The Overseer (15 page)

Now, sitting alone, she was a different person entirely, hair pulled back, its reddish tint an attempt to convey the vanity of an Italian sophisticate with a yen for things northern European. Along with the dark glasses, her face had a far more angular quality. Her clothes were also less obvious, muted colors of skirt and blouse beneath a heavy black coat. Subtle differences, to be sure, yet each effected with a trained hand; she was having little trouble blending into the surroundings.

The change had occurred two hours earlier, five minutes after she had cleared customs. She had ventured into a ladies’ room off the main concourse and had spent nearly forty minutes redesigning herself, a skill she recalled with easy familiarity. Memories from her early junkets into the field as a member of COS. Those first years when a simple change of clothing had been sufficient. Until O’Connell had seen something else, something that told him that her
gift
lay not in the costume but in the alteration of her very persona. An ability to adapt beyond herself, to become little more than a reflection of those she was sent to manipulate. Pritchard, too, had seen the possibilities—the perfect infiltrator.

Staring at herself in the oversized mirror, Sarah had come to realize that it was no longer expedient to question why that past—with its numbing, calculating voice—had returned with such clarity. It was simply enough to put the instincts to use. This time, though, she would have to maintain a connection with Sarah, redefine the operative as something more than a sober casing for easy brutality. Once again, someone so thoroughly at odds with the arena was forcing the duality, the sense of responsibility. After all, wasn’t Jaspers the reason she had let herself be thrown back in?

She had emerged without the slightest glance from her would-be companion. So different from her first encounter with the men of Eisenreich. The horror of the alley now seemed utterly foreign. Even some semblance of sanity had returned to Washington—the country all too eager to dismiss the hours of mayhem as a singular event. But Sarah knew better.
Only the first trial
. And yet she had nothing tangible to give her a lead. Too much remained hazy, obscured in the shadow of a manuscript she had yet to see.

What she needed were facts, pieced together in a neat little lump to clear away any ambiguity, set the patterns in front of her, allow her to set a course for confrontation.
Know these men. Meet them as they are, not as you a re. Show them only reflections of themselves
. Orders from a distant past.

It was why she had contacted Feric. The name so like the man himself, cautious, deliberate, ferretlike in demeanor, with a curious talent for things destructive. His skills, though, were far more than mere extensions of a will for violence. They were tools, coupled with a loyalty that had nothing to do with the money Sarah left at his disposal. Over the years, she had kept him from the Committee, a private resource, unknown and untouchable. A combination rare indeed.

She had placed the ad in one of the Bern papers. As always, they had met at a small café along the Aare.

“The notice came as something of a surprise.” He kept his eyes on the avenue, his words direct, hushed. “I did not think you would be returning.”

“Things change.”

“Evidently. You are in Europe?”

“For now, yes.”

He nodded, took a sip of his beer. “And the contact point.”

“Next week. Same column.”

“Good.”

“The money’s been deposited.”

He allowed himself a smile, placing a few coins on the table as he stood. In a somewhat louder voice, he said, “And, of course, remember me to your dear mother.” Tipping his hat, he moved off, his hands casual at his sides.

The announcement for the train brought her back; she stood and moved to the escalator.

C
HICAGO
, M
ARCH
2, 12:15
P.M.
“We have a problem, Marty.” The voice came over the intercom.

“Problem.” Martin Chapmann, a thirty-seven-year-old whiz kid who had avoided the worst of ’87 and now sat as managing director of the Helpurn Investment Group, scanned the numbers on his private screen.

“We’re overextending,” answered the analyst. “Some of these options—I just took a look at the last two weeks of trades in grain. Have you seen this? I don’t think we want to be going in this direction. At this rate—”

“What does the computer say?”

“The computer? The computer says … we’re fine. But even a couple more hours like this, the market could be in serious trouble. The sell-offs on reserve grain stocks are climbing—”

“Then we must be fine.” The words carried a finality.

There was a pause. “Let me take a closer look. Just to make sure.”

Another pause. “All right, Tim. If you think that’s best.” He turned off the intercom and picked up the phone. A minute later, Chapmann had Laurence Sedgewick on the line. “Sorry to trouble you—”

“No trouble at all,” the words delivered in a monotone. “What can I do for you, Mr. Chapmann?”

“The vulnerability. It’s … beginning to show.”

“It’s a little early…. Still, all we need is a few more hours. I don’t see the problem.”

“I know, but I’m not the one controlling—”

“I understand that,” said Sedgewick. “Is anyone aware that the trading positions are computer-generated?”

“No. We’re up to about half a billion in bad bets. Someone, however, wants to check the numbers this end.”

There was a pause. “That would be a mistake.”

“Yes, I … I’m aware of that.”

“Then you’ll need to take care of it.”

Several seconds passed before Chapmann responded. “And I keep buying those positions until—”

“It’ll become clear when you’ve gone far enough.”

“So we’re actually going to take this thing over the edge?”

There was a pause on the line. “I thought we were clear on this?”

Silence. “I understand.”

“Think of it as an experiment, Martin. A controlled environment to test the response. Let’s just make sure the environment stays controlled.”

A moment later, the line went dead.

Chapmann sat back, turned to take in the skyline from his fiftieth-floor perch. It was never more than that from Sedgewick—detachment with an edge. Chapmann had been with him since the last days of Warren Corp., part of the shake up that had left Sedgewick virtually isolated. Even then, the man had been cool to a fault, the loss of a $60 million venture tossed off with apparent indifference. He had been up and running again within three months. Chapmann had never asked how. Part of the aura. It was why Marty had remained so close to him. Sedgewick had earned his trust.

He inhaled deeply and flicked on the intercom. “How about a little lunch, Tim? Fill me in on what you’ve found.”

“You buying?”

“Of course.” He paused. “Isn’t it always my treat?” Removing his finger from the intercom, he picked up the phone.

 

The Donato had been expecting Signore Fabrizzi and his wife up from Naples for a long weekend, Italians not required to leave passports with the concierge. Sarah had arranged everything, including the bottle of champagne in the room. Perhaps she had known Xander would need it. Given the absurdity of the last hour, he had come very close to taking a few swigs. He could almost forgive himself for his foolishness at the station—trailing after his pursuers. But the man’s smile, that had unnerved him. He tried to push the thoughts from his mind as he settled into the sofa, his legs up on a small table.

A yellow glow streamed through the window and cast an uncomfortable glare across his eyes as he thought about giving into a nap. He knew he had the time; Sarah wasn’t due for another two hours, but as he tried to maneuver himself from the streetlight’s grasp, he could muster only enough energy to shift his shoulders. Evidently, it would take more than that.

Forced to wrestle himself up from the sofa, Xander opted for the cold wash of the Florentine night and ventured out onto the metalwork balcony that hung six floors above the Via dei Panzani. The burst of freezing air erased all thoughts of dozing from both mind and body. But it was the view to his left that truly made him forget his fatigue.

Don Quixote and his ever-faithful Sancho. The fat one on the left, the tall, thin one on the right. Xander’s irreverence for perhaps the world’s most striking architectural display brought a smile to his lips. Awash under a flood of lights, the Duomo and Campanile stared back at him, the central stained-glass eye of the cathedral penetrating the deep shadows cast by the powerful lamps from a hundred feet below. Clearly, their creators had been artists rather than builders. To Xander, the two seemed to be holding their ground, waiting for an unknown attack, comforted in each other’s company. There was something very settling in their patience.

A chill began to rise on his back. He glanced wistfully at the glitter of the city street below and stepped back into the room, pulling shut the two French doors behind him. In an eerie unison with the click of the latch, the sound of a key at the front door drained the blood from his face. Images of the Florentine night immediately slipped away. In their place, an all-too-vivid picture of a bearded smile rose before Xander’s eyes.

Xander’s mind began to race, leaving his back frozen against the icy pane. He felt totally isolated, pinned against the glass, caught within the angry stare of the shaded bulb from the table.
Get out of the light, damn it!
Get out of the light!
The words tore through him, an unknown source pulling him from his perch as the long seconds passed. He bolted toward the lamp, nearly striking his shin on the corner of the glass table before managing the switch. The room sunk into dim haze; only the soft stream of the streetlight cast odd silhouettes against the walls. Hearing the delicate turning of the knob and the creak of the door, he lunged to his right behind the childlike protection of a leather chair placed opportunely in the corner of the room. A broad wedge of light began to slice its way through the room as he groped for anything that might serve as a weapon. The bulbous outline of the champagne cork caught his eye; Xander clutched at the two-pound bottle, drawing it to his side, ready to flail about at even the hint of discovery. Focusing on his own breath, he tried to quell the rapid-fire pounding of his heart, certain that its echo could be heard throughout the room.

A shadow filled the expanse, rising across the ceiling and bearing down on his little enclosure. Daring no movement, he listened intently to the measured steps as they crept farther and farther into the room. Cautious footsteps, testing the waters. Again, the word
professional
taunted him, added to the strain in his fingers and lungs, and began to sap what little energy he had for the instant of confrontation. The figure inched nearer, a momentary flicker of light from the street catching a hand, a wrist. And in a sudden frenzy, Xander sprang from the corner, clawing desperately for the shards of arm that had revealed themselves in the cutting glare of the streetlamp. His other hand, still wrapped around the bottle, began to swing forward in the aimless direction of the figure as yet unseen.

The sensation he felt was wholly unexpected. A jabbing pincerlike object tore into the soft flesh of his wrist, forcing the improvised weapon from his hand. With a single twisting motion, a searing pain shot through his arm as his legs seemed to disappear, kicked out from beneath him. His backside and head crashed into the carpeted floor—his arm still captive—the harsh leather of a shoe’s sole planting itself on his throat, the pressure sufficient to bar any movement save for the sporadic gulps of air he struggled to take in. More paralyzed by his own fear than anything else, Xander waited for the final blow.

It never came. The viselike grip around his wrist loosened; the next moment, the shoe lifted from his neck. Xander lay very still, free but dazed. Slowly, he pulled his arm back to his side and tried to regain his feet, but the pain in his arm would not allow him to push up. Crouching on the ground, clasping his wrist, Xander looked up through the streaks of light. There, staring down at him, was the vague outline of Sarah’s face.