The Overseer (59 page)

“You ask for information that is of no concern to you.”

“I have made it my concern,
old man
! Did you choose him?”

“You will not speak to me in that tone! Is that understood?” Silence. Is that
understood
, Jonas?”

The words carried a long-forgotten fire, a venom that seemed to transport all four back to a cabin, to the Italian sand and sea, to three young boys sitting in a corner, terrified, as the old man bore down on his oldest pupil.

“Tell me, Jonas, why do you try to deceive me? Why do you not tell me that it was you who forced Anton into the water?” He slapped his hand across the boy’s face, the force enough to send the young body to the floor. Jonas pulled himself to the stool, no tears, only the slight shaking of his head. Again, the man struck; again, the boy fell, this time blood trickling from his lip. “Why do you deceive me?”

“I didn’t—”

“You will not speak to me in that tone!” he screamed, sending his open fist into the boy’s brow, the head smacking back into the wooden wall, a torrent of tears following, uncontrolled, wild. “You are nothing. Nothing! But I will make of you a great conqueror. All of you—great conquerors. Do you
understand
this?”

Head down, his entire body shaking, he nodded. “Yes,” he sputtered. “I deceived you.”

The man reached out and caressed the boy’s hair. “You are a good boy, Jonas,” he said, looking at the other two. “Now go and wash up.”

“Yes,” answered Tieg, his voice trapped in the memory.

“Good. … Anton, tomorrow you will dismiss the students for their late-winter recess and then take your own holiday on the island. Make
certain
that the staff is prepared for my arrival. I will be flying in before noon. Laurence, you will remain in New Orleans. And Jonas”—he paused, expecting no answer—“you will be in San Francisco. Is everything clear?”

As one, the voices responded. “Yes.”

“Good. I will correct the mistake you have made. Do not put me in this position again. I am getting far to old to clean up after you.”

 

O’Connell stepped from the driver’s seat, the wagon a far cry from what Sarah expected. Clearly past its prime, the car sported a strip of wood
paneling
, an odd touch given its dark green color. At the back, the window was a wild menagerie of college and high school stickers, the bumper a
collection
of strange warnings and even stranger messages, sometimes the two commingling in a single effort:
WATCH OUT FOR THE LORD—HE DON’T NEED NO FLASHING LIGHTS
. Alison stood rapt, reading each one with a
certain
deference, as if she had gleaned a more subtle meaning beneath the clutter. O’Connell tossed the keys to Xander and moved toward her.

“The bike’s about a fifteen-minute drive from here,” he said. “I’ll need a lift.” He drew up next to Alison and joined in the perusal. “It’s an odd mix, that’s for certain.” She continued to stare. “All this and that, and not much to tie it together. Still, it makes for a nice bit of reading.”

She turned to him, a smile creasing her lips. He started to move toward the open door, she quick to grab his arm, the smile no less genuine, the eyes no less gentle. For a moment, O’Connell stared at her, uncertain as to how he should react. Then, very slowly, he placed his hand on hers and said, “Why don’t you come sit with me. We’ll ride together. How about that?”

The smile grew on her lips, the eyes brighter still.

“Good.” He winked and brought her to the door.

Twelve minutes later, Xander began to slow along an isolated strip of road leading toward the town of Bryan, O’Connell giving instructions from the backseat. The bike was off in the woods; he would manage it himself.

“Use the number I’ve given you as a contact point,” he added. “I can probably have the men together in eighteen hours. It’s open country, so find a place within about seventy-five miles of the—”

“I know the drill,” said Sarah. “We’ll be lucky if we get there by
tomorrow
morning. We’ll have to watch ourselves, especially with Alison—”

“I’d like to go with him,” said the girl, her voice quiet but clear. All three turned at once, Sarah the first to respond.

“That might be a little difficult, Alison.” She tried her best to reassure. “Gael only has a motorcycle—”

“I know.” The voice was no less direct. “I would like to go with him.”

Sarah looked at her onetime associate. The expression on his face was anything but what she expected. He was grinning.

“Might not be such a bad idea,” said the Irishman. “Me taking her.” The idea seemed to gain momentum, the smile growing. “In fact, it might be the best thing to split them up, just in case. …” He looked at Sarah. “You’ve got your charge—no offense, Professor—”

“None taken,” answered Xander.

“And I’ve got mine. All the easier to keep them both out of harm’s way.”

Sarah was not convinced. “It’s nearly fifteen hundred miles to the
compound
, Gael. Plus, you’ll be—”

“Might be a bit blowy,” he said, turning back to Alison and ignoring Sarah. “And there won’t be much time for sleep.” Alison continued to stare at him. “Well”—he nodded to himself—“I suppose that’s that, then.” He opened the door and stepped outside, reaching his hand back to help
Alison
from the car. A few seconds later, he ducked his head in, grabbed her heavy coat, and said, “We’ll see the two of you outside of Wolf Point. Safe journey.” And with that, he slammed the door and headed for the woods.

Sarah turned to Xander, astonishment etched across her face. He was smiling. “What?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“What?”

“She’ll be fine,” he answered. “Probably do her some good.”

“It’s not her I’m worried about.”

 

The twin-engined Packer dipped comfortably over the secluded airfield, its landing lights flashing along the ground in bloodred intervals. A few patches of snow remained, but none to blemish the stark black line that cut through the expanse, a strip of tar amid a pale sea of rock and earth. Seated beside the pilot in the cockpit, the old man clutched at his armrest, the plane already in middescent. As the ground approached, his thoughts drifted.

There had been nothing from Stein—now sleeping comfortably in the back of the plane—nothing that might indicate that the intelligence officer had come to the right decision, a fact that troubled the old man only in that he now realized how useful his “guest” could be, given the situation with Jaspers. A few words to the appropriate people and the entire mess in Europe would be forgotten. Likewise, the connection to Schenten.
Unfortunately
, the young man was proving far less amenable to the project than had his predecessor.
His predecessor,
he thought.
Pritchard.
How eager he had been to join Eisenreich. How certain, how committed. Stein, however, was showing no such enthusiasm. Chains evidently lacked the necessary allure. But he was a smart boy. He would recognize the inevitability of it all. And he had shown a surprising concern for the young professor while under the narcotic. That, at least, was encouraging.

Within twenty minutes, they had reached the turnoff for the compound, a half mile of chewed gravel that lent the place a rustic quality, perhaps even a hint of dilapidation should anyone venture beyond the
NO TRESPASSING
signs plastered along the trees on either side. A seemingly cosmetic wooden gate stood at the end of the winding road, a quaint reminder that the
cluster
of cabins beyond were private property. Schenten’s onetime sanctuary. How much had changed, he thought, in only a few short years.

As the car pulled to a stop at the gate, a squirrel ventured across its path, the animal stopping to sniff at the post. It was a mistake the little creature would not soon forget. Its tiny body lurched into spasms, the shock lasting only seconds, but enough to indicate that all was not as it seemed. The men in the car watched as the squirrel fell to its side, its twitching less and less animated, until, finding its feet again, it slowly limped into the woods. The system had been designed so that the larger the animal, the greater the shock. A moment later, the gate opened, and the large Mercedes continued through, lumbering past a set of cabins and up toward a ranch-style
building
set off from the rest. A tall, bald man stood waiting at the door.

“How many are we, Paolo?” The old man shifted his weight forward and stepped from the car without so much as a nod of thanks for the extended hand.

“Twelve. Not including those assigned to the house and the lab.”

“Excellent. I will take a nap, some lunch, after which time I would like to see how everything is proceeding. You will then join me.” The man
nodded
. “I trust we have put Wolfenbüttel behind us.” He did not wait for an answer.

At the top of the steps, an attractive woman in a calf-length skirt and white blouse extended her arm. The old man refused it and moved past her into the house. “It’s good to have you back, sir.”

“You will come with me to my room, Ms. Palmerston.”

He was halfway down the hall before she turned to follow.

 

By 4:30, he was ready to assess the linkups with the satellites. Two of the tracking specialists had put in an appearance at lunch, each to assure him that everything was in order—codes, transmission sequencing—anything that required an expertise in software. They had returned to the lab while he had phoned his three prefects with last-minute instructions, after which time he had retreated to the bedroom for another visit with Ms. Palmerston. He had always required a certain attention at times of greatest intellectual excitement. For a man his age, he possessed a remarkable eagerness; happily for both, he managed to sustain it with an equally vibrant stamina.

She was asleep as he left the room, her legs draped lazily across the bed, the single white sheet brushing coyly over her perfectly rounded rump. He lingered at the door for a moment and then shut it, moving down the
corridor
toward the waiting elevator.

The ride to the subterranean lab took nearly four minutes, a slow descent to a depth of almost a hundred feet. Monitored at all times by heat-sensitive cameras, the elevator was fitted with an automatic disabling device should the temperature rise above a certain level without prior authorization. The snail-like pace was simply an added precaution to give those below time to prepare should anyone manage to circumvent the system. The doors opened and he stepped out to the bright lights of a corridor, newly carpeted since his last visit. Paolo stood directly across from him, a glass of water in one hand, several pills in the other. The old man smiled and shook his head.

“You are determined to keep me healthy,” he said, taking the pills, then tossing the water back with an exaggerated snap of his head. He returned the glass and started down the hall, the temperature dropping several degrees as he neared a steel archway, its metallic sheen jarring against the pristine white of the surrounding walls. Beyond it, the corridor became a balcony some fifteen feet long, a ledge that extended over a large open area, the space below filled with computer equipment. Nothing overly elaborate—keyboards, terminals, one ceiling-high screen covering the far wall—all relatively quiet save for the purring of various plastic boxes, all of which he admired from a distance. Such things were beyond him, a choice he had made long ago. Others understood them and that was enough. He took his time with the steps before reaching the lower level, whereupon Paolo began the introductions.