The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  “Not so dull.”

  Jaspers’s eyes widened. “You’ve actually read it?”

  “My job, Professor Jaspers—”

  “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 sixteenth 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 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.

  “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 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 mock-up 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. 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.

  “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—”

  “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 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 no …” 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?”

  “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 interest in education, wouldn’t there? A pretty frightening interest, and not just as a political stepping-stone.”

  “If 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 I 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—”