She spotted the man among the guests. He was making no attempt to blend in with the growing crowd. Rather, he stood a few paces off to the right, staring directly at her, an obese woman clutched at his side. Etched across the woman’s face was the look of abject terror. Sarah understood. He was going to kill someone. Whom that might be would all depend on her. Either way, it would not be here. Death in the open would be foolish. Too many witnesses. He was playing it well.
Certain that she had seen him, the man moved off toward the trees across from the motel, his arm held firmly around the bait. Sarah watched as they disappeared. She then turned and whispered through the open door to Xander.
“Get some clothes on, grab your gun and pack, and get outside. I want you to work your way into the crowd by the fire.” He started to answer. “Just do it!” Before he could say anything, she was gone.
Xander threw the blanket from his legs and pawed the carpet for his pants and shirt. Half a minute later, he emerged from the room, the rain battering at his face as he tried to find her. There had been something in her voice, something he had never heard before. So quickly back to this. He wanted to cry out, to pull her close to him, but there was no place, no time for such thoughts. They had stolen a few hours. Nothing more.
He looked to his left—the fire. He peered into the rain—a darting figure across the road. And then he heard the sirens. Police. They would ask questions. He shut the door and raced toward the woods.
Sarah slipped through the trees, her gun drawn. The rain had begun to come down in torrents, lashing at her face from all sides and forcing her hand to her eyes with greater frequency. Visibility was next to nil; any hopes of hearing them up ahead were lost to the percussive hammering of water on a frozen ground. But they were there. She knew that. He had set the trap, and he would be waiting.
A shadow skimmed across a tree not ten feet in front of her; then, from nowhere, the body of the screaming woman came barreling through the darkness, arms flailing, a useless piece of bait discarded before the attack. Sarah braced for the impact, expecting to feel the huge frame collapse into her arms, but it was not to be. Instead, the woman stopped. For the briefest of moments, they stared at each other. And in that instant, Sarah knew. She saw it in the woman’s expression, in the angle of her head. There had never been any bait. There had never been any terror. But it was too late. The woman crashed her hand down onto Sarah’s gun, leveling her foot into Sarah’s chest and careening her into the grasp of an outstreched branch. As she fell, Sarah tried to find her footing, but the ground was too slick. Almost at once, the woman was on top of her, two hundred pounds of flesh slamming them both to the ground, her massive arms and thighs straddling Sarah in a viselike grip.
She felt the crack first, then the pain, a searing bolt of agony through her chest. Her ribs. How many had been broken, she could only guess. Thick fingers began to tear into her neck, knuckles grind into her trachea, thumbs dig deeply into the soft flesh just below her chin. Coughing for breath, Sarah felt her head lighten, the scene around her grow dark, consciousness ebb. Only the pain in her chest kept her alert, enough to thrust her knee into the woman’s back, the rolls of flesh cushioning the blow, the attack only spurring the woman to claw more furiously into Sarah’s neck.
But the woman was too eager, her rabid desire forcing her to shift her knee ever so slightly so as to gain greater leverage. It was all Sarah needed. Sensing the pressure lift from her forearm, Sarah ripped her hand from its prison and forced her fingers to the woman’s head. In an act of brutal desperation, she drove her nails down into the woman’s scalp, flesh and hair clawed at in savage frenzy. The woman lurched back, her hands releasing Sarah’s neck. The darkness at once receding, air again filling her lungs. It was less than a second before the huge frame again bore down on her, but this time Sarah was prepared. As the woman leaned forward, Sarah lifted both her knees into the woman’s back, using the woman’s own weight to propel the lunging body forward, too fast to control, arms forced to reach beyond Sarah’s head, thighs forced to release so as to steady themselves. With a quick burst, Sarah grabbed at the woman’s crotch and pulled herself through the thick legs, twisting the soft genitalia as she gained her feet. The woman screamed, Sarah still scorching her nails up into the hairy flesh, scraping at the tender mound, the woman’s mammoth frame dropping to the ground. She tried to flip over, but Sarah grabbed her arm and twisted it, wrenching it until the shoulder pulled from its socket. Without hesitation, she then dug her fingers into the woman’s neck, hoisted the upper torso a few inches from the ground, and, with her knee, hammered down into the base of the woman’s spine. The sound of a single snap told her it was over.
The pile of flesh twitched once as Sarah doubled over, the pain in her chest unforgiving, pulsating through her body with each gasp for breath. Her mind had gone blank, only now thoughts returning—the man, the fire … Xander! She bolted upright, suddenly aware of what had happened, the reason she had been lured to the trees. How could I have been so stupid! She began to run, her body bent to one side, her arm pulled in tightly so as to stifle the pain. Xander. It had been him all along, everything else a diversion. Images of Amman flashed through her mind. She needed him to be alive, to be safe. Not again! Please be by the fire! Please!
“Sarah.”
The muted whisper tore through, the voice somewhere up ahead.
Xander crept through the trees, the gun at his side clutched in both hands. He had heard something off to his left, the pounding of the rain making it impossible to determine the source. He stopped, waited, then whispered.
“Sarah.”
Again the sound, and he turned, his gun raised.
Sarah pulled herself to a tree, able to make out a figure no more than fifteen yards ahead of her. It was Xander, the silhouette unmistakable. He stood with his gun drawn, unaware of the man who now appeared behind him.
“Xander!” she screamed.
But it was too late. The man crashed the butt of his gun down into Xander’s neck, a moment later hoisting the unconscious body to his shoulder as he began to weave his way through the trees. Sarah followed, but with each step, the man slipped farther and farther from sight. She had nothing—no gun, no knife—only her will to stop him. But the pain had grown unbearable.
Staying within the shadows, she turned to her left and caught sight of the man now thirty yards ahead of her, his pace remarkable given Xander’s weight on his back. He, too, had kept to the edge of the trees and was showing no signs of slowing. Sarah tried to run, but her ribs would not permit it as she watched the man slip behind a curve in the road. Seconds later, the reflection of taillights bled out into the darkness. She propelled herself forward and staggered to the bend, only to see the car vanish from sight.
She stood and stared into the darkness as the rain whipped through her. Minutes passed before she dropped to her knees, her face lost in tears.
For herself, for him—she did not know.
10
Few men have the courage to … [s]eize the moment and dare to alter the very name of supremacy.
—ON SUPREMACY, DEDICATORY LETTER
SHE HAD DRIVEN through the night, a torn sheet wrapped tightly around her chest to give some support to her ribs. Even so, the stiffness was making it difficult to breathe. She knew there had been no point in going after them. It had taken too long to get back to the motel, too many minutes spent peeling off the pants, knifing through the shirt to avoid further agony. Two, maybe three ribs were broken. One would have been enough. She had tossed the soaking clothes into the center of the room, a minute later collapsing into a tub of steaming water. Lying in the darkness, she had rethought every move, every moment. By the fire! I will come back for you. All she had wanted was to protect him, to keep him safe. A chance to make things right.
More than the lapse, though, the minutes of silence had forced her to confront an equally damning truth. She had taken a life. Willfully taken a life. This time, there had been no s
werve of the blade, no choice—conscious or not—to disable rather than to destroy. With quiet deliberation, she had snapped a woman’s back in two. Assassin. “That’s not why they chose you,” he’d said. How little he had understood. How close she had come to believing him.
She had put the call through to O’Connell just the other side of the Montana border.
“We’ve been waiting to hear from you.” His voice was tired.
“We?” she asked.
“I’ve been a bit quicker than I’d originally planned. Most of the boys are in place. We’ve set up camp—”
“I’ve lost Jaspers.”
“What?”
“I … I let them take him.”
He had heard that same tone in her voice only once before. In Amman. “Take it easy, Sarah. How?” He waited for an answer. When none came, he continued hesitantly. “Is he—”
“Lost, not dead. At least I don’t think he is. …”
“How much does this complicate things?” O’Connell needed to focus her.
“… I don’t know.”
Again, he waited. “Then what’s the problem?”
The line was silent; she spoke. “Why didn’t they kill him?”
“What?”
“They had him out in the open, close enough to finish it with a knife. Easy, noiseless, safe. Why take him?”
“I don’t follow.”
“He’s not a bargaining chip. Christ, they know we’d let him die if it meant shutting them down. So why take him?”
O’Connell inhaled deeply before responding. “These aren’t the questions we need to be hearing at this point.”
“Xan … Jaspers was convinced he’d been chosen.”
“You’ll have to explain that one.”
“He thought there was a reason he was involved with all of this. It’s something Schenten said before he died. Does that make any sense to you?”
“Chosen? Chosen for what?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. But they’ve never hesitated in trying to kill me, so why not him?” She could hear Xander asking the same question, see him pounding at the wheel as they had sped through the open road—anger in his voice, uncertainty. And she had promised to protect him. …
“And you agree with him?” O’Connell’s tone had changed.
“… I don’t know.”
“I see.” He paused. “The question is, would it make any difference? I assume the schedule went with the good doctor.” The silence on the other end of the line was answer enough. “Well, they’re following it. The English ambassador is all over the news.”
That conversation had ended two hours ago. Just before dawn.
Now, razored strips of bloodred copper breached the morning sky as she pulled to a stop. A motorcycle stood patiently by the small cabin, still hidden from a hesitant sun. Sarah watched as the light crept over the edge of the canyon; like a wave, it swept along, swallowing O’Connell as he neared.
Xander slowly opened his eyes, a dull throbbing in his neck and the taste of vomit in his throat, the scent enough to rekindle a moment of nausea. Not that he had any memory of the act itself. In fact, he had no memory at all. Nothing. Only shadows, images flying through his head like the streaks of light glistening somewhere beyond him. He tried to think back, to recall the instant before the blackout, but he saw only snatches, disparate pieces of the last week colliding in disarray. All without sequence, without order. He wanted to focus, to find the source of the light, hoping that it would free his thoughts from their confusion, but the haze persisted—violence and terror fusing with the soft caress of a woman’s hand.
He swallowed—a burning in his throat—and blinked several times, the pain slowly bringing objects into view. His senses of smell and touch were somehow more acute—the scent of freshly washed linen, the feel of crisp sheets pulled tightly over him—each helping to rouse him from his stupor. But his head wouldn’t move. It felt compressed to the pillow, weighted down, so much so that he needed all his strength to turn ever so slightly toward the light. Patterns began to appear, flowers along a distant wall, soon the shape of a bureau beneath them, a small wooden chair placed at its side. He forced himself to concentrate on the objects, to imagine the iron coldness of the brass handles, all in an attempt to regain himself.
A window proved to be the source of the light, cotton drapes billowing in the breeze. The rest of the room was empty, save for an oval throw rug placed at the side of the bed. Everything neat, simple.
He lay still for a few minutes. A certain peace returned, an order to the memories, but soon, far more disquieting images began to flood his mind, muffled exchanges as if from within a fog. A voice, his voice but not his voice, all of it dreamlike, yet real. Figures standing over him, blinding light searing into his eyes, thick fingers probing his face, stabbing pain throughout his body, then nausea and darkness. He tried to hold on, maintain contact, but the more he struggled, the more they faded to obscurity.
The smell of coffee momentarily distracted him, his first inclination to sit up. Immediately, a jolt of pain in his shoulder advised otherwise and he fell back to the bed. With considerable effort, he moved a hand to his neck and began to probe the area with his fingers. The swelling was sizable, the skin still tender to the touch. More startling, though, was the sight of a small bandage on his forearm, a square piece of gauze held in place by a narrow strip of adhesive. He released his neck and held his arm out straight. The area around the bandage was horribly discolored, slivers of vein coursing through a mound of black-and-blue flesh. He reached over and gently slid his fingers along the edge of the wound. It, too, was remarkably tender.
With a quick pull, he yanked the adhesive off and stared at the small hole in his arm, a red dot where a needle had entered. A needle? The tiny reminder drove the memories back into his conscious mind—the room, the bed, the voice, his voice but not his voice, and the blinding light….
They had drugged him. They had violated his mind and had stolen his will to resist.
But why? What could they have gained? He struggled for an answer. They had the disc; they had the document he had put together. And the schedule. There was no question that they would have found them. It’s what they were looking for all along. So what else could they have wanted?
The sound of footsteps outside interrupted. Xander placed his arms underneath the blanket and waited. Within a few seconds, the door cracked open, a tuft of hair inching its way in, two brown eyes peeking through. Seeing him awake, the eyes disappeared, the door once again shut. Xander expected to hear a key in the lock, a bolt reengage, but there was nothing, only the sound of footsteps fading to the distance. He looked over at the window, it, too, free of bars, not even a latch to keep him from the grounds beyond. And for the first time, he noticed his clothes lying neatly on the chair, his shoes tucked in by the bureau. All readily accessible. Whatever he had told them, they clearly had felt no need to restrain him.
Unwilling to wait any longer, he propped himself up and brought his feet to the wooden floor, his shoulder no more obliging than it had been a few minutes before. The silk pajama bottoms hung loosely on his legs as he shuffled toward the window, a cautious breeze gliding across his chest as he neared the drapes. The light from outside forced him to shield his eyes behind an open palm. Even so, the sun felt good. A relief. He stood for a few minutes, his eyes soon accustomed to the light, his skin chilled but refreshed by the nip in the air. The door opened and he turned.
There, in beige cardigan, a pair of corduroy pants hanging on his slender frame, stood Herman Lundsdorf. He held Xander’s manuscript in one hand; in the other, he clutched a mug, the smell of coffee filling the room.
“Good heavens!” said Lundsdorf, marching toward Xander, “in front of an open window, and with no shirt on. Really!” The old man reached past him and pulled the window shut. “Have you lost all sense?” Lundsdorf then turned and stared up into his pupil’s eyes. “I have gone to a great deal of trouble to keep y
ou alive. If you were to go and catch pneumonia now, I would look very foolish. Very foolish indeed.” He smiled.
Xander hadn’t heard a word.
“He asked him what?” Tieg continued to stare out at the bay, the receiver pressed to his ear, his eyes lost to the horizon.
“It wasn’t so much questions,” answered the Italian, “as … suggestions. The professor seemed more eager to explain than to gain information from Jaspers. Under the narcotic, the responses were very confused.”
“What exactly was he trying to explain? I need details, Paolo.”
“There were no details. It was more a lesson. Dr. Lundsdorf was speaking in very abstract terms—‘the essence of authority, the role of the overseer.’ Those I remember coming up several times.”
“And?”
“Jaspers would agree, then not agree—it would go back and forth. At one point, they began to speak in German. I couldn’t follow after that.”
“And he asked him nothing about the Trent woman, nothing about the people she’s contacted?”
“We believe she is dead.”
“Believe? That’s very reassuring. You’re telling me he pumped Jaspers with God knows what and didn’t ask him a thing?”
“Nothing that seemed relevant. As I said, it was as if he wanted to convince him of something. I can’t explain it any better than that.”
“And was he convinced?”
“I suppose. … I couldn’t say. I’ve tried to do what you asked—”
“And you’ve done a superb job, as usual,” countered Tieg. “That’s not the issue. Where is he now?”
“Jaspers? Asleep. In one of the guest rooms.”
“And you have no idea what the old man intends to do with him before he initiates the next stage.”
The Overseer Page 40