The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  Votapek looked at each member of the dinner party, a self-satisfied grin on his lips. There was nothing humorous, though, no conceit in the words he had spoken. Only conviction. And perhaps a sense of responsibility, a sense that these three were the men ready to bestow a gift of great value on a foundering world, a world in need of their insights. As if it were their duty to create the darkness so as to usher in a more perfect, more permanent light.

  Trying to formulate a response, Sarah’s thoughts were interrupted as Tieg accidentally spilled and shattered a glass of wine, George quick to come to his aid with a napkin. Without a word, the large man stepped away from the table and made his way through a swinging door, no doubt in search of a replacement.

  Tieg continued to mop up the mess, removing one or two shards as he apologized. “That’ll teach me to serve the expensive stuff.”

  “It’s easily replaced.” Sedgewick laughed. “We’ll just have to be careful about how much we let you drink.”

  Votapek and Sedgewick broke into laughter as Tieg turned his attention to Sarah. “Now you understand why we focus on the why, Ms. Trent. The how seems to be beyond me.” Again the laughter, this time Sarah joining in, the surest way to mask her astonishment at how easily the men of Eisenreich could move from tales of conquest and master races to a simple miscue with a wineglass.

  Tieg folded the napkin, laying it by his plate as he sat back. “As I said, though, I’m sure it’s the how and the when that intrigue you most. What you were sent to confirm.” He looked at Votapek. “That was the word, wasn’t it, Anton?” He had allowed each man his moment. It was time to press on.

  “I believe so, yes.” Votapek smiled, still intent on some fun. “I think Ms. Trent was sent to find out whether one of us might be trying to fly solo. Something about a separate agenda.”

  “Flying solo?” Tieg crossed his legs and looked at Sarah. “You mean if one of us was deceiving the others?” There was only a slight shift in his tone, his words carrying a twinge of reproach, but even Sedgewick and Votapek showed a moment’s reaction. “Isn’t that ironic, Ms. Trent? Deception.” The word now took on a harsher quality, clearly intended as accusation. “For us, it’s the very cornerstone of the how,” he added. “Not among ourselves, of course. We would never deceive one another because we trust one another. It’s the people we intend to control—who need to be controlled—who are the ones we mean to …” He paused, eyes riveted on Sarah, “Deceive is such an unpleasant word, don’t you agree, Ms. Trent?” She returned his stare, not once giving in to the alarm bell blaring in her head. “Manipulate?” he prodded. “No, that’s no better, is it? Oversee?” Now he waited, nodding to himself, his command of the room complete, the mood strikingly different from only moments before. “Yes, oversee. I think that captures our intentions.” His gaze remained on her. “Which brings us back to your intentions, Ms. Trent. Was I far off the mark when I talked about deception?” The room was suddenly quiet, Votapek and Sedgewick clearly unnerved by Tieg’s insinuation.

  Sarah waited. “This meal and conversation answer any misgivings I might have had about your commitment to one another.”

  “Our commitment to one another.” He was baiting her.

  “Yes.” Simple. To the point.

  “So readily convinced, Ms. Trent?” Tieg had no intention of letting it go at that, his tone and posture now far more aggressive. He began to shake his head. “It’s not our deceptions that concern me, Ms. Trent—”

  “Our deceptions?” broke in Sedgewick.

  “Keep quiet, Larry.” Tieg kept his eyes on Sarah.

  “What do you mean, ‘keep—’”

  “I said, keep quiet.” The severity in tone was enough to silence the financier. Votapek, too, held his tongue. “It’s yours, Ms. Trent,” whispered Tieg. “That’s what’s most troubling. Your deception. Far more subtle than a few bugged computers or a hidden taping device, wouldn’t you agree?” He now turned to his comrades, their expressions proof enough of the indiscretions. As if dealing with two children, he calmly asked, “What were you thinking?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Do you have any idea who she is?” Sarah watched as the two men—only moments ago so pleased with themselves—began to buckle under the scrutiny. “You simply allowed yourselves to buy into the ruse.” Sarah remained silent as Votapek and Sedgewick now erupted.

  “What are you talking about, Jonas?” said Sedgewick, his indignant tone a futile attempt at self-command. “What ruse?”

  Votapek followed with even greater incredulity. “Impossible. I was told we ran a thorough check. Everything she said was confirmed—”

  “It’s very easy,” continued Tieg, now ignoring the two men and turning back to Sarah, “to lose sight of the obvious when you want to impress someone, isn’t it, Ms. Trent? When you feel put up to the challenge?” A strange smile crossed his lips. “And you placed quite a clever little challenge at our feet, didn’t you? That tape Larry made of your conversation with Anton. Most impressive. And very convincing. You picked your target very cleverly.”

  Again, Sedgewick exploded. “This is outrageous—”

  “No!” This time, Tieg held nothing back. “What’s outrageous is that the two of you could ever have let it go this far. She mentions a few names, choice tidbits from a rather checkered past, and you willingly fill in the rest for her.” His frustration forced a momentary pause, his jawline taut from the tension. “We’re less than a week away from the most crucial moment in a lifetime’s worth of preparation, and you allow this to happen.” He now turned on Sarah. “Oh, don’t worry, Ms. Trent. Nothing you’ve done has made that moment any less certain. Nothing you could have done would have gotten in the way. You see, chaos is something that comes in small steps. One tiny explosion means nothing. One on top of another—now, that is something quite extraordinary. The actual effect is inconsequential. Only what is perceived. And that is unstoppable. That is what brings people to their knees.” He paused, aware that he had let himself go too far. “What was it, Ms. Trent—set us on one another? Make us question one another?” His jaw tightened. “We’ve been doing that for years, haven’t we, boys?” Neither answered, a forced calm returning to his expression. “‘Alison’s role.’” He shook his head as the smile reappeared. “That was clever. It’s exactly what would frighten him most. Isn’t that right, Anton? And all of that about going over the edge, your madness—all in the files. Except you left certain crucial pieces of your past out of the picture. That surprised me, Ms. Trent. Didn’t you think if we had access to one we would have access to all of your files?” George reappeared at the door, accompanied by three other men. The broken glass. The signal. She had seen it too late.

  “I have no idea what you had in mind, Ms. Trent,” continued Tieg, “or why you thought you could take us on as your special project.” He looked at Votapek and Sedgewick, both men unable to match his glance. “Neither does our good friend, whom she calls Eisenreich.” He stared at Sarah for a long moment. “You’ve never actually been in contact with him, have you, Ms. Trent?”

  Sarah remained strangely calm. “No.”

  “Of course not.” Tieg stood. “I would like to thank you, though, for having brought a number of things out into the open. If nothing else, you’ve made us aware—some of us more than others—that we’re not invulnerable. What exactly you’d hoped to accomplish”—he shrugged—“that still remains a mystery.” He nodded to George. “There are, as you no doubt know, certain … narcotics that will help us to fill in the gaps.” George moved in behind her chair. “Keep her downstairs until I’ve finished here.” He looked at Votapek and Tieg, then moved off into the living room. The two men rose slowly, neither returning Sarah’s gaze as they followed.

  George waited patiently. She stood, placed her napkin on the table, and accompanied him out into the darkened corridor.

  Hydra. Drenched in an amber sky, a dry heat billowing on chest and thighs, water gliding to the small incline of his back, skin a deep brown from
days on the beach. Her arm lies gentle across his stomach, sprinkles of sea held on each lash as a distant boat races by. Gently, the waves begin to lap against their bodies, hers arching at the touch of the cool swirl, he turning to see her lips, dark red, her hair, so perfect, sprayed on the powder-white sand, auburn streaks of light radiating from a thousand freckles she calls a tan. One eye pops open, a smile, the head turns and lifts, lips parched for his, rising closer, moistened by an eager tongue, his body intoxicated by her, the touch of her fingers on his chest, lips to his, and he breathes again as she slips back to her sleeping pose beside him. Fiona.

  The sun beats down, a muffled voice whispers at him from somewhere behind, his head too heavy to turn, his eyes too stained by sea and sun to open, the voice more and more intense, the cool water growing less pleasant on his back, her arm somehow gone. He turns, his eyes now struggling for sight, and he sees the mouth, the face, the voice beckoning at him. Feric. Day suddenly night, sand suddenly snow, a chill coursing through him, his body airless, breathless, slipping from Feric’s grasp, falling from the train, the eyes bloodied and cold. …

  “Mein Herr, wir sind am Flughafen angekommen.”

  The mustachioed face of the conductor stared down at Xander, a hand to his stiffened shoulder, trying to shake the sleep from his crumpled frame. Xander’s head had clamped down onto his neck, his entire side wedged deep within the seat, his knees pulled in tight for warmth. Squinting into the light, he slowly tried to straighten his neck. The pain he felt was far more than just the odd strain from sleep. Forcing himself forward on the seat, he watched the conductor move to the door, attention fixed on his pocket watch.

  “The train leaves in six minutes, Mein Herr,” he continued in German. “Please be certain to have all your belongings.”

  With that, he disappeared, Xander once again alone in the compartment. His surrogate family was now long gone, their books and satchels only a distant, fond memory. He had slept for twenty minutes, enough to infuse his brain with that disconcerting sensation of floating, his nose prickling at the cold air that was creeping through an open window. Hoisting himself up—the case still firmly in his grasp, the pack on his back—he tried to recall the dream. Something with sand. And water. Or was it snow? He shook the sleep from his head and started to rise. It was then that he noticed the woman.

  “Did you have a good sleep, Dr. Jaspers?” She held a gun at her hip, a modest weapon, but one capable of ripping a hole through him at such close range. As she spoke, she latched the door behind her, long, thin fingers easily managing the ancient clasp. “Looks as though the reports of your death were greatly exaggerated.” The accent was American, the tweed suit and raincoat English. Somehow, the small gun looked rather elegant in her hand.

  Xander stared at it and then up at the woman.

  “There were only two bodies from the Saltzgitter train,” she explained, “neither fitting your description.”

  Again, he did not answer.

  “Don’t look so surprised. We knew you’d try to get to the airport. In fact, we had no intention of doing anything with you on the train. Just wanted to keep you tight until Frankfurt. Shame about your little friend.”

  She took the seat across from him, the gun aimed at his chest.

  For some reason, Xander was finding the prospect of death surprisingly calming. “The train leaves in six minutes. I assume we’re not getting off.”

  “It does, and we are,” she answered. “But we’re going to wait until everyone else is off. Fewer crowds. Less congestion. Much better that way.”

  “And then?”

  “I really have no idea.”

  “Another loose end to take care of?”

  The woman smiled. “I could have done that the moment I walked in. No, my orders are simply to get you”—she stopped and smiled again—“to get you off this train. We each play a role, Dr. Jaspers, and for the next few hours, yours will be that of the accommodating captive. It’s not a difficult one, I can assure you.”

  Sitting, staring at her, Xander focused on the eyes. Deep brown, almost black, they sent a message of confidence, even arrogance. Such assurance conveys truth. It was as if Feric were by his side, explaining, cautioning. Control requires no mask, only simplicity. Simplicity and truth—which meant he had been granted a reprieve. She was no executioner, only a courier, an agent of Eisenreich sent to deliver him to some unknown place, unaware of the treasures hidden within his briefcase. Otherwise, she would have checked to make certain he still had the disc. It’s what the manuscript would have taught: At every level, give them only the information they need, only the role they are to play. She had said as much.

  He was learning. And knowledge granted power, power its own arrogance, its own role to be played. It was not difficult to understand why so many had found Eisenreich’s theory so comforting.

  “How old are you?” he asked. “Twenty-four? Twenty-five?” The woman did not answer. “And you’ve killed—”

  “In one minute, you and I are going to walk out of here as a happy couple, only you’ll have a gun nestled to your ribs.” She had no patience for his prodding. “On the platform, we’ll be arm in arm. Do you understand?”

  “Three, four?” continued Xander, ignoring her question. “More? I wonder how someone makes a choice like that, at that crucial moment? How—”

  “At least one.” She stood. “That’s all that really matters, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve no idea.” His response conveyed little emotion. “I’ve only watched people die. I suppose killing me would be quite easy?”

  “Get up, Dr. Jaspers.”

  “Sie sind keine Mörderin—”

  “Get up, Dr. Jaspers.”

  The words had meant nothing to her, her eyes giving away too much in the repetition of the command. It was clear what she had expected—what she had been told to expect: an easily daunted academic, a man beyond panic. What she had found—what he himself had found—was someone quite different. He was learning. He had unnerved her, the German causing an instant of confusion.

  As she had said, the platform was empty, no one to get in their way before the escalators leading up to the airport’s sublevels and main terminal. Her grip was firm, her movement agile. Until now, he had not realized just how physically strong she was, his right arm virtually immobilized by the pincerlike hold on his elbow. Perhaps no killer, she had been trained very well.

  At the top of the escalator, she nodded to the U-bahn, pushing him toward the track for one of Frankfurt’s myriad suburbs. Following him through the turnstile, she drew up to his side as they trundled down the steps. Within a minute, she had taken them to the far end of the platform.

  “We’ll wait here.” Her hand now became a vise. “Smile.”

  Xander complied, still somehow guided by the calm he had conjured on the train. Half a minute later, a burst of light flashed along the far wall, the arrival of an incoming train. As it sped past, she dug the gun deeper into his back, twisting his elbow to make her point.

  “When it stops, stay calm, wait for the passengers to get off, and then step on to the train.” The words were whispered, direct, hot bursts of air moistening his ear. “If I feel even the slightest bit uneasy, I’ll twist your elbow right out of its socket. Do you understand, Dr. Jaspers?”

  Xander nodded, the pain already reaching up to his shoulder, his mind racing for some means of escape. If it was going to happen, it would have to be in the next minute. Once inside the train, he’d be trapped, no further threats necessary, and no chance of a second reprieve at journey’s end.

  The train began to slow, sweat creasing his neck, the last car coming into view. To his amazement, the windows were lined with people. Somewhere, he could hear Feric telling him that crowds were a tool, a mechanism to be used. The doors peeled open, the agent of Eisenreich pressing ever tighter to his side as people poured out. He waited, certain that she could feel the tympanic throbbing in his chest.

  “Just remain calm,”
came the voice, hers or his own, he could not tell.

  And then he saw it.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Xander noticed a man jump up from his seat, his hands pushing through the other passengers, the strain on his face apparent—a man about to miss his stop. Slowly, Xander stepped into the car, timing his approach as the desperate commuter darted for the door.

  At the last possible moment, Xander thrust her into the man’s path.

  “Sie hat eine Pistole!” he yelled in German as, elbow miraculously free, he managed to push his way to the door. “A gun!”

  Screams erupted throughout the car as people backed away, the gun in full view, the doors beginning to close. Xander leapt to the platform, she too slow, too confused to escape the now-frantic crowd in the car. The doors slammed shut and, for a moment, their eyes met through the glass, hers lost in disbelief. The realization of failure began to rise on her face, terror in her eyes as the train inched out of the station. He watched as she backed herself into a far corner, the crowds cowering in their seats, the gun still in her open palm.