The Overseer (38 page)

Firing back, Feric bent through the window, his coat sleeve awash in dark red streaks, the cold air a welcome relief from the thick heat of the room. To his right, Xander had managed his way along the short projection of roof and was waiting for him. Feric watched as the academic leapt to the ground, rolling to his side, still clutching the case close to his chest. In a loud whisper, Feric barked at him from the roof,
“The car!”
as he himself turned back, let go another volley, and then jumped, a return brush of
bullets
whisking overhead as the sudden intrusion of hard ground buckled his knees and forced him to roll onto his shoulder. The pain in his arm was now staggering as he tore at the dirt in front of him and made his way to the car.
“Drive!”
Feric slapped the keys into Xander’s chest, opened the door, and slipped into the back. Tossing the case onto the passenger seat, Xander slid in behind the wheel; a moment later, the far window shattered, lights from across the street suddenly on, all the while Xander fumbling with the chain. Somehow, he found the key, popped it into the slot, and ignited the engine.

The old Saab fired into gear, the motor screaming at the exertion as the car lunged forward, the
ping-pang
of bullets on metal keeping Xander’s head just below the steering column. He looked back through the
splintered
rear window, to see two men jumping from the narrow roof—old acquaintances from the university. The bald titan immediately stood and fired after the car. The bearded one remained on the ground, his hands clasped to his lower leg in obvious pain. Xander watched as the standing man turned and fired two bullets into the other’s head.

“Did you
see
that?” Xander gasped as he turned his attention to the road ahead, oblivious to Feric’s pained expression.

“Just
drive!
” came the orders from the back, the sound of cloth tearing as Feric ripped a piece from his shirt with his teeth to bind his wound. “Find the highway.” A flash of bright light rose from behind, the high beams of a car quickly gaining, blinding Xander momentarily as the shock of dazzling white stared at him from the rearview mirror. “Give me your hand.”

“What?”

“Your hand! Give me your hand!”

Xander extended his hand over the seat, Feric quickly positioning two of the fingers on a segment of the ripped cloth. “Apply pressure.” Xander was leaning over the wheel, his shoulder contorted in an attempt to help, the tacky warmth of blood coating his fingers as he spotted the name of a
familiar
road, his instinct quick enough to swerve the car and make the turn, the movement careening Feric—cloth, fingers, and blood—against the far wall.

“
Please!
Concentrate on the road.” Another order from the back as Feric continued his repairs.

“This takes us out to the Autobahn. In about ten to twelve kilometers.”

Feric did not answer, knotting the cloth and pulling his arm away, Xander’s hand free to retake the wheel. “You have the books and computer?”

“Yes.”

“Concentrate on the road.”

Lights from behind now filled the small cabin of the Saab, Feric gingerly reloading his gun as the driver from the other car reached out his window and fired off a round. The rear glass shattered completely, Feric miraculously unscathed by the shards; Xander, however, felt a jagged edge drive into his right shoulder. The pain increased as Feric yanked the chip out. Not bothering to clear away the glass, Feric fired back, claiming the left front light and forcing the car to snake its way along the road. “He will now try to draw up next to us. Drive in the middle of the road.”

Without thinking, Xander shifted the car over, the pain in his shoulder a dull throb, the road beginning to twist as it emerged from the residential area. He brought the car to eighty, its entire shell shaking from the strain, the constant swerve jostling Feric back and forth. Within a minute, the road straightened, a long expanse cutting through farmland, as Feric again took aim, the other car now no more than thirty feet behind.

“He will shoot for your tires.
Swerve!
”

Xander complied, the loping rhythm of the car’s movement in strict counterpoint to the intermittent bursts of gunfire flying through the night sky. A jolt from behind sent Feric into the back of Xander’s seat, bumper crashing into bumper, a momentary loss of acceleration but without the conviction to force the heavy Saab off the road. Xander recalled the last such trip—the hills of Florence, the black Mercedes. It seemed months ago. A sign for Kassel raced by, the Autobahn no more than a minute away. The distant haze of lights came into view as the two cars jockeyed for
position
on the narrow strip of highway, the road widening into four lanes, enough room for the car behind to draw alongside. As the entrance neared, Xander found himself forced to drift farther and farther away from the ramp, his only recourse against the second car now inching its way up on his left-hand side. At the last possible moment, he downshifted to third, the car screaming in agony as he spun hard on the wheel, perfectly timing the maneuver so as to drive through the entrance and leave Eisenreich no room to follow. Just then, Feric lunged forward, grabbed the wheel, and turned the car back onto the smaller road.

“
What
are you doing?” There was no reason to struggle, the ramp no longer possible, the road again narrowing, the second car tucked in neatly at the rear. “We had it. The Autobahn, and Eisenreich nowhere in sight.”

“By now, or very soon, this car will be on police monitors,” yelled Feric above the whine of the engine. “Plus, on the Autobahn, he would have drawn parallel, and we would not have had a chance.”

Xander shifted back into fourth, momentarily putting space between the two cars; Feric aimed and shot out the second headlight. Screaming above the wind, Feric asked, “Do you know this area?”

“No,” yelled Xander over his shoulder, “but we’re going to run into another town in about five minutes. That’s what these small roads do.” At that moment, the front window streaked into a thousand fine lines, a stray bullet finding an impact point just below the mirror. Xander tried not to think how close the bullet had come to his head as he shifted again, Feric’s foot suddenly thrusting past him, the sheet of glass ripping from its hasps, sliding along the hood and shattering on the road below. The burst of cold air smacked at Xander’s face, a jolt of energy as the breath tightened in his nostrils. The sign for Salzgitter flew past, Xander unsure if the sign had said three kilometers or eight.

To his left, a shrill whistle blew. His head snapped in its direction, where he saw a train beginning to slow, evidently its next stop the town’s station. Feric, too, had turned to his left, now leaning closer to Xander’s ear, the wind racing through the car in violent streams, making communication
virtually
impossible. The word
station
managed to come through as Feric pointed across Xander at the train. He nodded. The question was how.

Houses began to appear, the first since Wolfenbüttel, the town growing around them at unspeakable speed. Feric again took aim at the car behind; the front-right tire exploded in a flapping of rubber, the steel wheel scraping angrily against the hard surface of road. Still, the car came on, the driver undeterred, letting go an equally debilitating shot at the Saab. The sudden crunch of the blowout bolted Xander from his seat, his head smacking against the roof as his hands momentarily left the wheel. Amid the
rough-and
-tumble of the descent into Salzgitter, Feric managed one final shot, its accuracy deadly. The second front tire burst in a torn heap, the car behind now unable to maintain the road, its front grille careening to the left, bouncing off several parked cars before spinning to a stop. Two hundred yards up the road, the station waited, the whistle of the standing train
mercifully
outdueling the clatter of the back wheel. Within thirty seconds, Xander and Feric had dislodged themselves and the computer case from the car as the train began its slow departure. In a dead sprint, the two
hurdled
a set of steps up to the platform and, jogging alongside the train, leapt to the outside edge of the steel landing between two of the cars. Holding on to the chain link, the two stepped over the swinging barrier and into the open air.

Within a minute, the country was sailing by at some forty-five miles an hour. Feric immediately pulled off his coat and tossed it over the side. Breathing hard, he brought forward the rucksack, still miraculously on his back, and removed two windbreakers, handing one to Xander. No words were exchanged as the two men donned the unstained jackets; within three minutes, the two were inside the fifth car of the train headed for Frankfurt, relieved to find themselves alone.

At the station, the bald man, hampered by a strained knee, limped up to the platform, eyes fixed on the receding lights of the train. He pulled a
cellular
phone from his pocket and dialed.

 

Sarah stepped back, an invitation to the room; Sedgewick nodded and moved past her. The second man, his large hands clasped at his waist, his suit bunching at the shoulders, remained in the corridor. His eyes followed her as she closed the door, a none-too-subtle message that the meager
partition
would prove little obstacle should he decide his presence was
necessary
inside. The latch clicked shut, and Sarah turned, to find Sedgewick already at home in the room, an easy smile on his lips.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, but it was the only time I could get to this part of town today. No doubt you were expecting Jonas Tieg.” His
self-confidence
served as a natural buffer against any awkwardness the situation might suggest. Though tied to Eisenreich by the same ambition, he was clearly a far cry from Votapek, less willing to hide his conceit.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

The smile remained. “Jonas doesn’t much like going out in public these days. Difficult, given the success of his television show.” He took in the room, then turned to her, his hands tucked casually in his pockets. “I didn’t expect you to be alone.”

He was wasting no time. Sarah returned the smile. “I wasn’t aware you’d be expecting me at all.”

“Ms. Trent,” his tone still amiable, “the fact that you were permitted to leave the island could only mean that your next stop would be either here or New Orleans. You didn’t come to see me, so I’ve come to you.”

Sarah stared at the man. He was remarkably deft, showing no caution in the response, no need to dance around with subtle jabs. In only a passing phrase, he had defined both their positions, not afraid to reveal his role, along with hers.
“You were permitted to leave the island.”
Permitted
. A word that both hinted at her status as an accepted minion of Eisenreich, and made abundantly clear his ease with the threat that those not granted such privilege would not survive. Votapek had let her go. Evidently, that was endorsement enough. More startling, though, was his admission that he was keeping an eye on the activities of at least one of his compatriots.

Taking in his features, Sarah knew that, with him, it would be even more crucial to sustain the poise that had so unmanned Votapek. Sedgewick would need to see his own arrogance reflected in her. “Considering that contact is out of the question, I’ll have to assume you’ve been keeping tabs on our island friend? Not showing a great deal of team spirit now, are we?”

The eyes momentarily flashed, the smile unchanged as Sedgewick moved toward the sofa. “You’d be surprised, Ms. Trent.”

“How did you find me?” She needed to shift gears.

“It wasn’t that difficult.”

“Without tailing me?” Sarah shook her head as she sat. “I’ve been at this a long time, and either your people are superb or I missed something.”

The smile grew. “I’m sure you missed nothing.” Sedgewick glanced around the room. “The man I expected to find here. Who is he?”

“That doesn’t answer my question. How?”

“Oh, but I think it does.” He sat. “As I said, we were expecting you. What we didn’t expect was him—a little frenetic and obvious, wouldn’t you agree? He wasn’t difficult to pick out at the airport last night, and
considerably
easier to keep track of than you would have been. He registered here and we waited.” Sedgewick offered a rather condescending smile. “Not to worry, your talents are no doubt very much intact. Again, who is he?”

Sarah smoothed her skirt as she spoke, “You surprise me. I would have thought the
who
would be quite easy for you. It was for Votapek.”

“It’s those sorts of things that Anton and I don’t bother to discuss, Ms. Trent.” He crossed his legs, picking a piece of lint from his trousers. “And by the way, the idea that contact is forbidden”—he shook his head—“that wouldn’t really make a great deal of sense, now would it?”

“Is sense really at a premium?”

Sedgewick looked directly at her and then laughed, his cheekbones creasing his eyes to thin slits. “Very good. No, not initially. Sense is the very thing we seem to be fighting against, isn’t it? But then, Anton would have told you that, wouldn’t he?”