The Overseer (62 page)

He swallowed—a burning in his throat—and blinked several times, the pain slowly bringing objects into view. His senses of smell and touch were somehow more acute—the scent of freshly washed linen, the feel of crisp sheets pulled tightly over him—each helping to rouse him from his stupor. But his head wouldn’t move. It felt compressed to the pillow, weighted down, so much so that he needed all his strength to turn ever so slightly toward the light. Patterns began to appear, flowers along a distant wall, soon the shape of a bureau beneath them, a small wooden chair placed at its side. He forced himself to concentrate on the objects, to imagine the iron coldness of the brass handles, all in an attempt to regain himself.

A window proved to be the source of the light, cotton drapes billowing in the breeze. The rest of the room was empty, save for an oval throw rug placed at the side of the bed. Everything neat, simple.

He lay still for a few minutes. A certain peace returned, an order to the memories, but soon, far more disquieting images began to flood his mind, muffled exchanges as if from within a fog. A voice,
his
voice but not his voice, all of it dreamlike, yet real. Figures standing over him, blinding light searing into his eyes, thick fingers probing his face, stabbing pain throughout his body, then nausea and darkness. He tried to hold on, maintain contact, but the more he struggled, the more they faded to obscurity.

The smell of coffee momentarily distracted him, his first inclination to sit up. Immediately, a jolt of pain in his shoulder advised otherwise and he fell back to the bed. With considerable effort, he moved a hand to his neck and began to probe the area with his fingers. The swelling was sizable, the skin still tender to the touch. More startling, though, was the sight of a small bandage on his forearm, a square piece of gauze held in place by a narrow strip of adhesive. He released his neck and held his arm out straight. The area around the bandage was horribly discolored, slivers of vein coursing through a mound of black-and-blue flesh. He reached over and gently slid his fingers along the edge of the wound. It, too, was remarkably tender.

With a quick pull, he yanked the adhesive off and stared at the small hole in his arm, a red dot where a needle had entered.
A needle?
The tiny reminder drove the memories back into his conscious mind—the room, the bed, the voice,
his
voice but not his voice, and the blinding light….

They had drugged him. They had violated his mind and had stolen his will to resist.

But why? What could they have gained?
He struggled for an answer. They had the disc; they had the document he had put together. And the schedule. There was no question that they would have found them.
It’s what they were looking for all along.
So what else could they have wanted?

The sound of footsteps outside interrupted. Xander placed his arms underneath the blanket and waited. Within a few seconds, the door cracked open, a tuft of hair inching its way in, two brown eyes peeking through. Seeing him awake, the eyes disappeared, the door once again shut. Xander expected to hear a key in the lock, a bolt reengage, but there was nothing, only the sound of footsteps fading to the distance. He looked over at the window, it, too, free of bars, not even a latch to keep him from the grounds beyond. And for the first time, he noticed his clothes lying neatly on the chair, his shoes tucked in by the bureau. All readily accessible. Whatever he had told them, they clearly had felt no need to restrain him.

Unwilling to wait any longer, he propped himself up and brought his feet to the wooden floor, his shoulder no more obliging than it had been a few minutes before. The silk pajama bottoms hung loosely on his legs as he shuffled toward the window, a cautious breeze gliding across his chest as he neared the drapes. The light from outside forced him to shield his eyes behind an open palm. Even so, the sun felt good. A relief. He stood for a few minutes, his eyes soon accustomed to the light, his skin chilled but refreshed by the nip in the air. The door opened and he turned.

There, in beige cardigan, a pair of corduroy pants hanging on his slender frame, stood Herman Lundsdorf. He held Xander’s manuscript in one hand; in the other, he clutched a mug, the smell of coffee filling the room.

“Good heavens!” said Lundsdorf, marching toward Xander, “in front of an open window, and with no shirt on. Really!” The old man reached past him and pulled the window shut. “Have you lost all sense?” Lundsdorf then turned and stared up into his pupil’s eyes. “I have gone to a great deal of trouble to keep you alive. If you were to go and catch pneumonia now, I would look very foolish. Very foolish indeed.” He smiled.

Xander hadn’t heard a word.  

 

 

“He asked him
what?
” Tieg continued to stare out at the bay, the receiver pressed to his ear, his eyes lost to the horizon.

“It wasn’t so much questions,” answered the Italian, “as …
suggestions.
The professor seemed more eager to explain than to gain information from Jaspers. Under the narcotic, the responses were very confused.”

“What exactly was he trying to explain? I need details, Paolo.”

“There
were
no details. It was more a lesson. Dr. Lundsdorf was speaking in very abstract terms—‘the essence of authority, the role of the overseer.’ Those I remember coming up several times.”

“And?”

“Jaspers would agree, then not agree—it would go back and forth. At one point, they began to speak in German. I couldn’t follow after that.”

“And he asked him nothing about the Trent woman, nothing about the people she’s contacted?”

“We believe she is dead.”

“
Believe?
That’s very reassuring. You’re telling me he pumped Jaspers with God knows what and didn’t ask him a thing?”

“Nothing that seemed relevant. As I said, it was as if he wanted to convince him of something. I can’t explain it any better than that.”

“And was he convinced?”

“I suppose. … I couldn’t say. I’ve tried to do what you asked—”

“And you’ve done a superb job, as usual,” countered Tieg. “That’s not the issue. Where is he now?”

“Jaspers? Asleep. In one of the guest rooms.”

“And you have no idea what the old man intends to do with him before he initiates the next stage.”

“I’ve been told nothing.”

“Of course.” Tieg realized he had only one choice. “I’ll be flying in within the next few hours.”

“
Flying in?
… I thought—”

“The situation has changed. Meet me at the airstrip—two o’clock.”

“I don’t understand. We’ve been given express orders not to leave—”

“Then make sure no one sees you.” He paused. “Do I make myself clear?”

The response was immediate. “Perfectly.”

Twenty minutes later, Tieg sat in the backseat of his limousine, a phone pressed to his ear.

“And if you’re
not
back?” The voice on the other end was Amy Chandler’s. “You’re getting much too hot, Jonas, to pull one of your disappearing acts. A rerun at this point could seriously threaten our momentum.”

“As I said, I’ll be back. If not—”

“No
if nots.
Last night alone we had over twelve thousand faxes and Emails, not to mention the Web site—which was packed. Jonas, this is as close as you get to a sure thing.”

“I’m well aware of that. There’s a tape in my desk—something I put together last week. Just me and the camera. It runs about forty-five—”

“
What?
You put something together? Hello, Jonas, remember me? Remember Amy, the
producer
.”

“Amy … dear … I was going to show it to you this afternoon. I had it in mind for next week, but it’ll be just as effective tonight. Or would you prefer a rerun?” She paused before answering. “What’s on the tape?”

“I suggest you take a look.”

Again silence. “I don’t like when you do this, Jonas.”

“I said I’ll be back.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Not really, no.”

“I didn’t think so. I suppose you know there’s a rumor going around that you’re thinking of jumping ship, a political move. Tell me it’s not true, Jonas. Tell me that’s not what I’ll be seeing on the tape tonight.”

This time, he waited. “Come now, Amy, would I risk a sure thing?”

He cut the line as the car pulled up to the terminal.

 

 

“A nice piece of work. Remarkable, given the conditions under which you wrote it.” Lundsdorf had taken a seat on the bed, the document at his side. “A few holes here and there, but the theory is sound.” There was a knock at the door. “Come.”

A woman appeared, a glass of deep purple liquid in her hand. She extended the glass to Xander.

“Take it,” advised Lundsdorf. “I am told it will relieve the knot in your stomach, reduce the nausea. Primarily beets, a carrot or two, some turnips. Nothing mysterious.” Xander took the glass and sipped at the concoction. The woman was gone by the time he drained the glass. “Last night was no doubt … unpleasant,” continued Lundsdorf. “You have my apologies.”

“Why?” whispered Xander.

“We had to make certain that the information—”

“No,” he broke in, his eyes riveted on the old man. “Why you?”

Lundsdorf looked at Xander, then spoke. “Because I knew what the manuscript had to offer. Because I could bring it to life.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” He waited before continuing. “You see the responsibility, the burden such a discovery places on one’s shoulders? Long ago, I saw beyond the theory, beyond the words. I saw the reality of order, of permanence, of an end to mediocrity. In such instances, there is no choice.”

“Really.” Xander nodded, more to himself than to the old man. “How brave of you.” He placed the empty glass on the bureau and added, “At least now I know why I’ve managed to stay alive.”

“That was miscommunication, nothing more.”

“The men in Salzgitter, the train? They seemed pretty clear on what they had in mind.”

“As I said, miscommunication. Luckily, you were not harmed.”

Xander let his eyes wander to the window.

“Is that all you see?” asked Lundsdorf.

Xander couldn’t tell if it was the aftereffects of the drug or simply the shock of the last two minutes, but he suddenly felt weak. He pushed the clothes to the floor and sat. “I’d always counted you among the sane.”

“And now you question that?” The old man placed the mug on the side table and picked up the papers. “You have read the manuscript.”

“Of course.”

“A third copy,” nodded Lundsdorf. “That was a surprise. No matter. I trust you understood it.”

“If you mean did I understand its madness, yes—”

“Madness? What do you know of madness?” Lundsdorf held the papers high in his hand. “This?” He shook his head. “A week trying to piece together what I have been scrutinizing for over half a lifetime, and you tell me it is
madness?
That, my young colleague, is either extraordinary
presumption
or mindless stupidity.”

“Thank you,” replied Xander. “I’m glad to hear my choices are so numerous.”

“It has nothing to do with choice.” Lundsdorf stopped. “You have been put through a great deal in the last week, experiences that have colored your perception.” He leafed through the document. “Yet even in your few pages, I sense you see beyond the brutality.” Lundsdorf waited for their eyes to meet. “Yes, there is violence, deception, perhaps even a disregard for human compassion. But we both know they are merely by-products of something far purer, far more insightful. Our monk was far cleverer than that. His methods are sometimes unsavory, but it is the result that matters.”

“By-product?” For the first time, an energy infused Xander’s words. “How can you expect me to believe that? You of all people?”

“Because it is true. And because you
do
believe it.”

“My God, talk about presumption! Is that what that book gives you—a way to justify Carlo and Ganz, and who knows how many others? Have you seen your star pupil from Tempsten lately? Is that what you mean by a
by-product
?”