The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  He swung out wide on the narrow road, taking the motorcycle to its limits so as to slip past the dying bird. Once beyond her, he tried to reaccustom his eyes to the darkened road; even so, he could find no trace of the two red dots he had been following for the last half hour. Over his shoulder, he saw the results of his handiwork, four or five bodies leaping from the smoke, several of them spraying the carcass in an attempt to keep the helicopter from exploding. But no Rabbit. As he shifted forward, however, he caught sight of something off to his right, something flickering through the trees, mirroring his own movement. It took less than a second to recognize it—taillights. There, deep within the woods, the VW bounced defiantly, its driver somehow having found an inroad to the dense cover. Bloody brilliant.

  O’Connell slowed and allowed the car to move farther ahead. For nearly a mile, they ran in tandem, until the main road began to bank away from the trees, the car’s lights growing distant. O’Connell drove the bike off of the shoulder, weaving his way through the branches and trunks, several saplings falling prey to the teeth of his spokes and tires. But it was his face and hands that were getting the worst of it, angry limbs tearing at them as he pushed his way through. Reaching the trail, he wiped the blood from his face and accelerated on the rooted floor. The car had already dipped out of sight.

  “I don’t know!” yelled Sarah, “I don’t see anything. You must have lost him.”

  “Where the hell did he come from?” Xander was doing everything he could to keep control of the jerking wheel. “Absolutely clear, then—wham!—the helicopter arrives, Evel Knievel arrives—”

  “He was obviously trying to help us.”

  “Help us,” shouted Xander, “or keep us alive?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “The difference is what Schenten said. Did you hear what I said before? There’s a reason to keep me alive.”

  “I don’t think that’s what the boys in the helicopter had in mind,” she said. “They were firing at us. Those weren’t warning shots.”

  Xander saw the opening to his left and slammed on the brakes, bouncing all three high off the seats as he made the turn. “You’re right. They were trying to kill us. That doesn’t mean Mr. Motorcycle was necessarily friendly.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she replied sharply, “anyone who keeps me from getting shot usually strikes me as a friend.”

  The car emerged from the trees, wheels sliding on the grass before the tires found the smooth surface of the highway. Xander swung the wheel to the right, shifted into third, and brought the VW to sixty. The chassis nearly sprang from the road at the sudden thrust of power. “The transmission’s holding up better than I thought,” he said, his tone no less strident.

  Sarah did not respond, her eyes dead still against the sweep of the road.

  “It might even get us as far as Montana,” he added.

  She looked at him, her expression unchanged.

  Dawn came with Sarah at the wheel, Xander pressed against the window, his head resting on his chest and rising in the even rhythm of sleep. He had dropped off less than an hour ago, reluctant to give in to the exhaustion. So she had insisted. It had been their only conversation since Tempsten, no more discussion of Schenten, of an unknown motorcyclist—the miles slipping by in silence, save for a quick driving changeover on a deserted strip of road just before the Pennsylvania line. Xander had been right. Montana was the only choice. The senator had confirmed everything Stein had shown her in the Committee files. The training area. The compound. Wolf Point, Montana.

  The Canadian route would have been quicker but more dangerous. Border guards. Instead, she found Route 90, settled the car in at eighty, and watched Cleveland, Lakewood, and any number of unknown towns pass with the quiet forgetfulness of a 5:00 A.M. sky. Now, half an hour from Indiana, she noticed the fuel gauge hovering precariously close to empty. It was a relief. She needed coffee. And maybe a short nap. Sleep—the vital weapon. Without it, all others cease to function.

  The sign read a mile to the next rest stop. Sarah accelerated and swung the car into the right-hand lane. She glanced back at Alison; a smile had crept up the sleeping face.

  His head against the stone wall, his back too badly bruised to mind the minor discomfort, Bob Stein sat in utter darkness. His hands had been chained to either end of a bed, how many hours, days ago, he could only guess, his mind still woozy from the drugs—a narcotic whose aftereffects were proving far worse than its punch. At least then, he had been unconscious. Now he had the distinct displeasure to experience every moment of wakeful recovery.

  To combat the discomfort, he had begun to piece together the moments that had led to his current condition, the last salient event a brief exchange at State with the duty guard. After that, Stein could remember only a sharp stabbing in his neck, followed by a stinging in his backside, spinning lights, a siren, and then the darkness to which he had awoken. It wasn’t hard to fill in the early gaps. The guard had alerted someone, then an injection, a trumped-up ambulance ride, and this. It was the later gaps—or better yet, one large hole—that disturbed him. How much had he told them? More bewildering, why was he still alive?

  A sliding segment of the door suddenly opened, a burst of light battering at his eyes from above, Bob quick to bury his head in his shoulder. He heard words before a lock disengaged, the door pulled back unleashing a torrent of pulsating white light into the room. Blinking through his sleeve, Stein tried to focus on the figure at the door, but his eyes would not see. He tried to speak but could produce only a muffled whelp, his lips and tongue still held in the control of the narcotic. Then, as quickly as it had come, the light from outside vanished, the door still open, a figure now in its frame. Bob looked up again, the silhouette of the body clearer than before, the outline of the room coming into focus as he peered to his right and left. As best he could tell, the room was roughly ten by ten, high ceilings, completely bare, no windows. Day or night, Bob had no way of telling.

  “I apologize for the chains,” said the man in the door. It was an old man’s voice, European. “They are for your own protection. They tell me the drugs can make one rather violent. I trust you understand.”

  Bob tried to speak, but again he produced little more than an animal’s moan.

  “Ah, yes. Another aftereffect, regrettable but necessary. You have my further apologies. Your voice will return within the hour. For the time being, though, all you need do is listen.” From behind, a woman entered and placed a chair at the center of the room, the smell of perfume momentarily eclipsing the stale air in the cell. The man sat. “You have told us a great deal. I am not much in favor of such methods, but the drugs can be quite useful, and with Mr. O’Connell back in the field … well, we needed certain questions answered.” He paused. “You might be interested to know that your recovery will be easier than most, as you put up little resistance. I hope that is of some comfort to you.” He whispered something to the woman. A moment later, she was gone, Stein alone with his inquisitor. “What is most interesting, however, is the information you offered withoutquestioning. I was not aware the drugs worked in that way, but I am no expert in such things. An added bonus—for us all.” He coughed before continuing. “I must say, you are a rather remarkable young man, Mr. Stein. I had no idea.” His breath was short, the words punctuated by intermittent wheezing. “Trust me, I am a very good judge of character and of, shall we say, possibility. You show a considerable penchant for both. All in all, you are a very nice surprise. Very nice indeed.” He cleared his throat. “To be candid, had you not shown those qualities, it is very likely you would no longer be alive. But I do not like to dwell on such things. I am here to give you an opportunity.” Bob began to see a few wisps of hair on the man’s head, though the face remained in shadow.

  “I think it is fair to say you are aware of what we are, what we intend to do—or at least you have a rudimentary understanding of what is to come, if the drugs are accurate.” Again, a short coughing spell,
far more muted than the first. “You, to your credit, have an agile mind, a sense for the epic, for the grand scheme. This I find most agreeable. Coupled with that is the fact that you are in a position—how shall I put it?—of substantial breadth. We are, as you can imagine, not without a certain number of men in government. Few, though, show your talents. A man with your ability, with your access can be quite useful. Chained to a bed, the use goes to waste. You see what I am saying?”

  If only to please, Bob nodded.

  “Good, because in just over a week, this conversation will have no meaning.” The man shifted in his chair; a moment later, Bob felt an ice-cold hand on his knee. “They say that time waits for no man, Mr. Stein. I would add that chaos is equally uncompromising. Today, there is time for you to think. That time, though, is running out.” He removed his hand as another fit of coughing erupted. “‘Never before,’” he continued, trying to stifle the spasm, “‘has so much conspired to offer so propitious a setting and so great an impetus for a change in the wielding of power.’ Never. Remarkable words, are they not? Written over four hundred years ago by an equally remarkable man. And as true today as they were then.” His tone became less animated, though no less pointed. “Unfortunately, no one took that man seriously. A great pity. Eight days from now, no one will have a choice.” He paused. “I am giving you such a choice. One few have been given. I trust you will not be foolish.” The old man rose to his feet. “Eight days, Mr. Stein. After that …” He shook his head, turned, and slowly walked to the door. A moment later, the pitch-black returned, the bolt reengaged.

  Jonas Tieg dimmed the desk lamp and sat silently for a few moments. The sound of feet on the stairs had prompted him to place the telephone receiver to his chest. As expected, his wife popped her head around the door a moment later. Her eyes were heavy with sleep. “Sweetheart, you need your rest. Come upstairs. What time is it?”

  “Late, my love,” he answered. “You go. I’ll be up in a little while, I promise. I have to take care of this.”

  “Oh, Jonas,” she said, finding her watch, “it’s quarter to five in the morning. This is ridiculous.”

  “I know, dear. Ridiculous. You go. I’ll be there in two minutes.” He kissed the air, smiled, and nodded as she yawned through her own tired kisses and closed the door. At the sound of the ever-familiar creaking third step, he placed the phone to his ear and spoke. “You’ll have to repeat that. … No, I don’t care what you’ve been told since then; I am telling you now. There was no mistake. You were to shoot to kill. … Yes, both of them … including Jaspers. Are you having trouble hearing me? … Then put the license number on the wire. … Because within the next few hours, state police from Ohio to California will be looking for them. … That’s not your concern. … What? … Disabled the helicopter? How is that … What do you mean you have no idea who? Someone simply appeared—” Tieg listened closely. “I see.” He paused, then spoke, his words precise. “You are to eliminate anything that gets in your way, is that understood? … Good. … Yes, I’m sure that will be the case.”

  He hung up and turned off the lamp. Again, he sat in silence, all too aware of the tightness in his shoulders. He knew he would have to wake her, as he always did. And she would take him, caress his back, rub her strong, thick hands along his thighs, drive him to climax and then let him drift off in her arms. For thirty years, he had wanted no other, had found salvation in no other. She had always understood. She would understand again.

  Laurence Sedgewick sat in the limousine, eyes riveted to the screen in front of him. A Mozart horn concerto filled the space, strangely incongruous with the images he watched. Bodies lay strapped to stretchers, others as yet untended sprawled across the grass and mud, eyes open, deathly still against the constant movement around the house. Police were everywhere, cordoning off windows, doors, a collection of guns they had assembled between two patrol cars. Cameras also dotted the landscape, network teams busy with questions, early-morning reports dispatched to stations around the country. A cameraman transmitting to a private car drew no special attention.

  Senator George Maxwell Schenten was dead, shot to death in his upstate home, signs of an extensive battle in evidence. Already, the newspeople were raising questions about foreign involvement—a reaction to the senator’s policy on a united Europe? An extremist fed up with Schenten’s open criticism of Islamic fundamentalism? Or was it somehow connected to the events that had been occurring across the country? The police declined to speculate.

  The phone rang.

  “Yes.” Sedgewick continued to watch the screen.

  “They’ve begun to match fingerprints. They should have Jaspers and Trent within five minutes.”

  “And the records?”

  “Updated to indicate connections to the killings in Germany and Italy. We’re also ready to leak her history in Jordan.”

  “Good. A slow drip, I hope.”

  “An unnamed official, excerpts from a confidential file. Acceptable?”

  “Difficult to acquire.”

  “But not impossible. The reference should be enough.”

  “Agreed. Naturally, you’ll let the boys from Washington put the pieces together themselves. We wouldn’t want any of them to think that they’ve been handed their suspects.”

  “Of course. Do we pursue?”

  “Only if asked,” answered Sedgewick. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Anton Votapek tramped across the open field, the few clumps of brown grass underfoot the last vestiges of a once-lush soccer pitch. The rest was a mass of petrified mud, shaped by the spiked soles of eager cleats, hardened to rigid mounds of soil by chilled Montana nights. Beyond the goalpost stood a single building. Votapek mounted its steps and opened the door. The fire across the room beckoned, as did a pair of leather chairs planted comfortably by the blaze. He sat and picked up the receiver on the small side table.

  “Hello.”

  “Anton.” The voice was tired but alert. He did not like to be kept waiting. “You said it was urgent when you called before.”

  “Yes,” answered Votapek. “I was hoping not to wake you, but I didn’t think it could wait.”

  “I am sure you are right. Especially given recent events.”

  Votapek waited, then spoke. “Alison’s missing.” His eyes remained fixed on the blaze.

  “I see.”

  “It’s impossible to say when. Sometime in the last two days.”

  There was a pause. “Laurence told you this?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he is concerned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why was this permitted to happen?”

  “We can only assume—”

  “The Trent woman,” interrupted the old man, his voice no less steady.

  “Yes.”

  “I find it hard to understand why she is proving to be so difficult. She was on the train with Pritchard—that is what we were told by that boy from the NSC. And you mean to say no one recognized her, that no one realized there could be only one reason for Arthur to be on that train?”

  “It wasn’t their priority—”

  “‘Their priority’? What could be more pressing than a woman who is utterly determined to undermine everything we have been working for? I have made it quite clear. Alone, she poses no threat, but with Alison … who is to say what might be believed? We have no place for such distractions.”

  “I agree. Alison is of the utmost importance—”

  “We have been through this, Anton. Personal sentiment only gets in the way. Your feelings for the girl, however strong they may be—”

  “Then why do you continue to protect Jaspers?” A log shifted, flames darting through the tumbled recess.

  For a moment, the old man remained silent; when he spoke, the words were simple, direct. “That has nothing to do with sentiment.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “You think you understand, Anton? You understand nothing.” He had little patience for Votap
ek’s goading. “Was Jaspers at Schenten’s home?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the conversation is on tape?”

  “Yes. They knew about the schedule even before Schenten brought it up.”

  “And they were eager to find it.”

  “Very.” Votapek began to fiddle with a stray piece of thread dangling from the chair’s arm. Trying his best to sound casual, he added, “Schenten also told him that he had been … selected. That the overseer—I assume he meant you—had chosen him. We didn’t understand what that meant.”

  “Did the senator mention my name?”

  Votapek waited before answering. “Our men arrived before he could say anything.” He dropped the thread. “His explanation would have been—”

  “Of no consequence.”

  “Laurence and Jonas think otherwise.”

  Votapek heard the deep breath. “And what does that mean, Anton?”

  “It means,” he said, a slight waver in his voice, “that they find Schenten’s remarks a little puzzling. We’ve all been under the impression that Jaspers stumbled onto all of this accidentally. If it’s otherwise …”

  “Yes, Anton?” Impatience now turned to irritation. “What would that mean? What would Laurence and Jonas have to say about that?”

  “I … I don’t know.” Silence.

  “Of course you do not know, because you speak without thinking—Jonas the worst of you, his belief that he is somehow cleverer than the rest. Perhaps that is why it was clear from such an early age that he belonged in politics. But you, Anton, you were smarter than that. I always hoped it would pass, that you and Laurence would see his prattling for what it was.”

  “He said we needed to eliminate the problem.”

  “Miss Trent is the problem, Anton.”