The Overseer (6 page)

“Now I’m impressed. That’s not, however, the whole picture.”

“No, I didn’t expect it would be,” she added playfully. His gentle laugh and wide, if rather sheepish, grin, told her she had hit the mark.

“Rambling comes with the territory, Ms. Trent.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind, Professor Jaspers. So,” she continued, “it’s all really just a matter of context—”

“Exactly,” he replied. “Machiavelli wrote the
Prince
as a … how-to manual on wielding political power. What he really wanted was a job from the Medici—Florence’s ruling family. The book was meant to catch everyone’s attention by explaining things as they really were. Very bold for the times.”

“But
specific
to the times.”

“You
are
good at this.”

“We try.”

“Then you no doubt recall sixteenth-century Italy was politically very unstable—little more than a collection of city-states, all with their own agendas.”

“Yes, I
no
doubt
recall that,” she teased.

Jaspers laughed. “In simple terms? Machiavelli wanted to protect Florence and inspire a bit of cohesion. His solution was a leader who could anticipate trouble and wield power with a bold hand, anything that might keep the people in line. For him, they were all a pretty bleak bunch—not to be trusted and not terribly bright. A little cruelty here, a little kindness there could keep things running smoothly.”

“And that,” Sarah asked, “applies to the market? It’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?”

Jaspers took a sip of his water. “Not if the market men think the book tells them what to do. It’s their bible. Who am I to argue with the interpretation? And you have to admit, it is intriguing.” He sat forward and rested his elbows on the table. “All Machiavelli did was to recognize the darker side of politics; along the way, he raised some pretty interesting questions about power, deception—tell people what they want to hear so as to maintain a power base. The modern implications aren’t that tough to see.”

“As long as it remains theoretical,” she said. “In practice—”

“That’s where the Wall Street boys make their mistake. Machiavelli was a genius, but he was a
sixteenth-century
genius, and we have
twentieth-century
questions. Where he talks about cruelty and military bravado—”

“We talk about corporations and grassroots politics.”

“Exactly.” The waiter arrived with two plates and two cups, a second waiter followed with the pots of tea.

“So you think he takes us only so far.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” answered Jaspers. “I love the old guy, but he’s a springboard, that’s all. Those who see him as a definitive guide … I don’t put much
stock
in that.” He smiled as the waiters departed, then began to pour his tea. “A modern equivalent—at least for me—is what the New Right’s been doing over the last few years. Except, instead of going directly to the people, they pander to any number of interest groups in order to maintain control. Theoretically, it’s Machiavelli; practically, it’s—”

“The ‘new decency in conservatism.’”

“Bingo.”

“The Centrist Coalition,” she added.

“You’ve obviously been doing your homework.”

“As I said, we try.” She pulled a pad from her case; she was searching for a pen when Jaspers produced a rather gnawed ballpoint from his pocket.

“Sorry about the teeth marks,” he said. “Hazard of the profession.”

“Mine would have been no better.” She uncapped the pen.

“To be honest, I’ve only just started looking into the Coalition, but it’s an excellent place to begin.”

Sarah flipped to an empty page and looked up. “Practically speaking.”

W
ASHINGTON,
F
EBRUARY
26, 3:51
P.M.
The class moved through the museum room, a Veronese the highlight, each child busy with notebook and pen, jotting down the relevant information. The teacher, a woman in her late twenties, smiled affably at the guard as she led the small group to a far corner and a somewhat obscure offering by a young Tiepolo. All fifteen huddled around the painting, the teacher at its side, describing with great enthusiasm some of its more intricate details—the angle of Christ’s head, the position of his hands. She kept her eyes on the guard, waiting for him to turn; the moment he did, she nodded once. On cue, one of the girls quietly sank to her knees, hidden by the other children as she removed the grating of the vent directly below the painting. With equal precision, she placed her pack inside the opening and slipped through. A boy followed, the grate immediately replaced. The sound of the teacher’s voice drifted to the distance as they began to crawl.

They had no need of lights or maps; they had run the mock-up perhaps a hundred times in the last week. The schedule had called for three of them—
everything in threes
—but the old man had made a change. Lydia had remained in Wolf Point. They had not asked. It was not their place.

At the fourth duct, they turned. Forty feet along, they found a second grate; they dropped through, this time into a narrow tunnel, pipes and wiring running the length of the walls, enough room for the two of them to scamper deeper into the innards of the National Gallery. The girl checked her watch. Eight minutes.
Plant it, set the linkup, and return
. They had done it once in seven. The old man had been pleased.

Half a minute later, they heard the sound of cascading water directly above them—the promenade between the east and west wings. Cafeteria, museum shop—always popular among tourists. Both stopped and emptied their backpacks. To the guards at the entrance, the items had appeared to be books, pens, chewing gum, lipstick—the usual teenage fare. To the trained eye, they were far more. In less than a minute, they had fashioned the pieces into two large plastic bricks and a small black box, a copper coil connecting it to the wires along the wall. A yellow light on the box flashed once, then turned green. They retrieved their packs and moved on, scanning the duct above. Twenty feet from the box, they found the third grate, hoisted themselves up, and again began to crawl.

Several twists and turns later, they sat crouched behind another vent, another gallery room, another painting for the class to admire. They had done well. Six and a half minutes. He would be pleased.

 

“It’s typical right-wing maneuvering,” said Xander. “They don’t want the government to tell people how to run their lives, but they’re more than happy to be the country’s moral conscience. The Coalition likes to do it through school curriculums. Abortion, sexual orientation—those are the big issues.”

“Which doesn’t make the Coalition any different from about a hundred other groups,” Sarah pointed out.

“True, except they’ve got plans to develop private institutions of their own. Schools, funded by the Coalition, to compete with the public sector, giving them a blank check on what, and how, they teach.”

She looked up. “Seems to me the Catholics have been doing that for years. Where’s the problem?”

“Yes, but they don’t have TV monitors in the halls and classrooms, all linked to some high-tech computers that function interactively with the kids.
Specialized
computers—if the stories are true—that sound quite extraordinary. I mean, imagine a kid being able to program an alternate plan of attack for, say, the Battle of Midway, and then watching it come to life on the screen; that would make learning exciting. Rumor has it, though, that the computers are going to be used to replace hands-on teaching. To make sure a clear, consistent message reaches all of the Coalition’s devoted little followers. That’s not education; that’s indoctrination, and on a much wider scale than any parochial school ever dreamed of.”

“Brainwashing?” she asked skeptically. “Computers have been around for a long time, Professor. Just because the Coalition’s using them doesn’t mean—”

“If they’re the only things that tie Jonas Tieg and Laurence Sedgewick together—two men who haven’t the slightest bit of interest in education—I’m not so sure.” Jaspers stared across at her. “Have I struck a nerve?” Sarah said nothing. “Who else would you be here to talk about?”

“You might be surprised.”

He drained the last bits of tea from his cup. “Want some more? I’m going to get another.” Sarah nodded. She watched as he motioned to the waiter, the two fingers and the shake of the head. The waiter pointed to the plates of cake. Jaspers picked up the cup and mimed taking a drink; he then turned to her. “I’ve been known to have … two pieces at one sitting.”

She smiled. “So, Tieg and Sedgewick.”

“As I said, neither of them cares one whit about teaching. For Tieg, it’s all politics. A way to rally his troops. More of the
Tieg Tonight
phenomenon. The school programs are simply a lure, the technology his bait. If the environment were more hip right now, he’d be focusing on that.”

“And Sedgewick?”

“That’s the interesting part.” The waiter arrived with the tea, repositioning plates and cups to make room for the extra pots. Xander tried to help. “Didn’t it strike you as odd that a man who had made his career as a financial whiz suddenly started developing computer systems for investment banks a few years ago?”

Sarah recalled the file. “Those were security networks. I thought they were designed to safeguard large investors—like himself?”

“Perhaps.” The waiter moved off. “But who do you think helped him develop the prototype for the technology?” She shook her head. “A subsidiary of the Tieg Telecom Service.
That’s
not in your notes. The trail’s convoluted, but it’s there. Trust me.” He took a sip. “And now it’s computers in the schools. No real connection, but … All I’m saying is, it makes me wonder.”

Sarah nodded, jotted down a few words. With her eyes still on the pad, she asked, “And Anton Votapek?” She was about to repeat the question, when she looked up and noticed Jaspers’s expression. He was staring at her, a look of sudden concern etched across his face.

W
ASHINGTON,
F
EBRUARY
26, 4:09
P.M.
“
Repeat
that, please.” National Airport’s chief controller did little to mask his disbelief.

“
Every
screen in the tower just went
blank
,” came the reply, the confusion in the background filling the speaker. “Auxiliaries are out, and we’ve lost radio contact.”

“Is the beacon still operative?”

“No idea.”

“What do you mean you have
no
…” He leaned in closer to the intercom as he stood. “Just take it easy. I’ll be right there.”

Two minutes later, he strode into the traffic tower, the slicing pattern of runways beyond already lit for the evening arrivals. “All right, people, let’s see what we’ve got here. What do we have up in the air, and what’s within closing range?”

“Four two-sevens, one noncommercial, and two jumbos, one from LAX, one from Madrid,” answered a woman surrounded by a mountain of printouts.