The Overseer (17 page)

Her comment caught him completely off guard. After a very long moment, he stammered, “I … I row.”

“That would explain the shoulders.”

He suddenly felt very warm. Without turning to her, and trying to handle the buttons as quickly as he could, he continued. “I have one of those machines … in my apartment…. A rowing machine.” He tucked the shirt into his pants with surprising speed, given his discomfort, and made his way behind the sofa, heading to the sink. “I try to use it every day … the … rowing machine.”

“I can see that.” She was seated again, a smile on her face. Xander was finding it difficult to meet her gaze.

For no apparent reason, he turned on the faucet and began to wash his hands. “Yes, well … the shoulder is feeling much better.” And with that, he rinsed off his hands, dabbed them lightly on the remaining towel at the basin, and turned to Sarah, trying his best at a smile. “Dinner?”

“Yes.” She looked at him and then reached across to the menu in the middle of the glass table. “It looks as though they have a nice selection.”

“Oh.” Xander was unsure for a moment. “I thought we—”

“Given the way things have gone today—for both of us—I think it’d be smarter to eat in. Just to play it safe.”

He nodded awkwardly. “Right. That seems … right.”

“Plus, it’ll give you a chance to tell me what you think about those files before we go and see Pescatore tomorrow.” She remained focused on the menu, though her words seemed to jar Xander from his momentary stupor.

“Carlo,” he uttered. “You know, he wasn’t in Milan.”

Sarah looked up, all signs of the smile gone. “Does that surprise you?”

“It didn’t.” Xander sat down next to her.

“But it does now.”

“Yes”—he nodded, more to himself than to her—“I suppose it does.”

C
HICAGO,
M
ARCH
2, 12:47
P.M.
The lunch-hour crowds filled the streets. Martin Chapmann was deep in conversation with his young associate, debating grain’s solvency between bites of a chili dog. Tim Gillespie was wiping his chin with a napkin as they walked.

“Then the computers are fucked, Marty. I’m telling you, the surge over the last two weeks could be based on a lot of high-risk bets—farmers selling off reserve stock at inflated prices…. Look, I don’t think I have to explain basic finance—if grain doesn’t go that way—”

“You think we’ll have a panic on our hands. Come on, Tim.”

“Well then, humor me, Marty. Let me trace the numbers, see where the positions are coming from. Worst-case scenario, I waste an afternoon.”

“You really think—”

“I’ve already got the computer doing an initial search. Two hours max—”

A woman momentarily brushed by the two men, inadvertently scraping the hand of the young analyst with her bracelet. Gillespie hardly felt the pinprick as the woman turned her head to apologize, an instant’s recognition from Chapmann as she continued down the street.

“Then again,” joked Gillespie, “I could always spend two hours with her.” Laughing, he turned back to Chapmann and began to walk. They had moved no more than ten feet when the younger man stopped. Chapmann saw the smile vanish from his face, Gillespie’s expression one of confusion, disorientation. For a moment, he tried to blink it away. He grabbed on to Chapmann, who continued to watch as the analyst’s face suddenly contorted in a wild spasm. A few seconds later, his body collapsed to the ground. Chapmann screamed for a doctor as he knelt by his friend.

But he knew it would make little difference. An aneurysm to the brain was fatal—a sudden, inexplicable, though entirely plausible cause of death.

 

The early-afternoon sun glistened on the rolling waves, giving a strangely warming sheen to the frigid air on the Cape Cod beach. The sand, powdered with morning snow, parted easily under the feet of Anton Votapek, his wiry five-foot-seven frame wrapped in a long leather coat. He held his hands at his back, his shoulders hunched slightly forward as he trod just out of reach of the tide. His gait was slow, not so much because of the sand or snow but for the figure at his side, who was doing his best to keep up on the precarious terrain. The older man was on a slight incline, making the two roughly the same size as they sauntered along—tightly bundled bodies, each in Russian hat and walking boots, thoroughly isolated on the long stretch of shoreline. Three other men stood around a car perhaps a half mile away, alone in a parking area long abandoned by the summer crowds. The engine was running.

“As usual, they were not told that I was meeting with you,” rasped the older man, his breath short from the demands of the walk.

“Probably best,” nodded Votapek as he spoke. “Jonas and Larry have their hands full with the first trial. The economic phase should begin—”

“Do not concern yourself with such things, Anton.” There was a hint of reproach in the tone. “Men must see to their own tasks.” A phrase he had heard all too often. “Yours are the
children
. Remember this. Not the first trial.” He smiled, the lesson over. “Still, you are right. Washington was remarkable. It sets the stage perfectly.”

The accent, though almost entirely Americanized, hung upon the words and reminded Votapek of his earliest days with the man. Days spent expunging any traces of his own accent so that he could assume his place in a new world, a new society, free from the stigma of his past. America. He had embraced it then and had lost none of his fervor in the intervening years.

The problem was that things had gone terribly wrong. Yes, the war had been won, the sense of expectation—of real promise—profound. “But
fear had infested activism, indulgence had replaced direction, and empathy had diluted everything”
—more words from a book he had seen only once. As a young man, Votapek had watched as Cold War fixations had drained America of its very spirit. The result, faddism. No agendas, no claims to a future, because no one had been willing to muddy his hands, run the risk of using power to ignite real passion and commitment. Everything had become worthy of pursuit and thus nothing had been achieved. That brave new world, the society that had offered him such promise, had become nothing more than a breeding ground for every eclectic whim a people could foist upon itself. That wasn’t
use
of power. It was an
affront
to it. And Anton Votapek had been groomed to treat power with greater respect. People needed to be taught, guided. They needed a moral vision. That was what the man at his arm had taught him all those years ago.

“The word from Montana is that everything with the children has returned to normal,” Votapek added.

“As we knew it would. Thirty years, and only six such episodes. We have been most fortunate. It is a testament to your leadership.”

Votapek nodded, then spoke. “Still … I should have anticipated the problem.” There was a certain nervous quality to his voice. “We’ve had similar rumblings at seven or eight of the other sites, but we’ve managed to find ways to avoid … such extreme measures.”

“You question the method?” asked the old man.

“No. Of course not. It’s just … I should have been better prepared—”

“You are afraid of repeating your errors.”

The younger man nodded.

“How many times do I need to tell you, it was not yours alone.” The old man looked at his onetime pupil, a warmth in his eyes. “It could not have been. Those children were ill-adjusted, our program ill-designed to cultivate the right sort of passion without fostering a certain element of violence. Hatred is a powerful tool, Anton. More powerful than any of us understood. We needed time to learn how to control it. You cannot blame yourself for a certain level of … naïveté all those years ago.”

Votapek remained silent.

“Anton, this sense of inadequacy, is it a result of the recent episode,” he paused before adding, “or is it because it reminds you of the girl?”

Votapek took a moment before answering. “You mean Alison.”

The old man stopped. “Yes, Alison.” The warmth had disappeared from his eyes. “We have been through this too many times, and I will not hear of it again. Things are too far along for her to play on your mind. It was
thirty
years ago. You have done all that you can for her.” He patted Votapek on the arm. “We should turn back. It is getting a bit cold for me.” The old man clutched at the outstretched arm as the two retraced their way through the sand and snow. “The children, Anton. Think only of the children.”

 

Sarah drew back the drapes, momentarily stunned by the sunlight streaming off the balcony. Sleep still heavy in her eyes, she pressed her cheek against the icy pane of glass to jolt herself awake. She had been to Florence only once before—as a student—and had been more intrigued by the young Italian boys, who had made her feel so welcome, than by the splendor of the city. Now, staring to her left, she watched as the sun spread across the ribbed dome of the cathedral, the tourists already thick within the open court of its square.

Pulling herself away, she shuffled toward the bedroom and knocked on the door to see if Jaspers was up. Given his injuries, she had thought it only fair he get the bed. It had taken considerable effort to convince him—at nearly two in the morning—that she would be far more comfortable on the sofa. Lundsdorf’s etiquette aside, Xander had finally conceded, due in part to fatigue, but more to Sarah’s reference to possible unwanted guests in the middle of the night. Who better than she as the front line of defense? Of course, she had been kidding, but her suggestion had been just enough to break his resolve. The smile on her face now recalled his momentary look of panic.

She knocked again, surprised by the lack of response.

“Looking for me?” Sarah spun to her right to see him, tray in hand, walking through the front door. She pulled the blanket tighter around her waist. “I bring coffee and croissants.”

“I didn’t hear you get up.”

“I’m amazed,” a broad smile on his face as he moved to the table. “But there you were, fast asleep, when I emerged this morning. I thought it best to let you sleep.”

“I guess I needed it.” Sarah pulled the heavy chair closer to the table while Xander poured out two cups of coffee. As he did so, she noticed the thick piece of gauze lashed tightly to his wrist. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Not to worry. The concierge had all this medical stuff downstairs and was only too happy to have a chance to use it. I think he went a bit overboard. It feels absolutely fine.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“As am I.” Xander winced from the heat of his first sip. “Unfortunately, I tried to reach Carlo—from the lobby phone. No answer.”

“Maybe he hasn’t gotten to his office,” she suggested, spreading a thick spoonful of jam onto one of the croissants.

“No. He’s a workaholic. He’s usually in by seven, seven-thirty at the latest. It’s not like him.”

Sarah stood, taking her cup with her—a large piece of croissant jutting from her mouth. She pulled a few items from the bag by the bedroom door and said, “We’ll have to see. I’ll straighten myself out, and we can get going.”