The Overseer (30 page)

It was a weakness she could exploit.

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific than that,” she said, far more casual than only moments before.

 

Feric was finishing off his third bag of pretzels, a cup of beer perched at the edge of his tray as his fingers dug angrily into the helpless little bag.

“The rest is a bit more complex,” said Xander, nibbling at some cheese.

“Then simplify.” Feric wet his fingers and dabbed at the crumbs on the tray. “Anyone can make something complex, Doctor. The mark of real genius is to make the complex simple.” He swallowed.

“I suppose. But I’m no—”

“The
mark
of genius,” Feric added, “not genius itself.”

Xander smiled. Six minutes later, he summed up as best he could. “It’s a clever theory. He’s not describing a cabal of political conspirators; he’s
talking
about mass manipulation of the three dominant spheres within the state—the political, the economic, and the social. Considering how well he understands state structure, it goes a good deal beyond simple deception.”

“Spheres? I don’t follow.”

“He’s rethinking the way states are put together,” Xander explained. “In the sixteenth century, the state was discussed in terms of its
political
role. Eisenreich expands that definition and includes the other two spheres as equal partners. That idea doesn’t really get developed for another three hundred years. Even then, the idea of
controlling
the spheres is beyond most people. The breakthrough with Eisenreich is that he recognizes that to control the state, the leadership has to control each sphere
independently
. One man to one sphere. And he takes the word
independently very
seriously. They stay virtually unconcerned with the goings-on in the other spheres. Theoretically, they remain blissfully unaware of one another.”

“But that would only create confusion,” said Feric.

“That’s what makes it so clever,” smiled Xander.

N
EW
O
RLEANS
, M
ARCH
4, 11:35
A.M
.
Pushing off from the underwater pilaster, the young disciple of Eisenreich—scuba equipment having replaced the coveralls from his jaunt to Dulles just over a week ago—swam to the far side of the pier and attached the explosives to a
shallow
girder. As he had done with the previous thirty-eight packages placed throughout the underbelly of the industrial wharf, he affixed a small black box to its side; a light flashed green, then yellow. A moment later, the
detonator
on his belt flashed red. The relay was secured, the frequency established. He then checked the gauge of his air tank—sixteen minutes. Plenty of time to place the remaining four devices and calibrate their frequencies. He flipped on his side and dove deep toward the next pier.

He did not, however, take into account the sudden roll of the current, the wake from a ship somewhere above that threw him against the pier’s jagged ridge. His air tank was the first to hit, the immediate squeal of
puncture
echoing within the water. A moment later, a second wave slammed him into the cement and steel, again his tank taking the full force of impact. The squeal now turned to a groan, the loss of air instantaneous. More
troubling
, though, was the release of pressure that sent a burst of water to the surface, a signal to draw the attention of anyone above.

He had no choice, though. He would have to surface.

Releasing the tank from his shoulders, he watched as it sank, a moment later the pack in his hands following, four sets of explosives drifting
aimlessly
to the deep. He then glanced up to the surface. The reflection of a lone figure undulated in the water above. His only choice was the pocket of air beneath the pier. Slipping through the girders, he made his way up, breaking the surface without a sound. He stifled his breath. And listened.

He would wait for the dark before venturing out.

 

“No,” Votapek answered, no less on edge. “I would like to know how you found Alison. I would also like to know why you made up all that rubbish about my sending you to talk with her. Naturally, Alison believed you.”

“I mentioned your name,” Sarah said as she reached for the lemonade, “because I knew it was the only way she’d see me.”

“And how did you know that?”

Sarah stopped pouring. “It’s what I’m paid to know, Mr. Votapek.”

“I see,” he answered. “And who pays you to know such things?” He placed his glass on the table. “The
government
?”

Sarah allowed herself a smile as she shook her head. “The government couldn’t afford my services.”

“‘Couldn’t afford …’” He began to press. “How did you get that number?”

“How?” she said softly, knowing it was time to offer a glimmer of the truth. “It comes from a list,” she continued, her glass now finding the table, “a list that names fourteen children, ten of whom are dead.” She paused. “Actually
twelve
of whom are dead. The last two are recently deceased.” She looked directly at him. “But you knew that, Mr. Votapek, didn’t you?”

Far more wary, he answered, “Again, you have me at a loss, Ms. Carter.”

“I’m sure I don’t, Mr. Votapek.”

He waited before speaking. “Clearly, you a re with the government,
otherwise
, how would you have that information?”

“Let’s not be naïve. Do you think anyone in Washington has any idea who Grant and Eggart are? Or how the vice president is connected to all of this?” Again she paused, waiting to see the concern register in his eyes. “If they did, you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

His jaw tensed. “Those files … were sealed.”

“True,” she answered, “but they aren’t the only source of information, are they?” A mode of attack began to form in her mind. Before he could answer, she added, “The files never mentioned Brainbrook, Colorado, or Winamet, Texas, yet we both know that they’re far more interesting
locations
than Tempsten, New York.” She let the words settle before
continuing
. “How did I get the number, Mr. Votapek? I think that’s something you already know.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “No one would have given you that information.”

“Then how do you explain my having it?”

Votapek began to speak, then stopped.

“Don’t let that concern you,” she said, eager to discover how isolated he was. “What
should
concern you,” she added, reaching into her bag and pulling out Alison’s videotape, “is this.”

Again, Votapek said nothing.

“It’s a tape that makes clear why Brainbrook, Winamet, and several other sites are so important. A tape, Mr. Votapek, that charts a rather interesting history. You’re familiar with the tape, aren’t you?” She waited for him to nod. “Certain people want to know why Alison Krogh had a copy of it.”

Votapek’s eyes grew wide, a look of disbelief etched across his face.

“This tape,” Sarah continued, placing it in her bag, “shouldn’t have been in Ms. Krogh’s hands at all. She should never have had access to a
Prefect Release.
” She paused. “From a certain perspective, it looks very sloppy.”

“‘From a …’” his eyes shot up to her. “That tape was secured. I don’t know how—” He stopped. “Whose perspective are we talking about?”

“Another question for which I’m sure you have an answer.” Sarah glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the second man. “I think it would be best to leave it at that.”

Votapek stared at her. What had been apprehension at first now
bordered
on distraction. She had struck a nerve; the hint of self-doubt, his shoulders slow to settle on the soft cushion of the chair. Almost to himself, he asked, “Alison had a tape?” He then turned, his eyes on Sarah, his voice flat as he spoke. “That will be all, Thomas.” Without hesitation, the second man started off along the gravel path; a moment later, Votapek stood and walked toward the lip of the gazebo. He stared at the water below, waiting for the man’s footsteps to fade, then turned. “Who are you, Ms. Carter?”

 

“Why?” asked Feric. “Such realms would inevitably come into conflict. You would have the worst of the old Soviet empire.”

“
Theoretically
,” said Xander. “Unless one man stands behind the three
prefects
—Eisenreich’s term for the heads of each sphere—and monitors them. That figure is his
overseer
. The basic structure looks a little like this.” Xander picked up three crackers and a roll and placed them on the edge of his tray. “Let’s say the three crackers are the prefects. To you and me, they seem totally separate. The roll,” which he held about six inches above the tray, “coordinates the crackers without letting on that all four are actually working together. In other words, all we see are the three crackers, and we believe they’re autonomous. They themselves know that they’re
not
, but they have little idea what’s going on in the other spheres. That’s where the roll comes in, hovering above to make sure everything else runs smoothly.” He flipped to a page in the stack and read. “‘In this way, republican virtue will blanket the government because power will seem divided among the many. The neat appearance of checks and balances … will satisfy the whim of the people.’”

“How wonderful.”

“That division,” added Xander, “ties in perfectly with what Eisenreich sees as the state’s need to alter its appearance from time to time.”

“Explain.”

“Well, depending on what the people want at a given time—democracy, aristocracy, or even tyranny—one of the spheres asserts itself to appease that whim. The structure never changes, just the surface. So, you have a core group—the prefects—who determine policy within their spheres. You have one figure outside their spheres—the
overseer
—who makes sure that the prefects don’t step on one another’s toes. Meanwhile, the people are convinced that they’re
not
being manipulated, because the three spheres appear to be acting independently. The people become happy dupes, and the four boys at the top run the show, taking the state in whatever direction they want.” A look of concern crept across his face. “If the last few chapter titles are any indication, that direction is not terribly inviting.”