / would do no disservice to the enterprise of this small
book were I now to conclude, well satisfied that I have offered
both in ideas and in practice the means to secure a stable
state. Yet there remain two topics that demand more ink. The
first is the military, to which Messer Niccolo devotes almost
half of his small tract. Whether he is condemning the use of
mercenaries or extolling the virtu of one of his many heroes,
Messer Niccolo describes statecraft in terms of military preparedness
and cunning. Indeed, he claims that states need
only have good arms and good laws to achieve stability. And this may be true. He offers myriad examples of the proper and
ill-use of military men in securing boundaries, establishing
empires, and so forth. He therefore insists that the art of war
(and thus the control of the military) rests firmly in the hands
of the prince.

Yet Messer Niccolo seems strangely unaware that without
so appealing and cunning a figure to lead them, armies tend to
become roving bands of cutthroats and drunkards who would
as soon defile the daughter of an ally as that of an enemy. He
seems equally reluctant to admit that soldiers are averse to
good sense and are more inclined to follow the vainglorious
than the shrewd. This last is what makes them dangerous. For
there need be only one man within their ranks who displays a
capacity to lead, and they will feed his ambition until there is
nothing but rubble on which to stand. And worse, let there be
two such men, and the state must suffer the slow death of civil
war. In short, military men are no different from other men,
save that they wield deadly weapons and threaten all with their
pride and vanity.

A word of advice, then. Beware of soldiers. Use them only as
tools, because they have neither the wit nor the endurance for
the building of states. If they once believe that they have the
power, little will keep them from destroying the state. The army

		»	--	I .»!-_
XVIII. the law

sfc


Our final topic is the second part of Messer Niccolo's
precept for stability: the law. I save it till the last because I do
not believe it contributes to the welfare of states as much as
those who have come before me claim. For the most pan, they
conclude that the law protects the people and enlarges freedom.
But freedom is a dangerous weapon in the hands of a people. The mob cannot distinguish between license and liberty,
more often than not taking freedom to be the first, and, in
so doing, dragging the state into anarchy. For that reason, the
law must work to limit freedom. Accepting this as the law's
purpose will prove no difficulty once educational institutions
begin to produce young men who share the Overseer's vision
and who consider a passion for stability more inspiring than
some hollow desire for liberty or the like. But in the early
stages of the new state, the aim of law will not be joined so
easily to the character of men. The difficulty will arise because
the people, as they have been taught, will believe that stability
derives from law. This is a false belief the new state must
quickly correct.

Law is a reflection of men's wills. Nothing more. There is no
supreme precept in this world that determines the rights or
wrongs of any act. Punishment alone establishes the justice of
all actions. Thus both law and penalty are arbitrary, because
they are created to suit political, economic, and social expediency.
Laws are no more trustworthy than the men who create
them, and stability can never rest on human caprice.

But do not take the laws from the people. The laws are like
a well-worn blanket in which the people wrap themselves.
Grant them their childish sanctuary; speak highly of laws,
enact new ones from time to time, repeal the old, and always let
the people believe that they have the laws to thank for the

ti3 UlUy fxtyjunxn* *j *»„

many. Then and only then will true supremacy produce a gov-

476		477


pie. What to do; what not to do. What punishment; what reward.
Let the people see that without the laws, they themselves
would be forced to order the state, set limitations on actions,
control those around them. They will gladly leave responsibility
with the law so as to keep their lives as simple as possible.
And in granting the laws authority, the mob yields all power to
the Overseer and Prefects. Men seek to avoid complexity whenever
possible. Let the law cater to that desire.

This last is a lesson that extends beyond the law. In all things,
a state should look to simplify, and, in so doing, to make men
more docile. As things become less complex, so, too, will men.
Imagination, always a danger to a state, will cease to provoke.
Let men become dull with passion (a passion conceived and promoted
by the Overseer and the Prefects), and they will lose all
desire to challenge authority. In education, teach men to be simple;
clog their thoughts with rudiments (hatred is the most diverting)
so that they will cease to develop their own ideas. Once
leaders drive invention and ingenuity from men's hearts and
minds, the people can pose no threat to stability.


XIX. the ideal form of government


Sire Thus far, I have made every effort to avoid the fanciful advice
offered by those who have written before me. Nowhere
have I explained how states ought to direct themselves, nor how
men ought to act. I have chosen the more honest, if bleaker,
path so that my words may be of some use to men who seek supremacy
in a real world, and not in some land of fantasy. Why,
then, do I now claim that I can describe the ideal form of government?
Such things are not for men with practical goals.

The reason is simple. For those who still question the usefulness
of the three realms, who cannot see why chaos is essential
in creating stable government, and who deny the need to
expand through aggression and machination, my conclusions
will seem unattainable. Truly, the government of which I speak
is only possible if all three realms work together in perfect har-
'
-	---~~-t, m*f\A*lra y| Ofn)-
eminent
that on the surface appears to cater to the caprices of
men's desires without giving up any of its authority. Republic,
tyranny, democracy--these names are meaningless save for the
comfort they offer the hearts and minds of men.

I also use the word ideal for another reason. Nowhere in
these pages do I describe how a particular state may put these
words into practice. Nowhere do I recommend the period of
tutelage under which each Prefect will develop his skills.
Nowhere do I name the exact area in commerce, or the exact
political failure that will send the old regime into ruin. And
nowhere do I describe the course of study to be taught in the
schools. The words hatred, expansion, aggression, and machination
have provided the only detail. But why? Because circumstances
must dictate the policies chosen, because each
state requires a different target of hatred, because the most susceptible
areas within commerce and trade vary among states,
because expansion sets its own direction, and because power
follows its own whims.

It is an ideal because no one, including myself, can foresee
the demands of the future within the three realms. But take note.
I do not call it an ideal because it cannot be won. What I have
written can lead men and states to stability. Whether those men
have the skill and courage to read the circumstances of their
times and act accordingly is all that stands now between ideal
and reality.


XX. an exhortation to action


Qint Yet I wonder now whether the time has arrived to create a
new state, and whether a few men might attempt to launch so
magnificent a change. It is too true that fear has infested activism,
indulgence has replaced direction, and empathy has diluted
everything. And still I most assuredly answer yes. Never
before has so much conspired to offer so propitious a setting
and so great an impetus for a change in the wielding of power.
In the very presence of this Luther indicates how easily men
may be led to abandon all that is dear to them in the name of


some unknown and untried authority. Use this renegade German,
most holy of Fathers, as a symbol of corruption; show him
as the canker that will destroy all of Europe; destroy him and
his followers and, in so doing, set power free so that it may explore
and conquer as it wills.

The destruction of this Luther, though, must come only as
the culmination of the endeavor, the final moment before chaos
may come to the light. Let other, smaller instances of destruction
pave the way so that his death will sound the clarion cry
for all those ready to step beyond the corrupted world he has
inspired. Let the chaos build, event to event, until they rise together
and strike fear and uncertainty into the people's hearts.
One tiny eruption matters for naught. One on top of another, on
top of another--that is something of true worth; that is something
that, over a period of several months, will be sure to bring
chaos. Remember, too, dear Father, these tremors need not be
of real moment. Their genuine effect is of little consequence so
long as their perceived threat is vast.

I cannot claim with certainty that my scheme is infallible,
but the short schedule I offer below is one such way to bring
about the chaos that is so vital to the capture of true supremacy.
I ask only that you read it, and hope that it may inspire you to
your greatest exploits.


i. Do not be afraid to destroy that which you hold most
dear. The Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore must be
the first to fall victim. It is a symbol of your strength, of
the will of our Father Christ, and thus stands as a bulwark
of our faith. Let the people believe this Luther is
responsible, that he is the threat. They will respond accordingly.

ii. The Spanish Ambassador must fall next. Charles will
see this as an intrigue and it will raise the spectre of
war. A people fearful for their own survival will embrace
whatever security you may offer.


478

in. The ports at Civitavecchia and Portopisano must meet
with disaster; only in this way will the merchant trade
be brought to its knees. At the same time, the Pazzi
Bank must be taken to ruin--mismanagement is the
surest course, and there are those whom I have placed
at your disposal within the Pazzi family who are willing
and eager to serve that end. You need only call upon
them.

iv. You must threaten a second expulsion of the Jews from
Rome, set them as a pariah on which all may focus their
hatred. But do not expel them. Allow them to remain so
that the people's aggression may fester. When the time
comes, you will make examples of them in public festivals.

v. Permit several wells within Rome and Florence to be
infested with contagion. This must endure only for a
short period, but it is essential to make the threat of
plague very real. Bad health and chaos go hand in
hand.


These are but the beginning, most Holy Father. Indeed, it is
best to try a first trial of conjecture by experience, some few incidences
within one city of worth--Venice is perhaps the wisest
choice--to ensure that the climate is ripe for the chaos. Once
tried, let go the reins and allow chaos her way with the continent.
I have kept the other events on the schedule with me so that
we may together conceive and execute this most daring of
plans. Do not chastize me for keeping them hidden. A poor man
must keep something for himself. I shall remind you, though,
that the final act will be the death of the Devil himself, this
Luther who stands between mankind and salvation. It is the
schedule I have devised that will make that possible.

There are those who stand ready to rule the three realms;
those I have trained to understand the subtleties within each
realm and to look to you as their guide, their Lord, their Overseer
in the days to come. Let them be your servants. Let them