The Overseer (63 page)

“The two men were a misfortune, I will not argue with you, the girl
ill-chosen
. For that I am to blame, as well. But I will take the blame willingly if it means we can achieve something greater than ourselves.”

“And what exactly does that mean?” Xander stood, supporting himself on the bureau. “‘Order, permanence, something greater than ourselves.’ How can you bear to hear yourself say those things? You know as well as I those terms are meaningless without definition, far more dangerous once defined. Who, may I ask, decides what constitutes a
good order?
Who determines the limits of reasonable sacrifice—all, no doubt, in the name of some ideal vision? Is it you? Have you discovered some Truth that the rest of us aren’t quite clever enough to see? No, that would be too much ego, wouldn’t it? Instead, you give that role to our friend Eisenreich—cede the responsibility to a man who had no conception of human dignity or
freedom,
and who had an equally disturbing understanding of the
greater good,
if in fact such a thing exists.”

“Oh, it exists,” answered Lundsdorf, “of that, there is no question. And we both know Eisenreich saw it at its purest. Do not tell me you believe we are limited to a world of relative choice, where we may never achieve anything of ultimate worth? How frightening men of vision must look to you.”

“Men of
vision
?” Xander began to shake his head, unable to find the words. He then looked at Lundsdorf. “Like the ones you ran from in 1936?”

“
Please
,” replied Lundsdorf. “The Nazis are a child’s comparison. Talk of power and the name Hitler rushes to the mind. Talk of permanence and the word fascism is not far behind. How utterly simplistic. Really, Xander, I expected more of you. Are we to have every grand vision contaminated by the memory of those twelve years? They were fools. If you want, I will even call them evil. What I ran away from was stupidity, nothing else. What I sought was the means to release us from such mediocrity.”

“I see. So you picked Votapek, Tieg, and Sedgewick. Geniuses all.”

The old man looked at Xander for a moment and then, without the slightest warning, burst into laughter. “Touché,” he said. “I will not pretend that they do not leave something to be desired in that quarter. Then again, we both know they are not stupid men—far from it. They simply need guidance. They allow petty detail to cloud the mind.”

“And you, of course, have the
vision
to guide them.”

“You say it with such cynicism.” Lundsdorf stopped and peered over at his onetime student. “How different from last night.”

“… Last night?”

“When we spoke.” Lundsdorf’s tone was far more cordial. “You were far more interesting then.”

“Last night,” repeated Xander, “I was drugged.”

“Exactly. What better time to speak the truth?”

“The truth? The truth about what?”

“Chaos, power, the role of deception. You were quite candid, quite supportive.”

The impact of his words was immediate. “I don’t believe you.”

“Believe what?” answered Lundsdorf casually. “I have said nothing. I am merely recalling what you said last night. Perhaps it is
you
who knows that we do not think so differently?”

Xander turned to the window. “Trust me, I could never think like you.”

“Is that so?” Lundsdorf reached into his cardigan pocket and pulled out a small tape player. He placed it on the side table and asked, “Would you like to hear something from last night?” Without waiting for an answer, he pressed the play button and sat back. A moment later, Xander listened as his own voice filled the room.

The words were heavy, slurred, but the voice was clearly his own. A second voice began to ask questions. Lundsdorf. At first meaningless banter; then the conversation turned to the theory. And with each new question, Xander heard himself—reluctant at first—agree with Lundsdorf, accept his construct of order, authority, even sacrifice.

Lundsdorf: “So you agree that there are a select few who have the vigilance, the integrity, the wisdom to rule—surely they also have the responsibility to do so?”

“If they—”

“Yes or no? Should we cede them responsibility?”

“Yes, if—”

“So it would be best to permit them to guide the rest so that the balance may be maintained?”

“Yes, but you’re assuming—”

“Only what you have told me. They possess vigilance and integrity; they promote the primary functions of the state; they will make the mediocre better than they are.”

“Yes
…
but I—”

“And their methods are justified by the end they seek—the balance, the permanence and progress of the state and its people.”

“Yes
…
but you—”

“They have the wisdom, the integrity. You have said so yourself. Surely they know better than the rest?”

“Yes
…
but they—”

“Surely they know better than the rest.”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Xander sat amazed, his faith in himself slipping further and further as each minute passed, the voice of Lundsdorf leading on, memories of
long-ago
discussions, mentor and apprentice—the younger ever more eager to please. Soon, he began to hear enthusiasm creep into his own voice.

“Turn it off.” It was Xander who spoke.

“But some of the most intriguing dialogue is yet to come,” Lundsdorf replied. “You—”

“Turn it off.”

The old man smiled and picked up the tape player, pressing down on the button as he did so; Xander remained by the window. “Are you surprised?”

“Surprised by what?”

“Come now, you readily admitted that there are those who are born to lead, that they have vision—”

“Your word, not mine.”

“Semantics.”

“Whatever condition I was in—whatever condition you
put
me in—I was speaking theoretically. Not practically. You were putting words in my mouth. None of it had to do with Eisenreich.”

“It had
everything
to do with Eisenreich.” Lundsdorf paused. “If it was all theory, why did it provoke such hesitation at first?”

“I was disoriented—”

“Really? Why, then, are you so eager to stop listening now? As you say, it was merely an academic exercise. What is the harm in that?”

“I have no interest in—”

“Or shall I play you an excerpt from our discussion of the overseer where you explain the intricate relationship between knowledge and deception? Or perhaps the exchange in which you offer solutions for some of the more troubling sections of the manuscript? Your remarks are quite convincing.”

“Why are you doing this?” asked Xander. Lundsdorf said nothing. “Pang of conscience? Is that what this is—you need to hear that everything you’ve done is acceptable, noble, that we should all thank you for taking on the responsibility? Sorry. You won’t get confirmation from the ivory tower—”

“I do not seek your approval.”

“Then why?”

Lundsdorf placed the tape player in his pocket. “As you said, men are fallible.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I, too, am concerned about my three ‘geniuses.’ They will, of course, have to be replaced at some point. Perhaps sooner than later. Three others will be chosen, groomed, made ready.”

“I’m sure you’ve got the next little trio already picked out.”

“No,” said Lundsdorf, a look of fond recollection in his eyes. “I have played my part.” He peered over at Xander. “There, someone else must take the reins.” The two men stared at one another. “How did Eisenreich put it? A man with the insight of Aurelius, the self-command of Cincinnatus.” Lundsdorf picked up the papers. “A man with the wisdom and integrity to sustain the vision.” He turned again to Xander. “I know of only one.”

The room fell silent. Xander stood absolutely still, suddenly numb to the breeze on his back.  

 

 

Votapek began to backtrack. It was half a mile to the turnoff, another half mile to the gate. He had been careful, more so than usual. An assumed name on the airline ticket, several connections along the way, three separate drivers for the last hundred miles of the trip. He had thought about calling to explain his arrival, but he knew the old man would only have convinced him otherwise.
The old man.
It seemed strange to think of him as such. They were all old men, now. A lifetime spent in the pursuit of … what? It had become far more difficult to explain of late. Perhaps Jonas was right. Perhaps they had been under the yoke long enough.

The future, however, was not the reason Votapek had made the trip. He had come for her. About that, there would be no discussion.   

 

It was 3:11 when the last of them arrived, a small, fine-featured man with a razor-thin beard. He looked no more than twenty, his hands wedged deep within the pockets of a coat a good two sizes too large for him. He remained by the door of the cabin as O’Connell moved from behind the table to greet him. Introductions were kept to a minimum. His name, Tobias Pierson; his passion, computers. And, from his appearance, he looked completely out of place among the six men and two women who nodded in welcome.

“This,” said O’Connell, “is the special package we’ll be taking into the compound. If it’s got a keyboard, Toby here can play it. He’s a virtuoso.”

Pierson rocked back and forth on his heels but said nothing. The others turned back to the charts, O’Connell taking his place at the head of the table. Only Sarah continued to stare at the strangely unobtrusive specialist, his demeanor a complete surprise. Cool to a fault—almost indifferent to the surroundings—he glanced around the room, clearly uninterested in the group at center. The sight of the refrigerator, however, prompted a momentary raising of the eyebrow, and within seconds he was at the door, examining the contents within. From the expression on his face, Sarah could see he was not pleased. After several near choices, he reached in and pulled out a can.

“Nothing that’s not diet?” he asked, expecting someone at the table to acknowledge him. When no one answered, he shrugged. It was then that he noticed Sarah. “I don’t like diet,” he said. “It tastes kind of gray. You know, like washed-out carpets.”

Sarah stared at him for a moment, then nodded. What else was there to do? Evidently, their computer expert lived in his own little world. Better not to disturb him. In that respect, she realized how well he fit in with the others in the room. Sarah knew three of the six, all men who belonged to a select group of onetime Pritchard operatives, each, for reasons unknown, having fallen from grace. Their stories were familiar. Cut adrift, hunted for a time by the men who had trained them, each had managed to survive to become independent contractors. Men without allegiance, men beyond malice. Now all that mattered was the price. She knew O’Connell had been right to choose them. COS had been compromised; only those outside its reach could be trusted. Only those at home in their own little worlds. For some reason, the image of Xander flashed through her mind.

“These,” O’Connell began, “are the original plans for the building. The layout of the grounds, the fence—they’re exactly as you see them here. One difference is that they did some work on the place about a year and a half ago. Trouble is, we don’t know what that entailed. A lot of material, but not a single change to the main frame—no extra rooms or floors. Which leaves only one option. All those nice little additions must have taken place underground. So, gents, getting inside is only half the job. We’re going to have to make sure that the access to the lower level remains open. In other words, we’re going to have to make our way in
very
quietly. Good news is, there’s no sign of animals; bad news … well, you know the bad news. It’ll be trip wires most of the way up. Once inside the house, it’s anybody’s guess.” He paused again and then nodded toward Sarah. “Our female colleague here will take charge of young Toby. Hold his hand, as it were.”