The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  Xander browsed through the rest of the page, facts that seemed either inconsequential or of public record. Schools—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, 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 a bun, its red tint far more pronounced when wet. It was the first 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 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.

  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.

  “Carlo,” he uttered. “You know, he wasn’t in Milan.”

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

  “It didn’t.” Xander sat down n
ext 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 collapsed 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 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. “But 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 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 … naïveté 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—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.”

  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.