The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  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.”

  “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 government?”

  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’m sure I don’t, Mr. Votapek.”

  He waited before speaking. “Clearly, you a re with the government, otherwise, how would you have that information?”

  “Let’s not be naïve. 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 secured. 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.”

&n
bsp; “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 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’ll 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?”

  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 a re 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, I 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 witho
ut 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.”

  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.