With as much courage as he could muster, Votapek answered, “That’s not what Jonas said.”
Again, he paused before answering. “I see. And what did he say?”
Votapek remained silent.
“What have you done, Anton?” The words were almost a whisper. “My God, what have the three of you done?”
Sarah sat across from Xander, her second refill nearly gone, the waitress too busy to take any notice of the empty cup. Instead, she was chatting with a driver, a young man whose interests clearly lay in more than just coffee and pancakes. He had even removed the meshed baseball cap from his head, smoothing back the greasy blond curls in an attempt to make himself more presentable; it was having the desired effect, the young woman’s lips peeling up to her gums in a frighteningly toothy smile. Sarah couldn’t help but stare, her gaze fixed on the large yellow teeth, her fatigue stripping her of the will to turn away. No thoughts. Only smile, teeth, gums. Even Xander slipped from her mind, his complete self-absorption in the book lost to her fixation. He flipped a page, the movement enough to draw her attention.
She watched him, elbows firm on the table, right hand clenched in a thick tuft of hair as his eyes flew through the words on the page. If he was tired, he was doing his best to fight it, his knee shaking with nervous intensity. All thoughts of Schenten had clearly been set aside. For the moment, the scholar was back at work. Sarah sipped at her coffee and continued to watch. It was good to have him so close again.
“They’ve got to have an army of people to do all of this,” said Xander, not bothering to look up from the page. “Rapid-fire disruptions, phases to be carried out by different groups of people—one to plant the explosives, another to position them, still others to set them off. Where Eisenreich took weeks to instigate his chaos, they’re taking days, sometimes hours. Plus, they’ve got things going on all across the country, timed out to the minute.”
“How long a period are we talking about?” asked Sarah.
“Eight days. Eight days of sequential terror. The irony is that very few things in here could be described as catastrophic. The first one on the list”—he flipped back a few pages—“reaches completion in two days.” He looked up. “At least we have some time before they start by bombing the Capitol.”
“And that doesn’t strike you as catastrophic?”
“Symbolically, yes. As a means to social upheaval, no. Look at Oklahoma three years ago. It was despicable, tragic—however else you want to describe it. And for two weeks, every militia in the country got ten minutes on Nightline. But that was it. We were all horrified, outraged, but then we happily forgot about it. By itself, that bomb didn’t create the kind of panic our friends want.” He flipped a few pages ahead.
“Which is?”
“Suppose something else had happened that day—a systemwide failure of the computer network at Southwestern Bell, or every tunnel and bridge leading into Manhattan out of commission, all in less than five hours? Then it would have been a little more frightening, a little more overwhelming.”
“And that’s what they’re planning to do?”
“Replace Oklahoma with the Capitol and you have numbers one, eight, and seventeen on their list. The first raises the question of national security, perhaps even foreign involvement; the others confirm those fears and heighten panic. It’s what they did in Washington and Chicago writ large. You put those little events together, making sure that their timing is precise, and you can create the sort of chaos that makes the big events seem much larger than they are. It’s right out of the manuscript.”
One on top of another, on top of another. Tieg’s words. “How many?”
“Forty-eight. The grand finale is the assassination of the president.”
Sarah shook her head. “How original.”
“It’s not the killing that’s important to them.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“It’s the way people will see it that will make the difference.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Think about it. When JFK was shot, people talked about conspiracy, but most of them regarded it as the act of a deranged gunman. Sorrow, betrayal, anger—those were the prevailing sentiments.”
“Not mass hysteria.”
“Exactly. When they kill Wainwright, his death won’t be an isolated incident, but the ultimate act in a sequence of battering blows against the republic, a sign that the country has become too weak or too corrupt to maintain order. Whether it’s seen as a conspiracy won’t matter. All people will feel is despair, a sense that everything has fallen apart.”
“Enter Pembroke”—Sarah nodded—“and you have an antidote to the chaos.”
“From the looks of it, they plan to play up to every major fear in the book during the buildup—sharp declines in the market, foreign terrorism, urban crime—nothing new, and nothing startling by itself, but now it’s all going to happen in a matter of eight days.”
“Tieg’s going to have a field day with the media.”
“Of course.”
“How many groups are we talking about?” she asked, pulling the book across the table and glancing at the chart on the inside back cover.
“About thirty. Each assignment is divided up into four separate phases, one cell or team—”
“Per phase,” she cut in, the words spoken almost to herself, her eyes now scanning the page with greater intensity.
“Right,” he agreed, concerned by the sudden change in her expression. “What is it?”
She continued to read, ignoring the question. “Jump rotations, redundancy cells”—she nodded—“and, naturally, separate stagings.”
“What do you mean, ‘naturally’? What are you talking about?”
She looked up. “This is … I’m familiar with this design. It’s a—”
“Pritchard matrix,” came a voice from behind her, its sudden intrusion shocking them both into silence. “Number of cells, assignments, the overlap. Finish one job, wait for instructions for the next.” The voice paused before adding, “But it’s the staging that gives it away, isn’t that right, Sarah?”
The Irish lilt, the clipped words. She turned and looked at the man. He had slid to the corner of his booth and was staring directly at her.
“O’Connell?”
“Gaelin Patrick at your service.” He smiled and looked at Xander. “The good doctor, I presume?” Xander could only nod. “You’ve had a nasty time of it, but you seem to be in one piece. As for you, you’re looking remarkably blond. I preferred the deep auburn, but, then again, you know my tastes.”
“How did you—”
“The lady’s going to ask me how I found you.” He winked at Xander. “And I’m going to tell her that another friend of ours thought it best to keep an eye on the two of you. A man with an appalling taste for cheese balls.”
A loud gasp at the counter forced all three to turn; a woman was staring at the television affixed to the far wall. On screen, a reporter stood silhouetted in flames.
“In what appears to be a return to the madness of last week, a bomb exploded just after six A.M., engulfing the western wing of the Capitol in flames. Washington has awoken, once again stunned as firefighters. …”
“It changes nothing,” answered O’Connell. They were outside by the VW, Alison seated on the passenger side. “Either they’ve gone ahead of schedule or something snafued. How much time before the next one?”
Xander scanned the chart. “There’s a gap of about fourteen hours before number two—the kidnapping and execution of the English ambassador. In fact, the first six events are spread out over a two-and-a-half-day period. After that, it picks up considerably, something every four to five hours.”
“That’s Pritchard.” He nodded. “First few events to make sure things are playing clean. A mock-up. Then acceleration. It gives us time—not a lot—but it gives us time. By the way,” he added, “I was expecting two. You haven’t introduced me to the red-haired beauty.”
A blank stare, then a smile. “Hello, Gael,” she said. “You have a pretty name.”
The Irishman seemed caught off guard by the comment. He looked at Sarah, then at Alison. “Thank you. I’m … rather fond of it myself.”
Sarah motioned for him to join her on the other side of the car. In a hushed voice, he said, “You’ll have to tell me what that was all about.” Fifteen minutes later, O’Connell sat on the lip of the hood, arms crossed at his chest. He’d heard enough. “It’s a hell of lot more than Bob was letting on. He doesn’t even know about the redhead.” He looked at Alison through the windshield. “Jesus, no wonder she’s …” He shook his head.
“It’ll have to be quick, a small strike,” said Sarah. “Shut it down from the center. If we blow up the site, my guess is they’ll have a fail-safe on the computers. Any interference and the signals on the accelerated stage will go out automatically. We need to dismantle the system from the inside.”
“Agreed,” he said. “Probably six to eight men to get into the compound.”
“And we’ll need a few pictures detailing the house—layouts, numbers.”
“The details are not a problem.”
“Details?” interrupted Xander, exasperated by their rapid-fire exchange. “What do you mean dismantling? We know what they’re targeting—it’s all in the schedule. All we have to do is take that information—and Alison—to someone who can stop them. Set up security at the various attack points—”
“And allow them to crawl back under a rock once they realize they’ve been exposed?” Sarah shook her head. “They’ve been waiting thirty years. If they see anything out of the ordinary, they’ll pull back and draft another schedule. No, we have to go now. If we don’t, I can assure you that none of us, including Alison, will be around to stop them the next time they try.”
“Wait a minute,” insisted Xander, “you’re telling me that not one of your all-powerful government organizations could race in, save the day—”
“And create the kind of panic that we’re trying to avoid?” Again, Sarah shook her head. “You send out an alert like that, with the National Guard swooping down on God knows how many places—people will get very concerned. Remember Waco? They create the martyrs while Tieg plays up the anxiety. Abuse of power. Government paranoia. And six months from now, they fire up—”
“Another schedule,” interrupted the Irishman. “Unfortunately, it’s not an option either of you has anymore.”
Xander turned to O’Connell. “What does that mean?”
“Back there, that was the first news you’d seen today?” Both of them nodded. “I thought so. Since about six, they’ve been talking about nothing but the Schenten assassination. You’ve both been implicated.”
“What!”
“It gets better.” He stopped and brought his hands to his lap. “It seems, Doctor, that you’re also wanted for questioning in the deaths of a man in Italy, another in Germany, and a woman in New York … a Mrs. Huber—”
“Oh my God!”
“She was found in your office. It’s not a pretty picture—of either of you. The crazed academic and the former assassin.” He looked at Sarah, hesitating before he spoke. “They’ve leaked Amman. They’re saying … you were responsible for the death of the ambassador’s daughter. I don’t know how they got the information, but there you have it.” He saw the reaction in Sarah’s eyes. “Descriptions of the two of you, the car—it’s all over the wire. That’s why I had to make contact.”
Xander sat on the hood, head tilted back. “Did they say how she died?”
O’Connell waited before answering. “You can’t let yourself worry about that, son.”
“I’d sent her Carlo’s notes, everything. I didn’t think—”
“You couldn’t have,” said Sarah, revelations about her own past pushed aside for the moment. “And Gael’s right. You can’t think about it. You have to think about the men who killed her—who are so desperate that they’re willing to use the police to try and stop you.” She took his arms. “And they a re trying to stop you, whatever Schenten might have said.”
Xander brought his head forward, eyes on Sarah. He nodded slowly.
She turned to O’Connell. “It means we can’t risk flying. And we can’t use this car. I’ll have to take it into the woods, cover it up.”
“I’m one step ahead of you. Give me half an hour.” He slid off the hood and placed a hand on Xander’s knee. “You’re in good hands, son. Sometime, I’d like to know how you got yourself out of Germany.”
“Sometime,” answered the academic, “I’d like to tell you.” O’Connell winked and headed for his bike. A minute later, Xander and Sarah were seated in the VW, its engine purring in loud diesel overtones.
“He’s a nice man.” It was Alison who spoke as she stared through the window at the Irishman’s back. “A very nice man.”
“Do you realize how difficult it will be to undo what you have done!” In three different states, three men winced at the voice screaming at them over the telephone. Each conjured his own image of the old man as the sound of coughing erupted on the line. His fits were occurring with greater frequency, thought Tieg. It wouldn’t be long now. Still, he had survived this long. “Fifty years—fifty years—you think you know what to expect; you think that somehow they will rise above themselves and act as they have been taught to act. But time and time again, you realize you are wrong, that they remain children, that you have chosen unwisely, and that they are no more now than what they were when you first found them.” He paused, the sound of breathing filling the line. “‘The burden shall be his to choose his pupils wisely.’ Perhaps mine was too great a burden.” Again the sound of breathing. “Can any of you explain why you have made Jaspers a pariah, a criminal … a madman?”
The line was quiet. Tieg was the first to speak. “Because there were no other alternatives.”
“The voice of reason.” The old man made no attempt to hide his disdain. “You were all in agreement, then, that this was the only course for Jaspers?”
“We all discussed it—”
“I am not asking you, Jonas,” he cut in. “I am asking Laurence and Anton. Or have they ceded that role to you as well?”
Again a pause; Sedgewick: “The recording from Schenten’s made it very clear to all of us that both Jaspers and the Trent woman are now in possession of a rather damaging document.”
“And to you, there is no difference between this assassin and Jaspers?”
“At this point, no. We might not get to them before they have a chance to pass on that information.”
“You think he would run to the police? You think they would take him seriously?” The old man waited. “You agreed with this, Anton?”
“I … yes. He is a … a liability. He had to be … resolved.”
“You would have made a very poor actor, Anton. Next time, Jonas, take more care when you teach him his lines.”
“He’s a grown man,” answered Tieg. “He makes his own decisions. We all make our own decisions.”
“Ah,” said the tired voice, “so at last we come to it. At last we see why all the private plotting has become so important. It has nothing to do with Jaspers, or Alison, or even Miss Trent, does it, Jonas? It has to do with who makes the decisions, who has the control.” He waited, hoping for an answer. When none came, he continued. “You stupid, stupid man! You are concerned with decisions; you know how this will all fit together. You know nothing! Do you think I do not understand you, Jonas? Do you think I am so old or so foolish as to have been blind to what you have wanted all along? Chaos, naturally. It is what we all want. That, though, is where we part company. Am I right? Chaos is as far as you wish to go. Order bores you, permanence and stability—merely secondary concerns for a man like you. You prefer the freedom that chaos brings, the unlimited possibilities.” His words were laced with contempt. �
��You think I do not know, that it is not obvious? It has been obvious from the beginning, the reason I chose you—your egoism, so vital to the task. Why do you think I have kept the leash so tight these last few years? Perhaps I was foolish to think you would not pull at it from time to time. It was my mistake. I shall not make it again.”
The line fell silent. Finally, Tieg spoke, his words controlled, precise, clearly masking the fury beneath. “Did you choose Jaspers?”
“You ask for information that is of no concern to you.”
“I have made it my concern, old man! Did you choose him?”
“You will not speak to me in that tone! Is that understood?” Silence. Is that understood, Jonas?”
The words carried a long-forgotten fire, a venom that seemed to transport all four back to a cabin, to the Italian sand and sea, to three young boys sitting in a corner, terrified, as the old man bore down on his oldest pupil.
“Tell me, Jonas, why do you try to deceive me? Why do you not tell me that it was you who forced Anton into the water?” He slapped his hand across the boy’s face, the force enough to send the young body to the floor. Jonas pulled himself to the stool, no tears, only the slight shaking of his head. Again, the man struck; again, the boy fell, this time blood trickling from his lip. “Why do you deceive me?”
“I didn’t—”
“You will not speak to me in that tone!” he screamed, sending his open fist into the boy’s brow, the head smacking back into the wooden wall, a torrent of tears following, uncontrolled, wild. “You are nothing. Nothing! But I will make of you a great conqueror. All of you—great conquerors. Do you understand this?”
Head down, his entire body shaking, he nodded. “Yes,” he sputtered. “I deceived you.”
The man reached out and caressed the boy’s hair. “You are a good boy, Jonas,” he said, looking at the other two. “Now go and wash up.”
“Yes,” answered Tieg, his voice trapped in the memory.
“Good. … Anton, tomorrow you will dismiss the students for their late-winter recess and then take your own holiday on the island. Make certain that the staff is prepared for my arrival. I will be flying in before noon. Laurence, you will remain in New Orleans. And Jonas”—he paused, expecting no answer—“you will be in San Francisco. Is everything clear?”
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