The Overseer (29 page)

Enough from a miserly brain that liked to hoard the discoveries of the subconscious ninety-seven.

 

Xander rubbed the back of his neck, the touch of icy fingers to tender skin a jolt to his system. His hands had always been that way, reduced to frozen pincers when lost in the turning and scribbling of pages. The dim glow of the lounge’s overhead lights was making the notes a bit difficult to read, more so given Xander’s impatience to board Lufthansa 202, the 5:35 flight to Frankfurt. He was tired, but satisfied, having managed all but two of the twenty-four pages, the Italian quite readable.

The first volume of the manuscript had come together far more quickly than he had initially thought, Feric granting him an hour before shuttling them off to Heathrow. At first, he had simply given himself over to the novelty of discovery, the excitement of first view, but his enthusiasm had been short-lived. Had there been nothing to distract him from the easy fascination of scholarly analysis, he might have enjoyed the reading. But his thoughts returned again and again to Votapek, Tieg, Sedgewick—the men who meant to violate the theory by channeling it into practice. It was all too easy to see how Washington had been merely a dry run, a twentieth-century extrapolation of a sixteenth-century theory. No longer a missing link in the neat canon of political thought,
On Supremacy
stood apart as a manual of manipulation and dominance, its modern ambition coloring every page with a dark reality that corrupted Eisenreich’s daring and savvy.

Once or twice, Xander had allowed himself to look beyond the theory to the man. And each time, he had been forced to admit that there was something compelling, a certainty in the way the monk had organized his ideas. As if he truly believed it was God’s will that he set it to paper. Xander had to hope that no such divine inspiration was driving the most recent trio of disciples.

More troubling, though, was the reference to a fourth man, someone behind the others—someone who pulled the strings. What he read made Xander all the more wary, not just for himself, but for Sarah. He knew she had stepped into something more dangerous, more immediate than either of them had imagined.
“Don’t worr y about me.”
He was finding it more and more difficult to do.

“They are opening the gate,” piped in Feric. “Put the papers—”

“I know … put them away.” Xander had heard the phrase perhaps half a dozen times in the last hour, Feric insistent that the manuscript remain out of sight. So be it.

“I hope they have something other than the peanuts,” mumbled Feric as the two men joined the line for boarding. “Very messy. Pretzels are so much neater.”

N
EW
Y
ORK
, M
ARCH
4, 12:18
P.M.
The view from the Brooklyn Bridge was splendid, lower Manhattan rising in clipped angles from the concrete. Traffic was light, the single-lane detour causing only minor delays. Behind the cones, three men worked with purpose on a huge tear in the tarmac, an emergency repair before rush hour. Strangely enough, the men had anticipated the call. Perhaps it was because they had been the ones to create the gash two hours earlier—a small device dropped from a
speeding
car. Two of the men had been with road repair for over three months. Somehow, their schedules had made them the most logical choice for the bridge maintenance. The last of the trio had flown in this morning.
Demolitions
expert.

They had carved out a neat sliver of road—four feet wide, two feet long—with a two-inch gulley running from it to the center of the bridge. No more than six inches deep, the hole now held four briquettes and a tiny black box, a rubber antenna stretching from its side to the surface. The
gulley
oozed with a yellow liquid resin, already beginning to gel. Slowly, the men began to spread a thick mixture of tar and gravel over everything, careful to keep the antenna flat along the rising surface. Within ten
minutes
, they had completed the repairs, only a tiny nub of antenna—nestled just below the guardrail—evidence of their work.

The demolitions man picked up his bag and started for the car parked at the entrance to the bridge. He knew it would be a long day. After all, Manhattan had so many bridges and tunnels in need of such
repairs
.

 

They had changed planes somewhere in the Carolinas for the hop to Votapek’s island, a double-prop aircraft fitted with water skis that now bounced along the surf toward the waiting pier. The single house, flat and wide along the bluff, seemed to rise from the rocks as the plane coasted in. A gentle rap of metal on wood told all that they had come to the end of their journey; thick air invaded the cabin as the door opened, a peach swath of sun angling its way onto the curtain that separated passengers from pilot. Once outside, the rocking of the dock helped to propel the three arrivals along, the even roll of wood and water sending them from side to side. Above, a steep incline of jagged rock climbed toward a grass plain that spread like thick swirling carpet in front of the house. The only access, a funicular that waited to the left at the end of the dock.

It was close quarters on the ride up, sounds of cable straining under the weight. As the car jolted to a stop, the smaller of the two men slid back the glass-paneled door and directed Sarah toward a gravel path. The house, perhaps thirty feet back from the cliff, eyed her silently as she moved along the narrow strip that seemed unwilling to break either in or out, content in its mindless circularity. As the front of the house disappeared to her left, an open gazebo came into view, a man-made jetty extending beyond the cliff.

There, between two far columns, stood a lone figure, his narrow
shoulders
rigid as he peered out at a tranquil sea. He turned. His eyes seemed to convey a certain restraint, his body unnaturally stiff as he moved to greet her. He was a far cry from the Anton Votapek Sarah had expected.

“Good evening, Ms. Carter,” he said, pointing a wiry hand toward the two floral-print chairs—thick plastic with overstuffed backs—that stood on either side of a small metalwork table. Sarah noticed a pitcher and two glasses at the ready. “Won’t you have a seat?” he asked.

She nodded and moved to the chairs.
Carter
, she thought.
He must have tapped the phone when I called Alison.
A second man appeared and pulled the seat out for her; she sat as he retreated to a shadowed corner. Votapek remained standing, clearly uncomfortable with the preliminary
introductions
. His suit and tie, though out of place in the tropical surroundings, were perfect for his slight frame, a body ill-designed for polo shirts and Bermuda shorts. She could tell he disliked the scrutiny. “I trust the trip wasn’t too difficult?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

“A bit unexpected, I would imagine.”

“The location perhaps.” Sarah settled into the chair. “We needed to meet. Where and how weren’t all that important.”

He stared at her; he had not anticipated her candor. “I see.” He sat and poured himself a tall glass of the lemonade. “Can I offer you some?”

“I’ve had my fill for the day,” she replied.

“Yes, of course.” He placed the pitcher on the table and sat back,
content
to gaze out at the clouds. “Alison is very fond of lemonade. Mine is a bit sweeter.”

“I’m sure you didn’t bring me all this way—”

“True,” he broke in, his tone haltingly casual. “I brought you here because … I’m somewhat concerned about your visit with Ms. Krogh.”

“Somewhat?” Sarah replied. “You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble for something you’re only
somewhat
concerned about.”

“Perhaps,” he answered, adjusting his jacket. “Perhaps more than that.”

“As I recall, you were far more than only
somewhat
concerned during our first encounter in New York. Granted, it’s more pleasant here, but I’m sure the message is the same.”

Votapek turned to her, a creasing of his brow. “Excuse me?”

“Your
first
warning,” she answered, “in the alley. I trust those men have recovered.”

He continued to stare at her. “You have me at a loss, Ms. Carter.”

Sarah returned the stare; Votapek looked genuinely perplexed. “And I suppose you’re equally unaware of events in Florence.”

His expression had not changed. “Florence? … Is this leading somewhere?”

Again, she waited. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

He blinked several times. “None.” He brought the glass to his lips.

Sarah watched his movements; they remained stiff, but no more so than before. She had learned long ago to detect even the smallest traces of deception—the subtle shift in the eyes, in the choice of words, even in the angle of the body. But Votapek displayed none of the telltale signs. It was as if he truly knew nothing of her two run-ins with Eisenreich. “I find that hard to believe,” she said, suddenly far more wary.

“What you believe is not my concern. Nor is your private life.”

“So you flew me down here—”

“I’ve told you why I brought you here,” he continued, his gaze far more pointed as he turned to her, an impatience in his voice. “I’m interested in Ms. Krogh. I’ll ask again—
how
did you find her?”

Sarah had to make sense of the last three minutes. Florence, Pescatore, New York—could they actually mean
nothing
to him? Could he possibly …

Out of the loop.
The phrase broke through, a flash of the subconscious ninety-seven to lend order to the questions stumbling through her mind.
Out of the loop.
A lifetime ago, she had described herself in the same way in order to distance herself, remain a free spirit disentangled from structures and systems.
Amman
. An operative secure only when autonomous. For Votapek, though, it made no sense. He was a vital part of the Eisenreich structure. Separation would only blur his focus; lack of communication would only open him to attack. So how was it that he could remain unaware of the mad scramble that had been the last week of her life?
How?

The man in the shadows shifted, a stretching of shoulders that drew her attention. He had a strong upper body, thick neck, though his head seemed too small for his large frame. Oddly serene, he stood off to the side,
oblivious
to the cat-and-mouse game playing out in front of him. The perfect disciple, she thought. The perfect tool.

Sarah glanced back at her host, his lips pursed at his glass. And in that look, instinct and fact joined together to offer one resounding answer: Votapek was no different from the man in the shadows. In that instant, Sarah saw the world of Eisenreich as it was, as it
had
to be: designed to keep each man insulated and thus protected. Tieg, Sedgewick, and Votapek. Men who were isolated; men unaware. Votapek didn’t know about New York or Florence because he didn’t
have
to know. Someone else had managed that.