The Overseer (7 page)

“What about Dulles—”

“They’ve got the same thing. So does BWI. And College Park is completely unreachable. Everything went out about four minutes ago. My estimate—of the three majors—six planes in final patterns, another twelve that’ve been given clearance.”

The man moved to the nearest console, its vacant face staring back at
him. In twenty-five years, he’d never seen anything so terrifying. He turned
back to the general mayhem. “All right, people”—he began to rub his
hands together—“we reroute as many as we can through Atlanta; the rest
can try—”

“That’d be great,” the woman answered. “One problem—how, exactly,
do we tell the pilots?”

 

“Votapek?” repeated Jaspers. Sarah leaned forward to pour herself a second cup. “Are we talking about the same Anton Votapek? The Tempsten Project.”

“It was actually called the Learning Center,” she corrected. “The media dubbed it the Tempsten Project.”

He shook his head. “
Votapek
?” He paused. “Why would—”

“It’s about schools, isn’t it, Professor?”

“Yes, but …” He was taking longer to recover than she had expected. “I mean, the man was a genius, the education guru of the sixties, but then … Tempsten.” His eyes began to drift. “Some sort of high concept …
modular teaching
—”

“The
Modular Approach
—‘education as a more aggressive means to creating less autonomous, more community-oriented children.’ Very good, Professor.”

“One more wild theory forced into practice.” He continued to stare off, as if trying to remember something. “What was it, about ten children, all around eight or nine—”

“Actually, fourteen, some as old as eighteen. You seem … rather familiar with all of this.”

He turned to her. “One of the darker moments in American education? If you care about teaching, Ms. Trent, you don’t forget Tempsten.” The reference had clearly disturbed him. He sat back, shook his head slowly. “Eight-and nine-year-olds, turned into …” He suddenly looked at her, his expression far more intense than only a moment ago. “You think he’s linked to Tieg and Sedgewick?”

“I don’t think anything,” she answered. “I simply asked if his name had come up in your research.”

Jaspers stared across at her. “I see.” He paused. “It hasn’t.”

“Have I said something wrong?”

“Wrong? No. Of course not. It’s just that throwing Votapek into the mix makes Tieg’s connection to the Coalition somewhat more unnerving.”

“Really?” She needed to see how far she could lead him.

“Well, now there’d be someone who really
does
have an interest in education, wouldn’t there? A pretty frightening interest, and not just as a political stepping-stone.”

“
If
there’s a connection,” she reminded.

“Right.” His eyes remained on hers. “If.” For a moment, neither said a word. “Now you’ve got me thinking.”

“Sorry.” She smiled.

“I’m sure you are.” He began to fiddle with his spoon. “Trouble is, everything I’ve told you is speculation. I don’t know about Votapek, but there’s nothing in what the other two are doing that even hints at extremism. No neo-Nazis burning synagogues, no white supremacists making inane demands. That’s why I label it ‘decent.’” Again, he paused. “Votapek, however, would change that.” He looked at Sarah as if expecting a response; she merely raised her eyebrows as the waiter arrived with the check. “Anyway,” he said, tapping the spoon against the saucer, “that’s the most detail I can give you. I think there’s a link between Tieg and Sedgewick, but that’s only what
I
think. And even if Votapek is involved, I still couldn’t tell you what they hope to achieve. To be honest, as long as all three of them remain separate entities, there really isn’t anything to worry about.”

“But if they do somehow connect—”

“You’ll have to ask why.” He stopped playing with the spoon and looked directly at her. “What do they want? I’m not sure that’s a question I’d like to answer.”

“You make it sound so sinister.” Sarah was finishing off the last piece of her cake.

“I hope Lundsdorf’s right. He keeps telling me to concentrate on what I know and leave the conspiracy theories to the tabloids. Maybe I’m overreacting.” Xander had finished his second cup and was trying to drain the last vestiges of tea. Finding none, he placed the cup on the saucer and said, “I’ll leave the sinister side to you. Unfortunately, I do need to get back—”

“Of course.”

“But I don’t want to cut you off. Was there anything else?”

Sarah slipped the pad into her briefcase, snapped the locks, and reached for her purse. “I don’t think so, but if we need to talk again—”

“Absolutely. After all, I wouldn’t mind seeing
your
files.”

She smiled and pulled out a ten-dollar bill before he had a chance to reach for his wallet. “I know Professor Lundsdorf wouldn’t approve, but this is on the government.” Xander conceded, more to the lovely smile than to protocol, and reached behind to grab his coat. As he stood, Sarah remembered something. “Oh, there was one other thing. This might sound strange—”

“I’m sure it isn’t.” He began to put on his coat.

“Enreich. Does that mean anything to you?”

Xander reached into his pocket and pulled out his scarf. He flung it around his neck as he repeated the name to himself. “Enreich?” He shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. I could look through some old stuff, but I think I would have remembered something like that. Sorry, not much help there.”

She shrugged and stood, placing the briefcase on her chair and slipping into her coat. “If anything does come up”—she took a card from her purse and wrote the number of the hotel on the back—“give me a call.”

“Will do.”

She handed it to him along with his pen, picked up her briefcase and purse, and nodded to Xander to lead the way. Weaving their way back through the tables, they moved quickly to the counter, where he bought a box of the cookies he had promised the boys at the Institute. Sampling one, he pulled the door open and led Sarah out into the chill of Broadway.

W
ASHINGTON,
F
EBRUARY
26, 4:24
P.M.
The air erupted in a torrent of glass and water, metal driving up through the ground, a crater where the gallery’s lower promenade had been. Screams filled the expanse, silenced eighteen seconds later by the detonation of the second bomb, which hurled its flame through the opening and encased body after body in a searing wave of gold. A sweet smoke followed, more deadly than the blaze, stifling breath and forcing its victims to what remained of the ground. Those who could ran haphazardly, men pushing women to the floor, parents grabbing for children, cradling them as they sucked in air they could no longer breathe.

It was over in less than six minutes. Some had been lucky. The initial blast had taken them unawares. Others had had to live through the gas, feel the flames lick at their flesh, endure their own incineration.

At 4:58, the first rescue teams made it through. It would take them fourteen hours to estimate the loss at 117, two more days to bring it to 130.

 

Sarah emerged from the subway on Fiftieth Street and continued toward Sixth Avenue. She had thought about a cab but knew she would save time with the train. Not that she was in a hurry. In fact, she had left tonight open so as to go over the information Jaspers had given her. Now, as she maneuvered along the snow-packed curb, the image of the young scholar hurrying them both along—so eager to get back to work—brought a smile to her face. He was so committed to what he was doing, so drawn into his little world where every moment seemed too precious to waste.
You’re a lucky man, Xander Jaspers
, she thought.
Lucky to have that passion
. And yet, he had not overwhelmed her with it. Not once had he made her feel incapable. Somehow, he had allowed her to forget that fear. Instead, he had invited her in and had seemed so pleased when she had taken an interest. And how afraid he had been to bore her. She smiled to herself. There was a certain charm in that.

The large neon of Radio City loomed above her as she made the turn. The avenue was jammed with people all trying to wend their way through the chaos of rush hour. The fierce pace of the sidewalk seemed to sweep her up in its manic drive. All thoughts of the pleasant afternoon quickly drifted away. She began to lose herself to the crowd, to the gnawing hum of humanity.

And without warning, the buildings melted away in a rush of hands, feet, and arms. The rising pulse of movement swarmed in on her, echoing an Arabian madness that reverberated within her.
No! Not here! Not now!
A voice deep within pleaded with her, her head dancing in numb detachment above the noise and clamor, her mind slipping farther and farther away.
Fight it, Sarah!
Short of breath, her chest growing tight, she stopped on the sidewalk, staring about to find something, anything, to draw her back. People moved past with unkind stares, but she hardly noticed them as she struggled to retrieve her calm.
Let it go
. With great effort, she found her breath, the tremor receding, the buildings taking shape once more.
Look a round you. It’s New York. You don’t have to hide here
. All was as it should be. As it had been.

As if a safe haven, the hotel came into view. She began to walk, reenter the flow of bodies. Even among them, Sarah moved in complete isolation.

Five minutes later, she stood at the front desk of the Hilton, the card to her room resting on the counter. Still shaken, she followed the bellboy down a wide concourse toward the banks of elevators and noticed a wide array of watches, rings, and necklaces in a row above windows built into the marble wall. A particularly radiant stone caught her eye, its color a deep, resonant blue, no less supple against the sterile white light of the open hall. She stopped and stared into the sapphire, its gaze somehow familiar.

“Would you like to see it, madam?” A man appeared at her side, dressed in a neatly tailored suit, his hair combed tightly across his scalp. Sarah gazed at him, for a moment uncertain. “Madam?”

“No. No thank you,” she managed. “It’s a beautiful stone.”

“Yes, an exquisite cut.”

“I seem to have lost my bellboy,” she said, glancing toward the elevators.

“Of course.” He stopped abruptly and offered a most disingenuous smile. “Perhaps later, then.” He was already with another customer. Sarah peered once more into the sapphire—its invasive stare no less haunting—before turning to find the boy a good twenty yards ahead. He stood waiting by the elevators. She raised a hand and moved quickly down the concourse.

W
ASHINGTON,
F
EBRUARY
26, 5:27
P.M.
His pace was slow, almost casual as he turned onto G, the lamps above already at full glow. Washington at twilight. Peter Eggart held his hands in his pockets, eyes peeled on the doorway perhaps two hundred feet down the street. As he had been told to expect, three Dutch diplomats emerged and began to walk toward him. They were lost in conversation, the woman at center apparently explaining something to her two companions. Eggart continued to walk, slowly pulling a gun from his pocket and clasping it tightly to his side as he drew closer to the trio. No one on the street seemed to take any notice until, almost on them, he raised the barrel and discharged two shots into the woman’s chest, then one bullet apiece for the men at her sides. All three lurched backward, a sudden stillness, everything frozen, weightless.