The Overseer (21 page)

“We got away.” She pulled the scarf from her neck and laid it across the back of her chair.

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean in the tunnels. You seemed—”

An almost imperceptible tension rose in her shoulders to cut him off. “I seemed gone?” She turned back to him and stared into his eyes. “Is that what you were going to say?”

He waited before answering. “I … suppose. Yes.”

“No need to suppose. It’s a very good way to describe it.”

Xander could tell it was not a point to press. “Yes. It is.” His fingers began to play with the edge of his napkin. “I felt a little …
gone
there myself. I guess one never gets used to any of this. Whatever
this
is.”

“For now,
this
is the manuscript and the files. And three men in the States who are just getting started.” She saw her words register. “Isn’t that what you said differentiates this from Machiavelli—one city wasn’t enough?” The cappuccino arrived. Sarah waited until they were alone before continuing. “Whatever happened in those tunnels, whatever you might have felt in that office, you have to remember that those men and those files are the priority. The focus. I’m sorry if that frightens or upsets you, but there really isn’t any other alternative.”

He let the words sink in. “You’re right—I … shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s not about right or wrong. I appreciate your concern—I do—but neither of us has the time for it.” She waited, then smiled. “So, there are three versions. That’s helpful.”

“Yes … it is.” It took Xander a moment to gather his thoughts; he sipped at the piping hot coffee. “According to the files, he found the German one about three months ago in a small archive in Belgrade. The whole thing was misfiled and mistitled; no one had ever …”

His words faded to the background as she continued to stare at him. His concern had been so genuine. So gentle.

What
had
happened in the tunnel? It was too easy to explain it away as a flash of memory—the bulbs, the swaying body, the life she had not been able to save. The sacrifice.

“I can take General Safad’s men out now! End this here. If I don’t, we risk losing the girl.” Static filled the receiver as a message appeared on the computer screen.

DELAY. MAINTAIN POSITION.

Another delay! There was no reason. She could kill them all and end the threat. But delay … she’d never be able to get through. And she’d told her, promised Jessica she would be there, but now … What choice would she have? What choice could she make?

“… the interesting part is that, in its preface, it mentions that it’s the
final
version of the manuscript, and then makes reference to the
two
earlier copies. Ergo,
thre
e in total.” Xander stopped, noticing Sarah’s eyes on his. “Are … you okay?”

For a moment, she said nothing. “Yes.” She offered a smile. “Three copies.”

Still unsure, Xander returned the smile. “You know you said something back there … in the tunnel … a girl’s name. Jessica.”

The reference momentarily caught Sarah off guard. “Really?” She looked at Xander. “Jessica
Conlon
. The ambassador’s daughter.” Xander remained silent. “It was a long time ago.” For several seconds, neither said a word.

Finally, he nodded awkwardly. He knew it had been a mistake to mention the episode again. Still, she had seemed so lost. “Right…. Anyway, Carlo’s convinced that the Italian one is still somewhere out there. From the little I read, it sounds as if he’d recently started looking for it.”

She took a sip of her cappuccino. “Any luck?”

“I haven’t read enough to know. We have to assume that the Italian was the first because it would have been the one Eisenreich sent to Clement. And there would have been no way for it to have made a reference to any other versions because, at the time, there wouldn’t have
been
any other versions. The Latin—the one I’m assuming our favorite threesome have had for quite some time—must have been the
second
version and would have made references only to the first. It follows, then, that whoever found that translation believed for
years
that there were only two versions—the Latin and the Italian.”

“And now, because of the razored-out copy—the one in German—they’ll know there are three.”

“Right. The only difference is that I have Carlo’s notes. They don’t.”

“And you think the notes will lead you to the Italian version.” He nodded. “That raises the stakes considerably.”

It took him a moment to answer. “I guess that’s true.”

“Don’t guess.”

“All right … so what am I supposed to do now?”

“Exactly what you would have done if none of this had happened.” She pushed her cup to the side and leaned across the table, her hand cupping his as she spoke. “They won’t do anything to you. In fact, they’ll
want
you to find the manuscript.”

“And when I do, they’ll want to
kill
me. Even
I
can figure that out.”

“I’m not going to let that happen.”

Sarah stared at him, aware of how much she needed to believe her own words, how much more they meant than mere reassurance. In some strange way, Eisenreich was offering her a chance at redemption, a way to put Amman behind her. Perhaps more.
Nothing expendable. Nothing sacrificed
. But only by diving back in. She continued to stare at him. Was there really any other choice?

“For some reason,” Xander said, “I actually believe you.” Her hand felt very solid in his. “So I just get on a plane for London.”

“If that’s where Pescatore’s notes tell you to go.”
London
. That would complicate things. She needed to get back to the States, to the men of Eisenreich. Whatever Pritchard had set in motion, the game was now hers. Alone. COS had betrayed her once. Not again.

It was time for her to find out how unified Eisenreich really was, create a little chaos of her own. Do what she did best—rattle the foundation and make those men question their own commitment to one another.

But to let Xander go—even if she knew he
had
to go—she would have to find a way to keep him safe, to protect him. She squeezed his hand.

“Stay at the Lowndes. Knightsbridge.” She saw the question in his eyes. “Trust me.” She began to gather her scarf. “We should be going.”

He nodded and stood. “What about you?”

“Me?” She slipped the scarf over her shoulder and looked up at him, a smile. “Don’t worry about me.”

Before she could turn for the door, he reached out and pulled her close to him. It seemed to catch them both by surprise. So sudden, his arms cradling her back, her hands and head gently pressed to his chest. Only a moment. When he stepped back, his arms fell awkwardly to his sides.

“I, uh … sorry.” He tried to find his gloves in his pockets. “I guess it must be all the excitement. I … I just don’t think I’m going to have much of a choice—not worrying about you, I mean.”

Again their eyes locked. For a reason she could not explain, she wanted to reach out to him.
Don’t do that, Xander Jaspers. Don’t take that kind of risk
. But she knew it was too late. She could see it in his eyes. Sense it in her own.

What she couldn’t see was how much he would be willing to sacrifice, how much of himself.

And that, above all else, frightened her.

 

S
ENATOR
S
CHENTEN WATCHED
as the tea bag spun gently above his cup, drops of liquid splashing to the creamy brown surface below. He had never been one to tie the string around the helpless bag, strangling the leaves for what little tea remained. Nor was he terribly good with bare fingers on the boiling pouch, having always suffered from a certain sensitivity. No, he
simply
let it drip, his eyes caught in the endless twists, the rapid butterfly
flutter
that would reach near standstill before reversing on itself for the winding flight back. With each series, the bag seemed to gain added weight, the turning less and less animated, until, with a final release, the
little
sac swung limp and cold at the end of its string. Schenten tossed the
lifeless
bag into the wastebasket at the side of his desk and lifted the cup to his lips. The tea had already passed from unbearable to piping hot.

Outside, a near-perfect winter morning stung the Washington skyline, raw and fine. A brilliant sun cascaded in all directions, promising warmth but providing little more than hollow protection against the chill that rolled off the water. The open expanse seemed timeless, frozen in a postcardlike sterility under a thin blanket of distilled air. Schenten could almost feel the cold on his neck as he lifted the cup for another sip of the searing liquid. At that moment, he could concentrate only on its pulsating heat. For that single moment, his mind was free.

The freedom he enjoyed, though, was not the simple release from the grind of weekly demands. Over the last forty years, he had become inured to the patterns that defined his hours on the Hill. His affiliations, express or tacit, created a neat sort of web that demanded a highly structured approach to daily activity. And, if pressed to admit it, he enjoyed the
regularity
, the opportunities his breakfast meetings or midmorning conferences afforded him to preach more of the gospel, to confirm his place as the “iron-willed senator,” a reporter’s onetime reference to Bismarck that had caused not the least bit of resentment in the feisty politician.

Given his rather public persona, the German terrier (often misprinted
terror
) knew only too well what his constituents had come to expect. A bulldog approach to government that ensured a strict adherence to
free-market
economy and strong national security, all in the name of “
progressive
stability”—a phrase he himself had coined, unaware or unconcerned with its apparent inconsistency. An inconsistency that had brought Reagan to the fore and had launched a grassroots conservative thrust sustained for eight glorious years. Heady days indeed, when everything had come together with a sense of urgency, promise, only to be lost in the
mismanagement
of skeptics and incompetents. Those who did not understand, had never understood, who had faltered under the preposterous challenge for
change
. To be so close and to have it all dashed away infuriated the old man. Such fumbling had clearly called for new tactics, new approaches—strategies to bypass the usual channels. No, it was not the accustomed requirements of his official duties that transformed a simple cup of tea into so powerful an elixir. More was at stake.

“I have no appointments until eleven, is that right, Amanda?”

“A Mr. Davis from SEC at ten, lunch with Senator—”

“That’s fine, dear, thank you. See that I’m not disturbed until then.” He released the button, unconcerned with the reply from the outer office. He had given himself an hour to scan through the little book hidden within the safe behind his desk. It was all he could afford this morning.

He had shown little imagination when they had installed the safe nearly thirty years ago, directly behind his desk and covered by an oil painting of the Montana home that had become the focus of some rather intriguing
meetings
of late. Swinging his chair round, Schenten pulled the frame back and set to work on the lock.
That
he had replaced.
Several
times. No longer the
spinning
dial and click, click, click of a tumbler; now a digital input and voice command opened the safe. It was better that way, given what was inside.

He pushed aside various legal papers, some cash, and a small box before finding the little book. He paused for a moment, his eyes glued to the box, a happy but painful reminder of a time gone by. He often asked
himself
why he hadn’t destroyed them—a few letters, a young passion. An affair. He had kept them all, never rereading them. Margaret had never known. Or if she had, she had never let on. He knew it had been foolish to keep them. But even iron-willed old terrors had their weaknesses. Jean had been his.

Safe and painting back in place, Schenten settled into the leather chair and began to read. As always, he took notes. He would burn them before ten.