The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  “Actually, no. Unlike you, I recognize a certain unpredictability when it comes to fate. There are things we can control and things we can’t. Those we can’t are the ones—like Dr. Jaspers—to which we simply have to react. That’s what I’m doing now.”

  “And if Jaspers had not appeared?”

  “Who knows? I might never have—how do you always put it?—questioned my role. Strange how your need to control everything—even after you’re dead—is the very thing that keeps you from seeing it all work out.”

  “Your role has not changed.”

  “Oh, I think it has.” Tieg removed a gun from his pocket and aimed it at Lundsdorf. “You have the codes to initialize the final stage. I need them.”

  “And you think I will give them to you so that you may kill me.”

  “I think your ego couldn’t bear the thought of being so close and never having had the chance to push the button, no matter what the outcome.”

  “Why not wait for me to input the codes, and then kill me? Surely that would have been easier?”

  “We both know you’d never let me into the lab. And we both know that, given my feelings for Jaspers, there’s little chance I’d live much beyond the next eight days. You’d be only too happy with Pembroke as your political prefect. So I die and become a martyr, one more tragedy within all the chaos, a fact that only makes my army of viewers all the more ready to do your bidding. No. I need the codes now. And you’re going to give them to me.”

  A muffled shot rang out from beneath the desk. Tieg lurched backward, for a moment uncertain what had happened. He then looked down at his stomach and watched as a growing circle of red began to spread across his shirt. A second shot fired, jolting him back as his gun fell to the floor. He began to cough blood, his instinct to stand, but his legs would not support him. From the shadows, Paolo appeared.

  “I was hoping it would not come to this, Jonas,” said Lundsdorf, calmly lifting his hand from his lap and placing the gun on the desk. “Hoping you would see beyond yourself to the future. Sadly, that is not to be.” He watched as Tieg coughed up more blood. “By the way, you are quite right. The vice president—or should I say president—will make a fine prefect, and yes, we will make certain that your death elicits the proper response from all your many devotees. As to Anton, again you are most perceptive. He does what he is told, especially when he is promised that Alison is not to be harmed. That, of course, is untrue, but he is somewhat too believing when it comes to that young woman. Nonetheless, he was quite clear as to your intentions.” Tieg reached for the desk, only to have Paolo’s hand clasp his shoulder and press him to the chair. “And, of course, Paolo.” Lundsdorf nodded. “His penance for Wolfenbüttel has been most helpful.” Lundsdorf pushed back his chair and stood. “You know, I did not anticipate this. So you see, I, too, know when it is necessary simply to … react.” He stepped around the desk and, in a strangely affectionate gesture, placed his hand on Tieg’s cheek. “You played your role as best you could, Jonas. Take comfort in that.”

  A minute later, Tieg’s head fell to the side, his eyes frozen in death.

  O’Connell had led most of the way, angling the quintet through the trees, the two men behind, followed by Toby and Sarah. Twenty yards from the gate, he raised his hand and dropped to his knees. The others did the same, save for the taller of the two hired hands, who continued on, prone to the ground, snaking his way through the underbrush on his arms.

  They watched as he positioned himself about halfway between the gate’s wooden pilaster and the first fence post some eight feet farther down. Two pieces of strip wood lay horizontally between the two columns, the picture of a simple country fence designed to keep out only the largest of animals. To the party crouched in the trees, however, it was anything but simple. They continued to watch as the man removed a small box from his pack and placed it on a two-foot tripod about eighteen inches from the lower rail. A second box, then a third appeared, each placed at specific points between the two posts in a triangular formation. The man then seated himself within the triangle, removed yet another device—this one no larger than his palm—and aimed it at the first of the three boxes. No sooner had he done so than a thin strip of light seemed to jump from the gate to the first box, then to the second, then to the third, and finally to the far post, a razor-thin beam dancing two feet off the ground. He then placed the device under his hood and squeezed himself through the two pieces of strip wood. He was inside. No alarms. No jolts of electricity. He pulled the device from his hood, disengaged the beam, and signaled for O’Connell to take his position. One by one, they each entered the triangle; and one by one, they waited for the beam before breaching the fence. Though considerably more advanced, it was nothing more than a slip loop, much like the one Sarah had used to gain access to Schenten’s house. Within three minutes, they all lay prone inside the grounds of the compound.

  Directly in front of them, the grass rose on an incline to a flat, open area; a cluster of five cabins dotted the far horizon and formed a strange pattern against the deep black of the sky. The main house stood apart, off to the left on another raised plain, though nearer than any of the cabins. Light from inside spilled out onto the grass, creating a gentle aura around the building. It was on that hill that they knew they would find the trip wires.

  O’Connell checked his watch. He nodded to the second man, who immediately dashed up to the summit. Crouching, he pulled a set of lenses from his pack and began to scan the grounds. Infrareds. Less than halfway through his sweep, he suddenly pulled the glasses from his eyes and reached back to his holster. In the same motion, he signaled to the group below to flatten themselves on the grass. Pressed to the cold ground, Sarah heard the sound of a single thwit break through the silence. A moment later, she looked up. The man had moved off. O’Connell nodded for the rest to follow as Sarah took up the rear behind Toby.

  Bending into the hill, she felt the first strain on her ribs. Up to this point, she had been able to put the pain from her thoughts; now it became a constant reminder. Reaching the top, she took a moment to readjust the bandage that O’Connell had wrapped tightly around her torso. As she did so, she saw the lone figure of a guard—rifle still in hand—lying faceup not more than twenty feet from her. Blood trickled from the side of his neck, a pinpoint shot to ensure a silent death. Almost immediately, three more thwits tore through the night air somewhere off to her left. Sarah crawled after the others, her gun now in hand, her ribs momentarily forgotten. As she drew up behind Toby, she saw the second and third victims of the point man. They lay some sixty yards apart from each other, at either end of the base of the hill leading up to the house. It had been their misfortune to appear at the same moment. The victim of the third shot, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Spread wide,” came the whispered command from O’Connell, the signal that the approach was clear. O’Connell and the two men darted about halfway up the incline, where they were met by the other trio, the men from the first car, who had secured the approach from the back of the house. All six flanked out along the hill, each donning a pair of infrared glasses. As one, they began to crawl to the summit, Sarah noticing the electronics wizard from the fence placing a series of small boxes in his wake. The pace was excruciatingly slow, Toby more than once shifting nervously next to her. “Patience,” she whispered, as much to herself as to him. A minute and a half later, the sextet had made it to within ten yards of the house, keeping well back of the light shining from the windows. The man from the fence once again pulled the device from his hood, aimed it; this time, two thin beams of light appeared, forming a narrow path up the hill. Wide enough for one person. They had discussed it beforehand. Neither Toby nor Sarah, with her broken ribs, could be expected to wriggle under the trip wires. Too many risks. Instead, they would wait for the electronic path while the others split into teams of two, each pair targeting a window on one side of the house. By the time Sarah and Toby reached the top, the men were gone. She picked up
the device, disengaged the path, and crouched in the grass.

  “Remove the lock, Paolo.” The Italian did as he was told, then opened the door for Lundsdorf. Inside, Xander lay on a bed, his arm pulled over his eyes in the pose of sleep. Paolo waited by the door as the old man entered.

  “You have had some rest, I trust,” said Lundsdorf. “You will need it. Put on your shoes and come with me.”

  Within a minute, the three were in the hallway, Lundsdorf followed by Xander, Paolo a few paces behind. Xander glanced over his shoulder at the Italian; he recognized the bald head at once. “Did you enjoy Germany,” he asked, “or was London more to your liking?” No response save for a quick adjustment of the gun in his hand. The message was clear. However much Lundsdorf might be willing to trust his onetime protégé, Paolo clearly had no such illusions. Anything amiss and he would shoot, perhaps not to kill, but certainly to incapacitate. Xander knew it would be but a short reprieve. Soon enough, the old man would recognize the truth. In some strange way, though, the threat of death was once again having a calming effect. As with the woman in Frankfurt, Xander felt quite at peace. Somehow he knew it would make the violence to come less jarring.

  They reached the elevator and waited for the door to open. Lundsdorf motioned for Xander to enter, then Paolo; he then stepped inside himself and tapped the button, all three in quiet darkness as the small chamber descended. Very gently, Paolo slid his hand under Xander’s elbow, a move Lundsdorf failed to notice. The two younger men exchanged a glance. Another subtle reminder.

  “We have managed all the stages from below,” began Lundsdorf. “The first trial in Washington and Chicago, the—what did Arthur call the business with the Capitol, the ambassador, and so forth, Paolo?”

  “The mock-up,” answered the Italian.

  “Quite right. The mock-up. And now the third stage—the acceleration. As with all things great, always in threes. A shame he will not be able to see the best part.” He turned to Xander. “But you shall. You will see how things must be, how you must take your place, how destiny must play its part.”

  Destiny. Lying awake, Xander had not been able to deny with complete certainty the force of the manuscript’s logic. Perhaps even its practical application—order, social perfection, permanence. The tapes from last night had made that all too clear. The question remained: If the chaos were to come, would he be able to find the strength, the will to reject the theory? Would he become as blinded by it as Lundsdorf?

  Xander stared at the small man standing in front of him. And he knew. He knew that one of them would have to die to make certain that the chaos would never come. An hour ago, he had justified the decision as an answer to Sarah’s death. Then, pure brutality had inspired him; now a colder rationale guided his thoughts. Somehow, the line had blurred. Perhaps Lundsdorf had been right to dismiss it as moral indulgence. “I kill, that’s what I do.” Her words came back to him. It would simply be a question of how.

  The doors opened and the old man stepped out without a word. Paolo gestured with his head for Xander to follow just as the fluorescent strips above flicked off, replaced by the dim glow of blue lights, the sound of an alarm echoing throughout the hallway. Lundsdorf stopped at once and turned to Paolo. Before Xander could take advantage of the moment, however, he felt the clasp of thick fingers on his upper arm, iron spikes driving into his flesh. Again, Lundsdorf did not seem to notice. A woman appeared behind Paolo.

  “Disengage the elevator!” barked Lundsdorf to no one in particular.

  Paolo turned to the woman and spoke, maintaining his grip on Xander. “Seal the house, and make sure you open up the secondary vents for the lab.” Xander remained silent as several others appeared in the hall, Paolo quick to shout out orders. Lundsdorf, meanwhile, had moved to the lab, undeterred by the events; as the alarm stopped chirping, the lights returning to normal.

  Lundsdorf was talking with a technician below when Paolo appeared on the balcony, Xander in tow. “Where do you want Jaspers?”

  Preoccupied with the technician, Lundsdorf replied, “That depends on whether he means to behave himself.” He now looked up, an odd smile on his lips. “Truly exhilarating down here, would you not agree? Everything but a moment away. I cannot imagine that you would want to miss it, but that, of course, is up to you. For the time being.”

  Xander said nothing. “I could put him with the other one,” suggested Paolo. “Let him think about it.”

  Lundsdorf slowly began to nod. “Yes. Excellent. He started to move off, then turned back to Xander. “Use the time wisely.”

  Several mazelike corridors later, Xander found himself in a darkened room, enough light to make out a figure in the far corner.

  Silence. Then a voice. “You must be Jaspers.”

  “Yes,” he answered, still trying to gain his eyes. “Who—”

  “Stein. Bob Stein. Today must be the open house.”

  The outline of a bed off to the left began to come clear. “I don’t understand,” said Xander.

  Stein moved away from the wall, toward the bed. A moment later, he pulled back the sheet. “This one arrived about half an hour ago.”

  Xander stepped slowly to the bed and stared at the face. A lifeless Jonas Tieg peered up at him.

  The house went black. Toby turned to Sarah, but she was already crouching her way to the near wall, signaling for him to stay where he was. They both knew this had not been part of the plan. Silently, back flat against the wall, she inched closer to the window; then, raising her head just above the sill, she peered into the darkness. Nothing. Toby was suddenly by her side.

  “What the hell is going on?” he whispered.

  “Quiet!” she said, not bothering to explain. Instead, she watched as a mist began to collect on the inside pane, thousands of gray specks frosting the glass. It took her less than a second to realize what was happening. Gas. Sarah reached for her gun so as to shatter the window, only to stop as the sound of a motor broke through the silence. Before she could react, a steel door, the height of the window, began to slide across the sill. It was only then that she spotted the narrow runner guiding the door to the far wall. Turning to Toby, she grabbed the pack, hunting for the canisters of liquid Mace she had placed inside less than two hours ago. The size of beer cans, the canisters were pressurized and made of reinforced metal, dense enough to slow the door’s progress. She pulled out the three cans and positioned them lengthwise on the sill. She then removed two gas masks from the pack.

  “Put this on!” she ordered. Hers was already in place when the sliding door met the first canister, the door’s motor grinding more angrily, her gun smashing into the glass an instant later, a wave of gray smoke pouring out as she hoisted herself to the ledge and forced her way through the shards of glass. She then reached out and pulled Toby to the sill as the first canister began to let off a high-pitched squeal, the sound of imminent explosion. Without prompting, Toby tossed the pack through and dove in, his pants leg ripping on an errant piece of glass. Sarah yanked him free as the strain on the can reached critical, both of them falling into the room before the can exploded. A moment later, the other two canisters spun harmlessly from their perch as the steel door slid shut against the wall.

  A harsh residue of gas hung in the air, biting at their unprotected skin, both of them quick to pull their turtlenecks higher on their cheeks. Sarah found a flashlight in her pack and flicked it on, watching as a thin beam cut through the dusted air. The room seemed to shimmer, tiny flecks of moisture spinning from the ceiling in strands of fine wire. She handed the pack to Toby and pulled her gun from its holster. Without a sound, she eased the door open. The hallway stood dark and empty, a heavy mist settling on its wooden floor. Sarah darted out, stopping some twenty feet down in front of a second door; she motioned for Toby to stay back. She reached for the handle.

  From nowhere, an arm reached out and grabbed her gun, the strength of the grip enough to pull her into the room. Her flashlight streaked to a distant wall; someho
w, she managed to hold on to the weapon, discharging two bursts in the direction of her assailant. The shots flew wild as a figure appeared out of the darkness, its massive frame outlined in a strange glow.

  “Don’t shoot, Toby!” the command echoed in her mask. It was O’Connell. Sarah peered around the Irishman and saw Toby kneeling in the doorway, his gun raised. Two other men from the team now appeared, one quick to take the gun and place it in Toby’s holster. The other signaled all was clear. Within a minute, all five were moving along the corridor, the point man raising his hand as they approached an archway, the living room beyond. Inside, three others waited. The gas, Sarah realized, had been a blessing in disguise. It had forced Eisenreich to take shelter below.

  “Trace the corridors for anything that might get us downstairs. Let’s be quick about it, lads.” Turning to Sarah, O’Connell added, “You and Toby stay here.” Sarah watched as the five men disappeared through the various archways. Three minutes later, a voice broke the silence.

  “We have an elevator in the eastern corridor. Steel door. Sealed. We also have six or seven people who didn’t quite make it out before the gas.”

  “Move them,” it was O’Connell, “but don’t touch the elevator. We’ll be right there.”

  Lundsdorf sat at a desk, the area slightly elevated, though tucked under the balcony and secured behind thick glass walls, his eyes closed, his hands folded gently in his lap. A message flashed across the large screen. Five minutes to code initialization. Votapek sat at a smaller desk to Lundsdorf’s left, far less comfortable amid the preparations.

  “And if they do find a way through?”

  “They will not,” answered Lundsdorf. “There a re no other ways through, except for the elevator, and that has been disconnected and sealed.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Even if they do come, Anton, they will be too late.” A curious smile spread across his lips as his eyes opened. “It is quite possible that both you and I will be killed. Oh, yes. It is often the response of the violent to lash out when they are forced to recognize their own failure.” He turned to Votapek. “And yet they would not touch Xander. They would save him”—the smile grew wide—“thus forcing him to witness the chaos to come. Only then would he be granted his treasured choice: watch a world destroy itself, or make use of the structure I have set in place. Ironic, no? By saving him, it is they who will have made the choice for him. In the end, he will not be able to deny the force of the manuscript. This I know, Anton. And for this I am willing to die.” Votapek could only nod, unable to find the words. Lundsdorf glanced at the clock on the wall. “Four minutes before the final codes.” He looked back at Votapek. “Mark my words. Xander will thank me. One day, he will thank me.”