Table of Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
Prologue
PART ONE
1
2
3
PART TWO
4
5
6
PART THREE
7
8
9
10
Epilogue
Contents
n Supremacy
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Three executors and an overseer make four thieves.
—OLD ENGLISH PROVERB
The Owl of Minerva takes wing at twilight.
—G. W. F. HEGEL
In the summer of 1531, Medici soldiers, working for Pope Clement VII, tortured to death an obscure Swiss monk, Eusebius 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.
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 relative 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 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 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 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 road. 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?”
“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.
PART ONE
1
Power clings to those who recognize its discord and who can turn that discord to dominance.
—ON SUPREMACY, CHAPTER I
“THE 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 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 managed 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, Pnompenh, 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.
&nb
sp; “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 suppose 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.
The Overseer Page 1