The Overseer (52 page)

Xander stood motionless, aware that she was shaking, her hands held firmly under her knees, eyes locked on the edge of the bed. In his own confusion, he managed to find the words to comfort. “I won’t hurt you.”  He let the door shut, careful to keep his movement to a minimum. Alison Krogh sat rigidly, her long hair, draped in her lap, oddly caressing the barrel of the gun.

“She told me to stay here,” whispered Alison. “She said I would be safe. That they wouldn’t find me.” She suddenly looked up at him. “You won’t hurt me, will you?”

“No, I won’t hurt you.” He removed his cap and placed it on the floor as he sat, his back against the door. “Did Sarah tell you to stay here?”

She nodded her head, a single jerked motion.

Xander watched as her eyes welled up. “Has Sarah been here?” he asked.

She shook her head. “She said she would come back. And that you would come. And someone else. That’s what she said.”

“It’s just me.”

“Yes.” She now looked at him, wiping the tears away. “We’ll wait for Sarah.” She placed her hand on the gun and nodded. “We’ll turn off the lights and wait for Sarah. That’s what we’ll do.”

 

O’Connell sat at the end of the bar. He’d been nursing a double whiskey for the last ten minutes, waiting for the damn phone to ring. It was an odd sensation, anticipating the contact, a voice now no longer faceless. And yet, it felt strangely familiar. Too familiar. Seven years had evidently done little to dull his senses. Everything fit in perfectly.

Except the waiting. It always felt like a setup. The phone rang.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Stein sounded tired.

“I’ve been firing up the furnace. Getting the blood running again. You didn’t tell me how cold it could get in these woods.”

“Didn’t think I’d have to. Any sign of her?”

“None. Nor her young professor.”

“Any unusual activity at the house?” Stein’s voice conveyed a confidence O’Connell had never heard before, an authority obviously reserved for those in the field. It was a pleasant surprise.

“No. Looks like the senator is taking the time to recuperate. His ‘illness’ has prompted a few more guards on the fence at night, but I suspect that’s just an old man’s weakness showing itself. No unexpected guests, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“There will be, trust me.”

“And why are we so certain of that?”

“Because he ties in, and Sarah knows it. Schenten hasn’t taken a sick leave in nearly thirty years. Why now?”

“Setup?”

“That’s why you need to spend a few more nights in the cold, Gael. Make sure they’re not that clever.”

“And then what? Bring her in?”

“I don’t know.” It was an honest admission. “I don’t know what she has. I don’t know what
either
of them have, if Jaspers is even back in the country. The Germans lost him. They’re convinced he didn’t get out, or at least not to the States. Our young professor has a hell of an instinct for survival.”

“That is if he hasn’t been given up already.”

“Keep your distance. If we move too fast, we could give them both up.”

“If the boy’s not dead, my guess is that he soon will be.”

“Don’t count on it. He’s obviously got something they want.”

“So how long do I keep watch?”

“The program’s changed,” said Stein. “Pritchard’s dead.”

There was a pause on the line before O’Connell answered. “That doesn’t answer my question. How long?”

“Just keep watch. Timing’s always been one of your stronger points.”

 

It was almost an hour later when the beams from a pair of headlights swept across the far wall. The woman remained motionless, unaware, save for a hand gently stroking the barrel of the gun. Xander listened as the car pulled up outside the room; a moment later, the light gone, the engine silent. He began to inch his way to the far corner. Footsteps followed, the sound of a key in the lock, all the while the woman staring into an unseen distance. He stood, his body masked in darkness; she looked up, the gun now gripped tightly in her hands as the door opened.

In shadowed profile, Sarah stepped into the room.

“Hello, Alison.” Her voice was hushed. “You can put the gun down.”

Slowly, the woman lowered the barrel to the carpet, her expression unchanged. “Hello, Sarah. I’m glad you came back.” Xander watched as Sarah closed the door, stepped to the night table, and flicked on the lamp. Only then did she see him, her eyes distant at first. For a moment, they stared at each other, he squinting against the light, both unable to speak.

“You look tired,” she said, breaking the silence. Xander nodded. She remained by the bed, tossing her bags on the blanket. She began to fumble with her hair. “Tired … but well.”

Again, he nodded. “You, too. … Blond, tanned. That’s a change.” She smiled, and, for the briefest of moments, he thought he sensed—perhaps
wanted
to sense—something beneath the self-control, a
tenderness
. It forced him to stop, to let his guard down. “It’s good to see you, Sarah.”

“Yes.” The room became quiet again before she spoke. “I see you’ve met Alison … who must be very tired.” The woman had not taken her eyes from Sarah. “The room next door is safe,” she explained. “Would you like to sleep in there?” Alison nodded and stood, then looked at Xander.

“Thank you for waiting with me.”

Xander smiled and watched as Sarah walked her out into the rain. A few minutes later, Sarah reappeared, tossing the two sets of keys onto the bed. She closed the door and leaned up against it.

“She’ll sleep for a while. I told her everything would be all right.”

“Promise?” he asked.

Sarah smiled and let her head drop back. “I’ll do the best I can. If you’re wondering, she’s the girl who killed the boys thirty years ago. Here in Tempsten. The little girl whose name never quite made it to the papers.”

Xander tried to respond but could only shake his head.

“Yes,” she agreed. “I found her yesterday. Set her up here. They’ve kept her in town for some reason. Probably think she’s harmless.” She looked at him. “She isn’t. Strangely enough, she thinks Votapek’s her father.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“No, that’s who Tieg thinks
he
is.” She pushed off from the door and headed for the bathroom. “We have a lot of catching up to do.” She stopped before disappearing. “Where’s Feric?” The question caught
Xander
off guard. Somehow, he had managed to forget. He stared at her for an instant, an instant too long.

“When?” she asked.

It took him a moment to answer. “Outside of Frankfurt … he saved—”

She nodded, another twinge of tenderness in her eyes. She held his gaze for a moment and then slipped out of the room.

“I’m sorry.” It was all he could offer. “I wouldn’t have found the manuscript without him. He was …”

She reemerged, a towel in her hands. “Yes, he was.” Again they stared at each other. After several long moments, she tossed the towel to the chair and asked, “Does it tie any of this together?”

“Tie … Oh, the manuscript. Yes. Yes, it does.” Xander stepped to the bed and pulled the manila envelope from the backpack. Handing the
package
across to her, he said, “I think that’s what you want.”

They talked for nearly an hour, he first, recounting everything that had happened since Florence—the madness at the Institute, the insanity at Ganz’s, the train, Feric’s death, every minor detail so that she could
understand
. Through it all, he spoke with a strange objectivity, as if relaying a long-forgotten history he himself had never witnessed. Sarah sensed the detachment, heard the distance in his voice, but said nothing. Only once did she see the pain beyond it. Only once did he let her in.

“You know, he seemed so light in my arms. … I don’t know why. Doesn’t really make sense, but I remember the sun being very hot, almost scorching my cheeks. … Freezing, early morning, sun barely above the trees, and yet all I could feel was that hot sun, and how light Feric was in my arms.” He shook his head. “I dropped him, you know. Just … let him go. That’s what he said I should do. Strange, but it didn’t feel all that
different
without him.” His voice seemed to trail off. “I don’t think I moved after that. I think I just stood out there … all the way to Frankfurt.” He looked over at her. “Maybe not. I don’t really remember.”

Thereafter, he spoke with little feeling. He ran through the rest of the story, focused on the hours he had spent with the books, the pieces that had begun to fall into place. Only when he mentioned the schedule did he seem to regain himself.

“And you think they have one?” asked Sarah.

“It would make the most sense. If they’ve followed the manuscript to this point, they’ll have concocted something that spells out—with dates, locations, and methods—how they intend to create the chaos beyond the first trial. All we have to do is find that schedule and use the information in it to pull the rug out from under them.”

“You mean connecting them to Rosenberg and the Nazis.”

“Trust me, the media’s the media. They’ll do the damage.”

“If they have the time.”

Xander looked at her. “I don’t understand.”

“Less than a week,” she answered.

“What?”

“Less than a week,” she repeated, “until they get that chance. That’s what Tieg said.”

“
What
?” His eyes went wide. “Less than a
week
? That doesn’t make any sense. The manuscript talks in terms of
months
. That would mean—”

“Yes,” she added, “that every
thing
and every
one
is in place. They’re ready to push the buttons.”

“It’s
supposed
to be months. They’d—” He stopped and looked at her. “Oh God.
How
could I have been so stupid? We do things today in a few hours that would have taken Eisenreich weeks, months. …” He took the envelope from her and pulled out the pages he had written that afternoon. “If it’s that quick, I don’t know if this will be of any use.”

“This?” she asked. “You mean this isn’t the manuscript?”

“It’s something that goes a good deal beyond it.”

He began to explain, she leafing through the pages with him as he tried to pinpoint the areas where she could give him the detail he needed—
they
needed. Soon, it was she who was instructing, recalling the documents she had taken from Justice, the violent history of the Learning Center with its esteemed graduates Pembroke, Grant, and Eggart—the latter two, she reminded him, conspicuous in the recent killing of the Dutch diplomats. He listened with wide eyes, amazed at the names and events she was bringing together. She recounted her first meeting with Alison, the frightened woman who remained the only real link to a devastating past, but who could no more recall her part in the death of the two boys than relieve herself of the guilt she kept tucked deep within. Sarah then told him of her visit to Votapek, the first hint that the men of Eisenreich were vulnerable, dinner at Tieg’s, the wild diatribes on conquest, eugenics, power. She even told him about Pritchard, the Committee, hinted at her own involvement to underscore the full extent of Eisenreich’s grasp. And finally, she gave him Schenten.

“It’s why I came back here,” she said. “It’s where I can bring this to a close.”

“Bring this to a close—how?” She didn’t answer. “I see.”

“You see,” she repeated. “Do you really?” She stood and moved away from him. “What do you want me to say? I’d found the linchpin. You wouldn’t need the connection to Rosenberg. Cut off the head and kill the beast.” He said nothing. She turned to him. “Does it surprise you? Does it fail on the erudition scale—no footnotes, no cross-references? Well, I’m sorry, but now I know it’s why I was chosen. Why they wanted me in the field in the first place.” She paused. “I kill—that’s what I do. It’s not what you do.”

“That’s
not
why they chose you.” Xander stood and moved to her. “This Pritchard—he wanted something, you said so yourself. He didn’t think—”

“
Pritchard?
Pritchard had nothing—”