The Overseer (39 page)

“I knew that long before I had the pleasure of Mr. Votapek’s island hospitality. The manuscript is rather explicit on the topic of chaos, so, too, I thought, on the restrictions on contact among—”

“The
manuscript
,” he cut in, “doesn’t mention anything about the grain market, but we managed that.” His tone was almost self-congratulatory. “You have to be able to read
between
the lines.”

Sarah contained her amazement.
The grain market
. In what to him was another well-timed phrase, he had revealed far more than he could possibly know. He had exposed another piece in the Eisenreich agenda to prove a point and, willingly or not, had offered final confirmation of her as a part of that process. He had
expected
her to have such information, had tossed it off casually because he believed he had nothing to hide. And why should he? She had played her part masterfully for Votapek and was doing the same for him. And yet it seemed too easy, too pat. Or was she seeing the surest sign of their weakness—the male ego desperate to flex its muscles so as to impress?

“The particulars don’t interest me,” she replied with the same even tone as before. “I was talking about the general theory.”

Sedgewick’s laugh had eased to an animated stare. “What a mystery you are, Ms. Trent. No wonder he chose you.”

“Votapek?”

Again a muted laugh, his head tilting back as he spoke. “Anton doesn’t have that kind of imagination. No, the man who …” Sedgewick stopped and looked across at her. “You call him Eisenreich, don’t you?” He waited for her reaction. When none came, he continued. “A little theatrical, but understandable. Your exact words, I believe, were, ‘I’m not being paid enough to take that sort of risk.’ Am I right?”

Sarah stared back, crafting her own smile as she answered. “You
have
been keeping tabs. Any reason I should know why?”

“Who is he, Ms. Trent?” The eyes had lost all invitation. “The man who asked so many questions about you at the airport and yet who decided not to stick around and pick you up. Who is he? I don’t much like loose ends.”

Sarah paused. “He’s unimportant—a source, a connection from my
earlier
days at State.” She let it stand at that, allowing Sedgewick to put
whatever
pieces together he thought necessary.

“Earlier days?” It was the first crack in his mask. “I didn’t realize your affiliation had ended.”

“It hasn’t. My focus has simply changed, and I’m trusting that the men for whom I work are equally unaware of that shift. The man you’re so interested in also works for them.”

“And his reason for flying all the way out here?”

“Recent events.”

“Such as?”

No subtle jabs, only instinct. “New York. An alley. They’re still trying to piece that together.”

“That was a simple case of misjudgment.” Sedgewick showed no
hesitation
in his response, as if, again, he had anticipated the topic. “I had no idea who you were. And, of course, there was Jaspers. You understand.”

I had no idea
—further confirmation that Eisenreich’s right hand knew little of what its left was doing. “I didn’t at first, no. I might have killed either man. That could have complicated things immeasurably.”

“Perhaps.”

“And Florence?”

Sedgewick paused, his eyes narrowing for only an instant, a moment of decision before speaking. “I didn’t concern myself with Florence.” His denial spoke volumes and he knew it; he
meant
it to. He wanted her to see that he had known all about Florence, every detail, that he had monitored the entire Pescatore incident—no doubt from a distance.

“Tieg,” she said, statement, not question.

“He’s very capable. And, like me, he doesn’t care for surprises.”

“So you create them instead.” He had played it openhanded; so, too, would she. “The grain market—that was … what? A clever piece of manipulation, or a statement of power?”

“Part of the process. An indication of control.”

“
Your
control. And what about the others? Or should we be preparing for a solo performance?”

Sedgewick remained unruffled by the obvious prod. “They have their areas of expertise; I have mine. Uncertainty is essential to a point, Ms. Trent, but it can become rather annoying unless one controls it. I choose to
control
the aspects of it I understand; they, the aspects they understand.”

His sense of purpose—or perhaps vision—removed all hesitation. It was one thing to make the boast, quite another to see it through, and they had each proved themselves more than capable at every turn. Controlling
uncertainty
. Chaos—to a point. Chaos—as a tool. Washington and Chicago as the blueprints. It was the boldest statement of their agenda she had yet heard, and Sedgewick seemed completely at home with its truth, so much so that he could dispel its audacity with a practiced smile.

“I thought control and uncertainty were mutually exclusive,” she said.

“Then you haven’t been doing your reading well enough.” Sedgewick glanced at his watch, uncrossed his legs. “Unfortunately, we’ll have to
continue
these introductions later tonight.”

“Introductions?” The word seemed out of place.

“You came here for
confirmation
.” He pursed his lips. “Jonas and I want to be as helpful as Anton was. Shall we say in an hour, a late supper?”

Hers was obviously not the only concern he meant to settle. She was getting to the men of Eisenreich, forcing them to defend themselves. It was another sign of weakness.

“Yes. That would be lovely.”

“Good. Jonas has a reasonably well-stocked wine cellar, which I trust will make up for any unpleasantness to this point.” Sarah stood as Sedgewick stepped back around the sofa and walked to the door, she a few paces behind. He turned as he opened the door. “Oh, by the way,” he said, indicating the man in the hall, “George will pick you up so that we can avoid any further misunderstandings.” Another smile. The man was already by his side as Sedgewick nodded and moved off toward the elevators. “Until tonight, then.”

A minute later, Sarah turned back into the room, the door firmly shut behind her; Bob Stein appeared on the balcony.

“God, he’s smooth.” Stein returned to the sofa and sat, arching his back into the cushion. “The chairs out there aren’t all that comfortable.”

“My apologies, but it couldn’t be helped.”

“I understand.” He placed the files on the table. “I didn’t realize I was that obvious. Frenetic, though, is going a little overboard.” He turned to

her. “And what was all that about the grain market? Are you telling me—” “The plane, Bob. And the assessment reports. That’s all you should be worrying about.”

His eyes remained on her. “And you’ll take care of
everything
else.”

“Something like that.”

He slowly nodded. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

 

On Feric’s command, Xander had fallen asleep twenty minutes ago, the operative explaining that he himself was used to such situations and would manage quite well even with his arm—
“superficial, not to worry. Take your rest while you can.”
Xander had wondered how much his friend was letting on, but nerves and fatigue had gotten the better of him, his eyes having lowered without much resistance. Now, after a series of anxious dreams, he awoke to the cold seat, his shoulder far less mobile, having stiffened against the icy pane of glass. Across from him, Feric sat motionless, a pair of clipped tickets wedged into the crease where seat met wall, their reflection caught in the mirrored glass of a dawning sky. The two stubs were the only indication that, somewhere, a conductor roamed the lifeless aisles. The train slowed.

“Thank you. I suppose I needed the sleep.”

“Yes.” Feric kept his eyes on the car door, his expression no less
concentrated
for the apparent lack of passengers. “We are nearing the next station, the fifth since Salzgitter.”

Xander stared out the window, his eye catching the vague outline of a town in the distance, a more pronounced glow from the few lights dotting the approaching platform. The hazy lines of a small brick building grew more defined as the brakes clamped, the sound of pained steel rising throughout the car. Feric was bending for a better view of the station when he slowly stepped back. A moment later, Xander blanched, as well. There, waiting at either end of the platform stood two large men, the bald giant joined by a second, even more imposing figure.

“Get down,” whispered Feric, Xander quick to obey, the operative already moving swiftly along the aisle, sliding into the windowless seat at the back—its angled perch offering a hidden view of the platform ahead—as the train glided past the first man. Xander remained on the floor, his every instinct begging him to sneak a glance but his panic fixing him firmly to the ground.

Feric continued to watch for the second man, now only three cars away, close enough to see his head turn almost imperceptibly, then lower to a gentle nod.
The signal
. Feric had seen the tactic all too often, knew the nod was meant for the man at the opposite end of the platform: Meet in the middle and trap the prey. Waiting until the man had stepped onto the train, Feric tore himself from the seat, raced down the aisle, and grabbed Xander. “We must go.”

Clutching at the computer case, Xander followed him to the back of the car. Both men jostled from side to side as the train accelerated, Xander now aware that Feric’s left arm had sustained far worse injury than the operative had let on. It hung at his side, useless as they pressed through door after door into empty cars, well aware that the net was tightening around them. At the fifth open vestibule, Feric suddenly stopped.

The wind, pitched at a constant scream, made conversation impossible as the door shut behind them. Feric motioned for Xander to flatten himself against the car wall, then pointed to the wrought-iron ladder leading to the roof. Xander grabbed at the link-chain guardrail and watched as Feric began the climb, left arm bunched at his side. Within a minute, he had reached the top, shouldering his head into the wind, its force nearly
throwing
him from the ladder, sheer will pulling him back as he hoisted his left leg onto the roof and lifted himself over. Ten seconds later, a hand appeared from above and motioned for Xander to follow. The train began to lean into a tight curve, Xander thrown forward as he gripped at the chain, its tug the only brace keeping him from losing his footing altogether. Catching his breath, he slipped past the door and began to climb.

With each step, the wind grew stronger, Xander forced like Feric to improvise with only one hand as his other clung desperately to the
computer
case. Within a minute, he reached the top, his head snapping back at the onslaught of air. He threw himself down on the roof, the case held firmly under his chest, his eyes glued to the door below as the wind beat down from all directions. For almost three minutes, the two lay patiently, watching for the hint of shadow to cross into the open expanse below.

A sudden release of air from below—the door pulled back—brought a massive figure into view, clutching tightly at his hat as he stepped to the
platform
, the wind sweeping across in a violent upsurge. For an instant, he
stumbled
, his hand quick to find support against the door, dwarfing the steel handle in his grip. Bending his torso through the doorway, he disappeared.

An instant later, Xander began to worm himself toward the ladder, Feric’s hand swift to grab at his arm and press it to the roof. Pulling him closer, Feric lifted his head and positioned his mouth less than an inch from Xander’s ear. Wind pelting from above, his words were muffled but decipherable.

“They will … find each other … at center of train … will be forced to retrace steps … each alone … leave only one for us.”

Xander nodded as the wind swept up under the smaller man’s chest, the thin body lifting above the train, his fingers clutching at the hand pipe that bordered the roof. In a moment of pure instinct, Xander flattened his shoulder into Feric’s back, the movement enough to stop the operative from sliding off the side, but with enough force to reignite his own sharp pain, the recollection of a discarded shard of glass pounding in his shoulder. Feric looked back at Xander, a nod of thanks as he gave him the go-ahead to return to the ladder. Three minutes later, the two men stood at either side of the far door, waiting for their assailant to return.

For Xander, the next minutes stretched to an eternity. More than just the physical pain—his pulsing shoulder, numb ears, frozen face—he was overwhelmed by the very real possibility that he would not survive this
latest
attack. Never before had he been granted the time to consider
his
moves,
his
options. Never the time to think. And it was the thinking that was making it unbearable.
Just open the door! Run at me, rip at my throat, anything! Just do it now!
But the door remained fixed, silently calm to Xander’s panic.