The Overseer (40 page)

Feric had placed him to the right, an unspoken understanding that he was to be the first seen, the primary target, the lure to turn hunter into hunted. Feric would wait and attack from behind. Both men knew he would need the advantage, his left arm now of little use in combat. All around, the dawn had begun to climb to the horizon, a cold wash of orange day cutting through the thick mist and granting both men a clearer view of the platform.

The door swung open, the wind screeching into the sudden cavity as the large figure reappeared. His recognition of Xander was immediate, his arms stretching out in the pose of attack, his shoulders left free as Feric lunged from behind. But it was Feric who was surprised as the man whipped his leg back, catching the operative in the midsection and throwing him against the steel wall. With equal force, he cracked Xander across the jaw, sending him to his knees before leveling Feric with a kick to the ribs. Xander
struggled
to his own feet, aware that the man was landing blow after blow to Feric’s chest. The train veered left, sending Xander careening into the man’s back.

It was enough for him to lose his footing, grab at Feric for support as all three lurched toward the cabin door. Suddenly, the man’s boot rose up, driving into Xander’s groin, the instant agony forcing him to the floor, the case crashing to the platform.

Xander felt the first taste of vomit rise in his throat as he struggled to find the will to grab for the case. He was perilously close to the ledge, his hand locked tenuously to the bottom rung of the ladder. Above him, the man stood with Feric’s limp body in his arms, the bloodied head dangling to the side. With one short burst, the man shifted his weight and tossed Feric into the dark vacancy. An instant later, Xander felt the steel begin to slip from his own hand.

 

The Range Rover had been a complete surprise. Given Sedgewick’s
penchant
for expensive suits, Sarah had expected a limousine, or at least a
well-stocked
Mercedes to pull up to the hotel. Instead, George had jumped from the cab of the four-by-four to help her up to her seat. She had changed into dark pants, a simple jacket, and a linen T-shirt. If she was meant to play the loyal minion of Eisenreich—the onetime assassin recruited to do their bidding—she meant to dress the part. Elegant but practical, enough to make the right impression, enough to match the profile they had no doubt seen in her file.

Just over an hour into the ride, Sarah understood why the Rover.
Driving
up into the hills, the trucklike car made the steep grades and rocky
terrain
of the climb remarkably comfortable. They had left the main road, if that is what one could call it, not more than five minutes ago. Now Tieg’s large ranch house appeared on a not-too-distant ridge, bathed in a sheet of lights. As its various levels came into view, the house began to resemble an assortment of rectangles thrown together in haphazard sequence, each buffeted by endless panes of ceiling-high glass, windows to give every corner a breathtaking view of the rolling hills to each side. To the north and west, trees reached to the edge of a gravel drive, the rest retreating down the mountain in a jagged line of leaves and branch. Tieg clearly enjoyed his
privacy
, his mountain retreat nearly inaccessible to uninvited guests.

They drove along the narrow lane that bordered a pristine garden of clipped grass, an obvious stamp of order on the otherwise-wild
surroundings
. Even here, Sarah thought, the men of Eisenreich needed to show their control.

The car came to a stop at the apex, the front door a few steps down from the driveway. George slipped out from behind the wheel, darted around the car, and extended a hand to help Sarah from her seat. An hour and a quarter, door-to-door. It seemed far more remote than that. Leaving her at the head of the steps, he returned to the wheel and drove off to an unseen garage. Standing alone, Sarah enjoyed the view for a brief moment before taking the first step down. As she did, the door opened, Sedgewick’s figure appearing in the light.

“Ah, Ms. Trent,” he said, pulling the door back, “taking advantage of the mountain air. It’s often my first reaction, as well.”

“It’s beautiful up here,” she answered as she moved through the
doorway
and past him into an open foyer, a sunken living room just beyond. The cool night air was replaced by the smell of a pinewood fire. The hearth, at the center of the room, rose like an inverted funnel to the cathedral
ceiling
twenty feet above. Off to the right, framed by a windowed view of a starry sky, Anton Votapek stood, his glass lifted in her direction.

“Good evening, Ms. Trent.”

Before she could answer, a second man, much larger, with a wide chest and thick fingers, appeared from behind a grand piano at her left. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced.” He stepped toward the center of the room and smiled. “My name is Jonas Tieg, and I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

 

“What are you telling me, you
imbecile
!” The voice crackled, but it was not the transatlantic connection causing the tremor. Rage seethed from the other end, the bald man with the cellular phone pulling it from his ear as the voice thundered again. “
What
were you told to do, Paolo? To
kill
them both?
No
!
This you were expressly warned against.”

“Eric went over as well. They must have given him no choice—”

“Given
him
no choice? You expect me to believe that a three-hundred-pound man is
forced
to kill
them
? What kind of
stupidity
is that?” The sound of coughing sputtered on the line, a wheezing of breath before the tirade continued. “And the manuscript, the notes?”

“The manuscript?”

“The
books
, the
books
! Are you paying attention, Paolo?”

“Oh, the manuscript, the books, yes.” The man spoke quickly, trying to deflect the attack. “It must have gone off the train with them. There was no sign of anything by the time I reached the car.”

“
By the time you
—” Another spasm of coughing. “You were not together?”

“I … we … no, we met at the center—”

“Enough.” Control returned to the tired voice. “You were meant to protect Jaspers, and now …” There was genuine anguish in the voice. “You have disappointed me beyond measure.” The line was silent for a few seconds as the weathered voice gathered its strength and considered the next move. “I needed those notes, Paolo. I needed to know what he had. I will now have to—” He cut himself off. “Get off the train and return to Wolfenbüttel. Make sure everything has been cleaned up there.”

“But what about Eric? And the other man? What of Jaspers?”

“
Get off that train and do as you are told!
” The venom returned. “I will send somebody to clean up your mess.”

The line went dead, and Paolo Vestuti slumped back into his seat. He had never heard the old man so angry, never heard the coughing so intense. But he would do what he was told. As he always had. A week of trailing, only to lose him. Vestuti closed his eyes, the image of the two men falling from the platform—Eric’s huge frame breaking through the chain barrier, Jaspers gripping at the enormous neck. The violent picture remained with him, his own futility in pulling the door open too late, peering over the side to find nothing, the wind driving him back to the safety of the car.

He would be made to atone for the sin. Of that he was certain.

 

Sarah stared at the unexpected face of Votapek; her eyes, however, remained controlled. She then turned to the less familiar member of the trio. “And I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr. Tieg.” Sedgewick was extending his hand toward the steps. “Daniel into the lion’s den?” she asked.

“Daniel?” Sedgewick smiled as he followed Sarah down to the living room. “Hardly, Ms. Trent. You don’t seem the type to call on the gods to save you. And we”—he stopped at the bar, lifting two champagne glasses and handing one to her—“we’re not animals.”

“Not
gods
, Larry,” said Votapek, “
one
God. Capital
G
. That was what Daniel was willing to die for, his
one
God. Am I right, Ms. Trent?”

Sarah took the glass and smiled at the smallest of the three men. “I think he survived. That was the point of the story.”

Sarah’s candor had the desired effect. Votapek and Sedgewick looked at one another and laughed; Tieg, though somewhat more subdued, joined in a moment later. Sarah moved to the window. There was little doubt in her mind that the men of Eisenreich had accepted her as one of their own. The easy banter, the attempt to make a new associate feel welcome—all the
trappings
of self-confidence and commitment. And yet she felt a distinct
uneasiness
. These were the men ready to throw the country into chaos, eager to foist a new breed—a programmed breed—of children into the vacuum they would create. Light repartee and champagne hardly seemed fitting.

Sarah glanced out the window. Just below, the room jutted out beyond the scarp of the hill, the slope falling off in a tangle of trees and plants, the topmost awash in a glow emanating from an unseen column of lights. Sarah wondered whether it was meant to highlight the view or to maintain a careful watch on the most densely camouflaged access to the house.

“How often do you have these little get-togethers?” she asked as she moved toward the fire to find a well-cushioned chair.

“Those questions, I think, can wait for dinner,” said Sedgewick as he topped up Votapek’s glass and turned to Tieg.

“One is sufficient for me.” He smiled, then turned to Sarah. “Eisenreich is always better over a nice piece of fish and some artichoke. I trust salmon is to your liking, Ms. Trent.” Tieg had situated himself on a leather sofa against the far side, more window than wall, with an equally stunning view of the surrounding hills. His legs were crossed, his hands holding the glass at his knees. Sarah looked over at him, a pensive figure, a far cry from the man described in the dossier she had read earlier that evening.

“Anton is always quick to point out my little shortcomings.” Sedgewick’s smile elicited no reaction whatsoever. “
One
God? It seems to me the Greeks and Romans were far more sensible—they had hundreds to do their bidding.”

“
Their
bidding?” Votapek laughed. “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? We following God’s commands—something like that?”

“Larry has a way of looking at things,” piped in Tieg, more for Sarah’s benefit than Votapek’s, “that makes conventional interpretation seem somewhat naïve.” Sarah noticed how different Tieg was from his television persona. No homespun aphorisms. This was a highly articulate man.

“Not naïve, Jonas. Rudimentary perhaps, but not naïve.” It was Sedgewick’s turn to correct. “Monotheism has managed to keep a
stranglehold
on us for the last two thousand years. What we’ve failed to remember is that religion is a tool, a means to—”