The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  “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 Pescatore 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. 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.

  “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 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 before 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 advantage of the mountain air. It’s often my first reaction, as well.”

  “It’s beautiful up here,” she answered as she moved through the doorway and past him into an open foyer, a sunken living room just beyond. The cool night air was replaced by the smell 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 sky, Anton Votapek stood, his glass lifted in her direction.

  “Good evening, Ms. Trent.”

  Before she could answer, a second man, much larger, with a wide chest and thick fingers, appeared from behind a grand piano 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 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 not together?”

  “I … we … no, we met at the center—”

  “Enough.” Control returned to the tired voice. “You were meant to protect Jaspers, and now …” There was genuine anguish in the voice. “You have disappointed me beyond measure.” 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 now have to—” He cut himself off. “Get off the train and return to Wolfenbüttel. Make sure everything has been cleaned up there.”

  “But what about Eric? And the other man? What of Jaspers?”

  “Get off that train and do as you are told!” The venom returned. “I will send somebody to clean up your mess.”

  The li
ne 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.

  “Daniel?” Sedgewick smiled as he followed Sarah down to the living room. “Hardly, Ms. Trent. You don’t seem the type to call on the gods to save you. And we”—he stopped at the bar, lifting two champagne glasses and handing one to her—“we’re not animals.”

  “Not gods, Larry,” said Votapek, “one God. Capital G. That was what Daniel was willing to die for, his one God. Am I right, Ms. Trent?”

  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 Sedgewick looked at one another and laughed; Tieg, though somewhat more subdued, joined in a moment later. Sarah moved to the window. There was little doubt in her mind that the men of Eisenreich had accepted her as one of their own. The easy banter, the attempt to make a new associate feel welcome—all the trappings of self-confidence and commitment. And yet she felt a distinct uneasiness. These were the men ready to throw the country into chaos, eager to foist a new breed—a programmed breed—of children into the vacuum they would create. Light repartee and champagne hardly seemed fitting.