The Overseer (13 page)

“Limitations, parameters—these are healthy things when they have a strong moral justification, when they help to define a character. As you’ve heard me say time and time again, too much time has been spent championing the fringe elements, the causes that only abuse the word
right
—in this case, a right to
teach
this, to
protect
that. Some things don’t merit that kind of protection—at least not in the schools.” Tieg picked up a newspaper from the desk and pointed to a headline. “I was reading this the other day, and it absolutely astounded me. ‘
COURT OPENS THE DOOR
,’” he read, shaking his head while he stared at the page. “
New York Times
, tickled pink by a ruling that says sexuality
must
have a place in the classroom.” The audience broke into laughter; Tieg looked up, a sheepish grin on his face. “Now come on, you know what I meant, folks.” He laughed and turned to one of his cameramen. “We’ve got a frisky bunch tonight, Pete. Maybe I will have that glass of Vermont spring water.” The audience applauded.

“But seriously,” he continued. “Let me ask you—does my daughter
need
to know about birth control? Perhaps. But
not
in our schools. Does my son
need
to know about homosexuals and single-sex parenting? Perhaps. But
not
in our schools. Do my children
need
to come in contact with music that teaches pornography and hate? I would say never. But certainly
not
in our schools.” Tieg took a sip from the glass. “That’s why, by petitioning your school boards, we’re asking to distance our children and ourselves from a system that, in the name of some constitutional freedom, claims the right to impose those standards—and I use the term very loosely—upon all of us. These aren’t standards. They’re an excuse. An excuse to give up responsibility for what goes on inside these walls.” Another burst of applause.

“When I ask government officials—and I have—why my child needs to be indoctrinated by a bunch of liberal policy makers, they have no answer. At least none that makes any sense to me. It’s become painfully apparent that they realize that schools are nothing more than holding pens, part-time jails for children who have no desire to learn about themselves, let alone anything else. They aren’t
children
. They aren’t
allowed
to be children, with all the mumbo jumbo that’s thrown at them. Does a fourteen-year-old understand the questions abortion raises? Does a fifteen-year-old recognize the implications of a single-sex home? Can a sixteen-year-old distinguish between music and political brainwashing? I don’t think so.” The room erupted in applause.

“Standards.” Again Tieg laughed in disbelief as he turned to camera one. “Standards imply caring—caring for those young minds, their spirits, their senses of themselves. And that’s been lost.” Again he paused. “Now, suppose I told you that the system, the chain that we’re forced to wear around our necks, can’t survive? And that when the time comes, we have to be ready with schools where children actually graduate with a sense of purpose, a mission. A
new
type of student, a new approach to learning and activism. How would you respond? How
do
you respond?” Waves of applause. “But the only way for that to happen, for those schools to pave the way and set those standards, is if we set ourselves apart
now
.

“Folks, that’s what we’re working toward. We have to be prepared to assert ourselves when the moment comes. We’re on the brink of a powerful period of turbulence; too much is happening for us not to see it. I’m truly afraid that Washington yesterday was only the beginning. That’s why this school,
these
schools, must be ready to take the reins, to stand as the very rocks on which our future is built. To pave the way to that future.” He shifted his gaze to camera two.

“What does that future bring? And how do we prepare for it? That’s what we’ll be talking about tonight.” He picked up the papers in front of him and placed them to the side. “You’ve been nice to let me have my say, but now it’s your turn. When we get back, we’ll see how far we can take this tonight. So start thinking, folks, and we’ll be right back.”

The bright light on his face dimmed and Tieg sat back. He pulled the earphone from his ear in anticipation of the makeup man, who approached from the wings for a few touch-ups. Amy was right behind him.

“Keeping them awake?” Tieg asked.

“Just keep it within reasonable limits,” she answered, placing another stack of papers on the desk. “You were pretty close to the edge there at the end—‘the brink of turbulence.’ Let’s stay this side of the apocalypse.”

“Trust me, Amy. They were eating it up.”

“They always do, Jonas. That’s what’s a little frightening.”

“Are you complaining about the ratings?”

She smiled and picked up the earphone. “Stick it in your ear. We’re back in thirty.”

Tieg smiled.
Close to the edge,
he thought. Far closer than she could possibly imagine.

 

The whiskey glass was all but empty, resting gently in O’Connell’s palm. He had turned off the overhead fluorescents and was allowing himself a few moments in the somber glow of lamplight. A reflection stared at him from the darkened window, his slouching body comfortably wedged into a leather couch. Somewhere through the glass, the icy waters of the Potomac ran silent and unaware, speckled by the light patter of a winter rain. The streaks of water slid along the window and cut through the still portrait.

The day had been filled with surprises, not the least of which had been the unexpected appearance of a dispatch from Bern. The operative fund.
SARAH TRENT: ACCESS GRANTED
. He had wasted no time in confronting Arthur.

“I thought we were pulling her in.”

“She appears to be on to something,” Pritchard answered, “and she’s chosen to be a part of it. I wasn’t going to leave her high and dry.”

“‘Chosen’?” snapped O’Connell. “
Jesus!
That’s an interesting way of putting it. Did you at least fill her in on the rest of the file—Schenten, the girl in Montana?”

“Over the phone?”

O’Connell stared at Pritchard for a long moment. “You expected this, didn’t you?”

“It was a contingency, yes.”

“Why? Why would she come back in? What aren’t you telling me, Arthur?”

Now he sat drawing the last drops of alcohol from his glass. His office was a bit smaller than Pritchard’s, but it had all the amenities—desk, couch, and plenty of whiskey. No books. He knew he’d never read them, so why bother? And no Washington—just the river and Arlington beyond. It was the view he liked. Arthur had never understood. How could he? He’d never been in the field. He’d never needed a drink to soften the twinge of guilt. No. Arthur would never permit himself that sort of involvement. For twenty years, they had worked that way. It was, he supposed, why he had the ulcer and why Arthur had the bigger office.

He poured himself a second and picked up the phone. “Irene, my love, I need to see Bob as soon as possible…. Yes, I know it’s all rather hectic, but he’s going to have to start earning his money…. No, you get home safe. Have one of the boys drive you.” He sipped from the glass. “I want the meeting off-line…. No, not even Arthur’s log. Strictly off-line.” He paused. “And erase this conversation…. Right…. Tell him I’ll be waiting.” O’Connell put down the receiver and brought his feet up to the couch. The rain had turned to snow, blanketing the window in a white veneer. He remained still, caught by the rapid descent of chalky crystal as it devoured the panes of glass.

She had found something, something to draw her back in. And this time, she was keeping the Committee at arm’s length. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised.

O’Connell gulped down his drink and waited for the phone to ring.

 

Xander downshifted the Fiat into second gear, its engine growling at the sudden change to accommodate a quick turn at the bottom of yet another winding hill. The sharp drop from the side of the road to the houses perhaps a hundred yards below gave the view the classic features of the landscape in any number of Italian Renaissance paintings. Even the somber colors of a winter sky, draped coolly over the rigid crags of the Apennines, couldn’t diminish the luster of the earth and orchards below. Several times during the past hour, he had found himself dangerously close to plummeting over the side, caught for a moment too long in the splendor of the rolling Tuscan country. Now, with dusk creeping up ever more eagerly, he had no choice but to direct all his attention to the road that twisted mercilessly in front of him.

He had left Milan four hours ago, had made Bologna in good time—enough to stop and indulge a craving for afternoon coffee and sweet—and was now about half an hour from Florence. Somewhere over the next group of peaks he knew he would see the distant outline of the Duomo—the white ribbed crown of Santa Maria del Fiore—symbol of the Florentines’ bravura, Brunelleschi’s genius, and their faith in both God and artistry. Which they held in greater esteem was hard to know. Somehow, Xander thought, they had managed to sustain both commitments in a world that did its best to cultivate less impassioned interests, a coldness driven by the love of computers and mass communications and soulless art. Not that Florence had detached itself from the twentieth century completely, but its signal character had remained delightfully embedded in a consciousness, a fervor for the grandeur of its past.

He had chosen a rural route, forgoing the faster, if somewhat antiseptic, highways. There had really been no reason to monitor his time, since Sarah wasn’t due until much later that evening. She had cabled from somewhere in Switzerland two days ago and had left instructions on which hotel he should check into once in Florence. And under which name he should register. That had seemed a bit odd, but the instructions had been very clear.
Instructions
. It was the kindest way he could describe the marching orders he had received. No questions about the conference, the weather—anything that might have lent the message some personality. So be it, he had thought. And, of course, she had told him to stay away from Pescatore. That, Xander now mused, had not been all that difficult, considering his old friend hadn’t actually been there. No doubt he was digging ever deeper into the mysteries of Eisenreich, unwilling to tear himself away in order to take part in what had ultimately been a social gathering masquerading as an academic colloquium.

The sudden appearance of headlights in his rearview mirror brought Xander back to the road. Realizing he could barely see thirty feet in front of him, he flicked on his own high beams just in time to avoid a collection of rocks strewn across the pavement. With a quick jolt to the left, the car momentarily drove up onto the grassy slope of the hill with sufficient force to bounce Xander a good two inches above his seat. Another rapid swing to his right and the car was back on the road. He had to laugh. He had deserved the slight bump to his head, he thought. His overreaction to a few pebbles on the road had no doubt caused the driver behind him no small amount of anxiety. Checking his mirror again, Xander watched as the headlights—now creeping along—cautiously maneuvered the rocky spot. Within a few minutes, the car was once again only about forty yards behind him.

Forcing himself to concentrate for the last leg of the trip, Xander began to look in the mirror every ten to twenty seconds. He noticed that the car behind was drawing closer and closer, shooting along the road at near breakneck speed. It seemed rather odd, he thought, considering the care the driver had taken only moments ago. And yet, the car was looming ever larger in his mirror. Within a few seconds, the sound of its engine rose above the din of his own, the glare of its lights momentarily obscuring his vision. Luckily, the advent of a long, straight descent offered Xander the opportunity to slow down so as to let the car pass.

But the driver had no intention of passing. Instead, he closed within only a few inches of the Fiat and began to nudge the smaller car, jerking Xander forward with each tap.
What the
… Xander looked over his shoulder only to be met by the sudden shock of high beams cascading through his rear window. Trying to blink away the spots now dancing in his eyes, he hit the accelerator, shifting the car back down into third as the road began to climb. The churning of the fiery little engine, however, was no match for that of the car behind. The beams streamed in, reflecting off the windshield as Xander rocked from another jolt. He felt encased in light, almost unable to see the road in front of him, the small guardrail racing alongside his only guide.
Jesus Christ! What is this?
One word entered his mind.