The Overseer (47 page)

“It was your choice to make, your responsibility in the end. The delay was i rrelevant.”

“I …”

“The delay was irrelevant.”

Pritchard.

“Shall we walk?” he asked.

Sarah waited, then opened the door, the movement enough to provoke a sudden swirl of motion from the car behind. Almost simultaneously, three men sprang out, each in a dark suit and thin black tie, a shake of the head from Pritchard enough to stop each in his tracks. COS’s director wanted it quite clear that he would handle her himself. Even so, she sensed the
hesitation
on his face as she stepped from the truck. Without waiting, she moved off along the driveway; five seconds later, Pritchard was at her side. Only the sound of gravel churning underfoot interrupted the silence.

“You look well,” he said. “Better than when last I saw you.”

“Yes.”

“Then again, anything would have been better than that.”

“Well, at least this time round you avoid any pangs of conscience.”

“There were none last time.” Pritchard’s expression remained unchanged.

“The escort’s new. Not usually your style.”

“More of a nuisance than anything else, but it seemed the best choice, given the contact.”

“The contact?”

“You. They’ve been told I’m an NSC negotiator—brokering
information
out of Nicaragua. You’ve been cast as the reluctant liaison. They believe you’re rather dangerous. You might even be a threat to my safety.”

“At least that part’s accurate.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is,” he answered.

“And they won’t make a fuss?”

“Not unless you do.” It was a recommendation rather than a response. He tucked his hands into his coat pockets. “You need to come in.”

“I thought we’d been through this?”

“Things change. You need to come in.”

Sarah ignored the request. “You tracked me through Stein?”

“He was sloppy. The charade at Tieg’s was put together at the last minute. Not that Bob had much of a choice, but he handed us the location. We
simply
had to wait for you to emerge. Not exactly a needle in a haystack.”

“The fan belt in Presterton?”

“One has to work with what one’s given.”

“A mechanic’s truck”—she nodded to herself—“on a lonely country road.”

“Innocent enough—it seemed as good a choice as any. And your grease monkey … well, he was ideal for the role. You were bound to come out downstream. We just didn’t know how far.”

“Why not just pick me up yourself?”

Pritchard allowed himself a smile. “Highly unlikely you’d willingly step into a government issue with me in the backseat. We needed to keep your options to a minimum. Mr. Mick was the most appropriate choice.”

“It’s his first name,” corrected Sarah.

“I’m sure it is.”

The drive began to curve round to the back of the garage, a sudden gust of wind driving up from a distant copse of trees. Pritchard pulled his coat closer around his chest.

“So,” continued Sarah, “I now willingly step into that car with you and your three friends—no struggle, no questions?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“Because my options are
considerably
limited. A few witnesses. A convenient story that explains everything they need to know about me.”

“Something like that.” Pritchard was stating facts. “Yes.”

“It still leaves one loose end—
you
. Why does Arthur Pritchard need to put in an appearance? Why not simply send the boys? The result would have been the same. Or am I missing something on current COS policy?”

“The policy,” he replied, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his nose, “is the same as it has always been. To be blunt, some of the
channels
are not as
secure
as we would like them to be.”

“Meaning?”

Pritchard continued in silence, his eyes squinting against the haze.

“Funny”—Sarah nodded—“Stein said the same thing. Doesn’t give me much reason to trust
any
of you.”

Again, he smiled. “Was that ever really part of your repertoire?”

“You still haven’t answered my question. Why you?”

“Because
I
need to know what you have.”

“And you couldn’t coax it out of Bob?” They had reached the edge of the driveway, open field directly in front of them. Sarah stopped. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Unfortunately, our friend Stein has disappeared.” Pritchard continued to walk, leaving Sarah behind. “I never really thought he had it in him.”

“What? An autonomous will?”

Pritchard now stopped, his eyes fixed on a small bird coasting to an
outstretched
branch, his back still to her. “Not surprisingly, all the relevant files are missing with him.”

“I
am
sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, I thought you might be.” Again, the handkerchief appeared, his gaze still on the bird. “Meanwhile, things have taken a decided turn for the worse for your Dr. Jaspers.”

“Really?” The word was spoken without emotion.

“It seems he’s been implicated in the death of a book dealer in Germany.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Perhaps.”

“Implicated how?”

“Newspaper articles. Police reports. The usual sort of thing.” He was busy folding the handkerchief into neat squares as he turned to her. “It all
happened
about sixteen hours ago in a town called Wolfenbüttel.” He looked up. “I don’t suppose you would know why Doctor Jaspers was there?”

“Evidently to kill—”

“Yes, I’m sure that was it.” He deposited the handkerchief in his pocket. “You might be interested to know that Jaspers wasn’t working alone, a fact that raises some very interesting questions. All of which lead to you.”

“Now, that
is
a surprise.” Sarah smiled. “But isn’t that what you’ve wanted all along? Send me out, ruffle a few feathers, then see what turns up? And if a few people need to be eliminated—well, then you’ve got the perfect tool. Touch all the right buttons—drag in a few innocent lives—and the little doll will take all the responsibility. Dive right back in because she can’t live with herself if she lets the same mistakes happen all over again.”

“One might even see it as a last chance for her to ease her conscience.”

“You bastard.”

“Perhaps, but all in a good cause, Sarah. This has been a rather nasty business.”

“Really?” Sarah let the moment pass. “The problem is, from my vantage point, it doesn’t look like it’s worked out the way you’d hoped. Otherwise, I don’t think we’d be having this nice little chat on such a lovely morning.”

“I need to know what you have. Things could get very …
messy
.”

“For whom? For
me?
” Sarah pressed her hands deeper into her pockets. “Messy would be a step up.” The gust picked up again, blowing through the open area and bringing a chill to her shoulders.

“You must be cold after last night,” he said. “We should head back.” Pritchard started toward the gravel.

“Your concern is overwhelming,” she answered as she drew up to his side.

“No, I’m afraid it’s not.”

They walked in silence until they were once again in full view of the men by the car. Pritchard looked over at the three and nodded once, the signal to start the engine. “I sent you out for a purpose, and that purpose has been served. I have no intention of letting the Amman fiasco repeat itself. I’m simply here to make sure we don’t run into the same problem again.”

Sarah started to reply, then stopped, her eyes fixed on Pritchard. “I thought you were here because certain
channels
couldn’t be trusted?”

He had moved ahead and now stopped, his back to her. After a few moments, he turned and answered. “I would have thought you’d be more than happy to disentangle yourself from all of this.”

“All of
what
, Arthur?”

“That’s why we’re having this little chat, isn’t it?” Pritchard squinted and added, “You’ve done all I expected of you; it’s time to step aside.”

“That simple?” Sarah shook her head. “They know who I am, where I come from, and what I know about them. It’s not likely they’ll let it go at that.”

“You might be surprised.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Again he paused. “Do you really want me to answer that?” He let the words sink in. “You have very few choices right now. Best to be smart.”

“Jaspers has been set up, and you know it.”

“Yes, I believe you’re right. But he’s either dead or a wanted killer. Such are the sacrifices we make.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed for the car.

Sarah watched him go, his confidence apparent in the easy gait; a
second
nod, and two of the men started toward her. She had less than a minute, time enough to think, unpack the hesitation she had seen in his face.
Best to be smart.
He had said almost nothing, little more than catch phrases in a game of cat and mouse, but she had heard it, exposed the inconsistency.
Do you really want me to answer that?
What
he
wanted was her out, and it didn’t matter how—a trumped-up conspiracy at COS, the fear of a re-creation of Amman. How many other options had he discarded before bringing the message in person? What was it that he thought she had? Inconsistency and hesitation.

The sound of an engine tore through the morning air, a jarring prelude to the sight that appeared from behind the garage. Four tires—each nearly five feet tall—pummeled the gravel beneath, axels, driveshafts, and exhaust pipes in full view below the small four-by-four cabin. MENACE was painted across the doors, the vaulted M rising like a wave in metallic red and blue. At the wheel, a grinning Jeff looked down at Sarah, his invitation unheard over the sound of feverish revving. Pritchard’s men began to run, hands reaching to inside jacket pockets. Without thinking, Sarah raced around to the
passenger
side, pulled open the door, and jumped up to the red leather seat. The bite of the engine rocked the car from side to side, Jeff releasing the clutch, the gravel steaming from the burst of acceleration. Sarah reached out for the door—the road beneath a wild blur—summoning all her strength to swing the large frame toward her. A moment later, safe within the speeding cabin, she looked over at the boy who had saved her.

“Did you see their faces!” His grin was all teeth. “I mean, did you see their faces! Especially the old guy. What a rush!”

“What a rush,” she repeated, her eyes searching through the rear
window
for the dark sedan. The men were just now slamming doors as the car tried to make chase, its tiny shell a good hundred yards behind and losing ground with each passing second. Whatever Jeff had concocted under the hood, it was more than a match for the government car. Sarah shifted
forward
and watched the enormous wheels tear along the tarmac, the ride remarkably smooth given the snaking curves of the road.

“You’re full of surprises,” she said.

“Yeah, well that old guy was a little too smart for his own good.
Government
business
. Like I wasn’t going to see right through
that
one? He’s one of those guys in the bet, right?”

“Right … he’s one of those guys,” nodded Sarah.

“I knew it!” Both hands pounded down on the steering wheel in
triumph
. “And Mick acting so official with him.
God
, that old guy got him good! You should’ve seen Mick’s expression, all serious, like I couldn’t understand what was going on. You should’ve heard what he said, telling me to sit in the back room till they were gone. Yeah, like I was going to let him have all the fun.”

“I’m glad you—”

A sudden turn to the right stopped Sarah short, her arm quickly finding the dashboard for support. The car had left the main road and was now careening down what could at best be described as a trail, brambles and stray logs scattered along the path. The four-by-four was having little
difficulty
, although the ride had become far less comfortable. Bouncing along, Jeff turned to Sarah.

“This cuts off about twelve miles. No little sedan’s going to have a chance taking it. There’s no way they catch up. Sorry about the ride.”

Sarah adjusted her seat belt and kept her arm on the dashboard. Whatever had inspired her young friend to go to such lengths on her behalf, she wasn’t going to question his enthusiasm or his methods. “No, no. This is great.”

Four minutes later, they emerged to a paved road, Jeff firing up the engine to bring them to a cruising speed of nearly eighty miles an hour.

“So,” he asked, “where to? Tijuana?”

Sarah sat back.
How about upstate New York—ever met a senator?
“It just feels good to be moving again. Let’s see where it takes us.”

Jeff smiled and brought the car to ninety.

 

Votapek stepped away from the bar, his fourth vodka and tonic clasped firmly in his fingers, the effects of the alcohol apparent in the bloated red of his cheeks. His free hand toyed with the lobe of his ear as he returned to his seat by the piano. Sedgewick was having trouble with a phrase from a Chopin etude, the passage somehow repeating itself in an endless arpeggial loop.