The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  “It’s why I came back here,” she said. “It’s where I can bring this to a close.”

  “Bring this to a close—how?” She didn’t answer. “I see.”

  “You see,” she repeated. “Do you really?” She stood and moved away from him. “What do you want me to say? I’d found the linchpin. You wouldn’t need the connection to Rosenberg. Cut off the head and kill the beast.” He said nothing. She turned to him. “Does it surprise you? Does it fail on the erudition scale—no footnotes, no cross-references? Well, I’m sorry, but now I know it’s why I was chosen. Why they wanted me in the field in the first place.” She paused. “I kill—that’s what I do. It’s not what you do.”

  “That’s not why they chose you.” Xander stood and moved to her. “This Pritchard—he wanted something, you said so yourself. He didn’t think—”

  “Pritchard? Pritchard had nothing—”

  “Of course he did. Why do you think Tieg wanted him dead?”

  “Pritchard’s not important.”

  “He needed something from you, something he kept from the others.”

  “I said it’s not important.”

  “Why? Why won’t you admit there was something else?”

  She turned to face him. “Why are you pressing this?”

  “Does this have to do with the tunnel,” he said, ignoring her question, “in Florence—”

  “Let’s just drop this, okay?”

  “No.” He took her arm as she tried to move past him. “Not okay.” Their eyes locked. “Do you know how close to the edge I am here? Have you let yourself see that at all? You’re talking about killing, and I’ve … shut down just so I can keep what little sanity I have left. The problem is, it’s not working. I guess I’m not strong enough to carry all of this around inside me. But I don’t think I’m alone. Maybe you’ve been trained to do something else, act with absolute control, but I don’t think that makes any difference. I’m asking what happened to you because I need the help. Do you understand that? I’m asking because when everything went crazy in Germany, I had nothing else but you. Find Sarah. That’s what I was told to do. … No, that’s what I needed to do. I need you, not the assassin you think you are. Because you’re not. You can’t be. I need you to be as frightened as I am and as close to the edge, to be so much stronger, so much more in control, and … I don’t know.” He let go of her arm. “I need you to need me.” He moved to the bed. Lying down, he looked to the ceiling. “Sorry, Feric. I guess I didn’t learn that lesson too well.”

  Sarah stood alone, suddenly cold by the window. She looked at his long frame draped across the blankets, his eyes shutting out the pain. Slowly, she moved to the bed. Slowly, she sat and laid her hand on his chest. Tears crept down her cheek as she gently stroked his hair. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” Soon, they were side by side, his face nestled in her neck, their bodies tight together, rocking back and forth, she trying to quiet him through her own tears. “I do need you. More than you could possibly know.”

  “Why?” he whispered.

  “Because …” She held him even more tightly, her tears falling to his cheek, her voice fragile. “I let someone die once. Someone like you. And I can’t live with that again. I can’t. …”

  He took her in his arms, rocking her back and forth.

  They fell asleep, clasped in each other’s arms.

  They awoke an hour later, she first, then he, neither willing to rejoin the stark world beyond them. Together, they remained safe, protected. Minutes passed before she found the energy to pull herself up on an elbow, her other arm not ready to release his chest. She stared down into his eyes and, without thinking, lowered her lips to his. Soft, simple, the tenderness of a first kiss, the velvet of her tongue gently playing with his. She stopped and looked at him. He began to speak, but she dipped low to him again. She then sat up, stretching the sleep from her shoulders. “I know. I wasn’t expecting that, either.” She turned and caressed his cheek.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Sarah. Amman … it wasn’t your fault.”

  She stared into his eyes and again drew her fingers across his cheek. Another kiss and she stood, moving toward the bathroom. At the door, she asked, “Do you think Schenten has the schedule?”

  It took Xander a moment to shift gears. “Schenten?” he answered, his legs swinging off the bed as he pulled himself to a sitting position. “Yes. I would guess as overseer, he probably wrote it.”

  Sarah popped her head out, her eyebrows thick with soap. “Overseer?”

  “It’s what Eisenreich called the ringleader, the linchpin.” She nodded and returned to the sink. Xander tucked his hands under his thighs. “Will you have to kill him?”

  The water fell silent, Sarah reappearing a moment later with a towel. “Why ask?” Xander said nothing. “If we can find the schedule without him, no. No one would have to die.” She placed the towel by the window. “Is that what you wanted me to say?”

  “I don’t know.” He released his hands and reached for the envelope. “A great many people have died already. A few more won’t make that much of a difference.” He placed the loose pages inside and looked at her. “It’s not why you were chosen. I won’t believe that.”

  “I’m glad you have so much faith in me.”

  “I have to. You’ve left me little choice.”

  She allowed herself a smile and moved to him on the bed. Cupping his cheek in her hand, she drew him to her. This time, though, no kiss, only his gaze. She pulled away. “We need to get in there tonight,” she said, reaching for her bag. “His house is about a twenty-minute drive from here. The last two miles will have to be on foot.”

  “And the girl?”

  “She’ll sleep. She’s safe.” She handed him a pair of black pants and a dark turtleneck. “You take her gun.”

  Xander picked up the pack. “Was it loaded?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll need some bullets.”

  Moonlight crept through the leafless branches, speckling the ground in pale shadows of shimmering white. Sarah led, hidden beneath the dark contours of her clothing, Xander behind, his eyes fixed on her. In and out of the slats of light they moved, carefully, urgently, without a sound.

  They had left the road over a mile ago, finding stray branches to cover the car. Not once had she said a word, pressing ahead even when he had become entangled in the brambles of an unseen bush—her message clear: You’re here for the schedule, to identify it. If it’s not there, I will kill him. If you fall behind, I will kill him. Her gun remained at her side as she pushed through the branches, its silencer once or twice catching the moon’s reflection before she was forced to slide it into the small of her back. He had done the same.

  At the next turn, a clearing came into view, beyond it a wire fence, farther still the vague outline of Schenten’s mansion, the house dark save for a single light shining from a room on the third floor. The old man was awake. They would have to be careful. The moon had mercifully ducked behind the cloud cover, shrouding the approach in blackness. Sarah stopped, Xander at her side, both crouching in the undergrowth. She was staring at the western end of the fence, tapping her thumb against her thigh, waiting, watching. A minute into the count, a figure appeared, his gait slow, relaxed. Sarah kept her eyes trained on the man as he neared the other end. She then waited another cycle. When he had slipped from view a second time, she darted out, no word to Xander, no warning. He followed.

  A moment later, she was sliding toward the fence. Dragging himself along the grass at breakneck speed, Xander felt the strain in his shoulders. His upper arms were also aching; he was letting his chest drag. Shutting out the pain, he pulled himself to the wire and sucked in as big a breath as his lungs would allow. He then watched as she positioned a pair of clippers on the wire and began to snip, just enough for one body to slide under and through. A minute later, they were ten feet beyond the fence and making their way toward one of the first-floor windows.

&nb
sp; Within half a minute, both stood flattened against the wall of the house, Sarah tracing her fingers along the sill of the window. She peered up and around the frame until she located the wire. The alarm system. Taking little time, she crosscut the wires, attaching an extra large loop of coil at two points—sufficient to open the window without breaking the connection—and snipped. The lock proved far less demanding, a minor obstacle to their arrival in what looked to be a sitting room—love seat, lamps, and chairs all facing a small brick fireplace. She turned and shut the window.

  It would not be here; they both knew that. They needed to find the study, the place Schenten kept things of value. Sarah moved to the sliding doors, quietly pulled one to the side and stepped into the foyer, its green marble floor agleam even in the relative darkness. Directly across from them, another set of doors stood ajar, a quick perusal revealing the dining room. The other doors were equally unkind, opening to the music room, living room, but not the library. Xander pointed up and moved toward the stairway. Sarah scampered past him, leading them up to another foyer, another set of four doors, three of which opened easily; the pair on the far left, however, did not. A moment with the lock, and Sarah led them into the study, a simple room, even in shadow, with a touch of personality. Chairs sat thick with books and newspapers, a half-drunk cup of tea visible on one of the end tables. Sarah checked the cup—ice-cold—as Xander headed for the desk, a sturdy block of oak somehow neater amid the surrounding clutter. She then pulled two fine-beam flashlights from her pack and handed one to him. The beam was less than half an inch wide, enough to light objects within a three-inch radius, but not enough to cast a glow. He had told her to look for a diary.

  For ten minutes, they pored through anything that might hold the schedule. This time, though, there was no Augustine to keep it hidden, no clever little codes from which to work. All they had was instinct, a sense that it was here, in the room, waiting to be found. Two minutes into the search, Sarah discovered a safe behind one of the paintings, the voice-activated lock, however, too much for her primitive tools. She had not anticipated such high-tech equipment from the senator.

  “Very good, Ms. Trent.” The lights came on around them, Schenten alone at the door, bathrobe and slippers his attire. “That is, in fact, where I keep it.” In his hand, he held a small black book. “Tonight, though, it’s been on my night table. A bit of reading before bed.”

  9

  Once leaders drive invention and ingenuity from men’s hearts and minds, the people can pose no threat to stability.

  —ON SUPREMACY, CHAPTER XVIII

  SARAH DREW HER GUN and aimed it at Schenten. His eyes, however, had moved to Xander.

  “You surprise me, Dr. Jaspers. I wasn’t aware you were so quick with a pistol. Even quicker, it seems, than our young lady friend.”

  Sarah turned and saw Xander’s gun leveled at Schenten’s chest, both hands gripped tightly around the trigger. The senator, meanwhile, had raised his arms in mock surrender. “You can see I’m alone. Nothing with me except this book, and I have no interest in forcing your hand, as it were.” He began to move forward, then stopped. “May I come into my library?”

  Sarah motioned for Schenten to take the chair in front of the desk. She then moved to the side of the window and peered out into the darkness.

  “If you’re concerned with the guards, don’t be,” said Schenten, shifting a pillow as he sat. “I told them I was coming down to the library. They weren’t looking for you.”

  “Who, then?” asked Xander.

  “Who indeed?” he replied, then paused. “The answer might come as something of a surprise.”

  “Try me.”

  Again, Schenten waited before speaking. “What if I were to say the very same men who’ve been so interested in you?”

  “I wouldn’t believe you,” he answered.

  “Would you, Ms. Trent?” Schenten kept his eyes on Xander. “No, I don’t suppose you would.” He reached toward the desk, Xander quick to bring the gun even with the older man’s eyes. Schenten immediately stopped, pointed to a gold box, and said, “They’re cigarettes. You can take a look, if you like.”

  Xander pulled the box across the desk and flipped it open; several rows of neatly packed Rothmans stared up at him. Sliding the case to Schenten, he asked, “You want us to believe you’re afraid of your own people?”

  Schenten laughed, pulling a lighter from the pocket of his dressing gown. “Nothing of the kind.” A moment later, smoke streamed from his nostrils as he sat back. “Can you see the inscription, Doctor? In the case—it’s on the bottom of the lid. … No, please, take a look.” He waited for Xander to locate the tiny writing, then asked, “Would you mind reading it aloud so Ms. Trent can hear? I’m sure your French is passable enough to make sense of it.”

  Xander studied the man’s weathered face. “I don’t think—”

  “Please, Doctor,” insisted Schenten. “Humor me.”

  Xander looked at Sarah, then pulled the box closer. Translating, he read, “‘with a love that is ours alone, I am forever with you—Jean.’” He stared a moment at the words before looking up at Schenten. “Lovely. I’m sure you and your wife are—”

  “It’s not from my wife,” he interrupted.

  “My mistake,” corrected Xander. “I’m sure you and your mistress—”

  “Wrong again,” said the senator.

  Xander shut the lid. “Look … whoever she is—”

  “Strike three,” said Schenten, staring directly into his captor’s eyes. He drew the cigarette to his lips and slowly inhaled. “French, Doctor,” he said, smoke billowing from his mouth, “French, where Jean is a he. Jeanne, I believe, is the feminine, as in Jeanne d’Arc. Believe me, my Jean was no saint.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Schenten sat back and smiled. “Is it that difficult to believe?” He turned his head to Sarah. “Have I lost you as well, Ms. Trent?”

  “He was your lover,” she answered coldly.

  “Very good. And?”

  “And”—she dropped the curtain, her eyes on Xander—“senators aren’t supposed to have skeletons in their closets.”

  “An interesting choice of words, but yes.” He now looked at Xander. “She’s very intuitive, you know. Much better at this than you are.” He continued to stare across the desk. “And, Ms. Trent?”

  “And,” Xander responded, no small amount of cynicism in his tone, “you’ve decided to lash out at a world that’s never understood you—”

  “That would be ludicrous.” The smile remained on Schenten’s face. “Don’t you agree, Ms. Trent?”

  “Look,” continued Xander, “your sexual history is fascinating, but that’s not what we’re here—”

  “That is exactly what you’re here for,” he answered icily. “As Ms. Trent pointed out, it’s the sort of thing that can put someone like me in a rather vulnerable position.” The smile had disappeared. “A potent weapon, information. Used properly, it can turn even the most powerful into puppets, make them appear to be things that they’re not.” He sat back, smoke once again cascading from his nose. “You begin to see my point, I’m sure.”

  Xander slowly sat forward. “Are you telling me—”

  “I think you know exactly what I’m telling you.” He spat a stray piece of tobacco from his lips. “Wouldn’t it be nice if everyone could be as open-minded as you? What a lovely world that would be. Sadly, old bulldogs aren’t meant to blur the distinctions between decency and depravity; we’re not meant to raise unpleasant questions in the minds of our self-righteous constituents. Just smile and project an image that at worst makes them admire, at best makes them revere.” Another long draw, more smoke. “As you know, there isn’t a great deal of introspection on the part of those who associate themselves with the grassroots conservative Right, but what can you do? That’s the reason we can lead them around like a group of mindless idiots. They’re not very clever, but they do have their limits. Stray from the image and
influence disappears. So as you see, Doctor, my sexual history can make a great deal of difference, especially when it’s used as a bargaining chip.”

  “And Eisenreich has that chip,” he whispered.

  “That,” answered the senator, “is the reason we’re sitting here.”

  “This is incredible.”

  “For how long?” asked Sarah, moving to the desk.

  “About two and a half years,” he replied. “You had no idea, did you?”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” The word was spoken in mock disbelief. “Because they could. What other reason did they need?” He shook his head. “This is a complete surprise to you, isn’t it?” Neither answered. “I’m amazed. … That, and the fact that I wasn’t interested in what they were selling.” He inhaled deeply. “Their response … photocopies of several letters—far more detailed than the inscription you just read—sent to my office some three weeks later.”

  “They approached you,” said Sarah. “How?”

  “Does that really matter?” He began to crush out the cigarette, taking time to play with the ash. “A few meetings. Something like that.”

  “And you have records of those meetings?” asked Sarah.

  “I did. Somehow, they managed to … disappear at the same time the photocopies began arriving.” He lit up another. “Funny that.”

  “And you have no idea who delivered the copies,” asked Sarah, “or who had access to your records?”

  “It’s the United States government, Ms. Trent. Bureaucracy doesn’t lend itself to a great deal of accountability.”