The Overseer (9 page)

 

X
ANDER HAD RACED
out in such a hurry that he’d left his scarf on the banister, and now, catching an updraft on Sixth Avenue, he reluctantly recalled Lundsdorf’s warning:
“button it up if you want to live as long as I have
.” Sometimes he could be infuriatingly sensible. Xander walked up the taxi drive of the Hilton, then through the door and into the stream of warm air that embraced both neck and face. It was a welcome relief.

As he walked down the concourse, his mind returned to Eisenreich. The moment of revelation had come some two hours ago, standing over his desk, shuffling through various papers—astounding in its simplicity. And perhaps his own thickheadedness.
So obvious. So damn obvious
. At first, he had wondered whether it was just another crazy theory—one which Lundsdorf would dismiss with quick dispatch. Crazy, yes. But theory? No. It made too much sense to be fiction. Of course, he would have to run it by Sarah. After all, she was the expert, the one from Washington.
You’re only the simple academic
. Even so, instinct told him he had uncovered something to make sense of his research, something that might shed light on whatever Votapek and Tieg had in mind. How Sarah and the government tied in, though, remained a mystery.

Inside the elevator, he glanced at the papers he had brought. Scanning one or two, he recalled the rush, the excitement he had known perhaps only twice in his life—the first, three years ago, when he had found an unknown manuscript by an obscure eighteenth-century theorist; the second, earlier tonight, when he had remembered Eisenreich. Of course, the eighteenth-century essay had turned out to be of little use—as Lundsdorf had predicted—but the thrill of the hunt, the chance to see something through,
that
was what had caused such stirrings. And what was now coursing through his chest. The elevator arrived, and he tucked the papers inside his satchel.

Before knocking, Xander paused to consider what he could expect from the woman who had called him just over an hour ago. Then, he had anticipated enthusiasm, even excitement at his discovery. Instead, a distant voice had told him to come by the hotel; bring whatever he thought might be important. And that had been it.
Not
the reaction he had hoped for. Even so, behind her apparent detachment, Xander had sensed urgency, a thinly veiled need for the two of them to meet tonight. Wrapped up in his own eagerness, he had put her surprising coldness from his mind. Now, he couldn’t help but recall her tone on the phone, far from that of the friendly, delightful woman with whom he had shared tea that afternoon. And he had not been the only one to appreciate her appeal. On arriving back at the Institute, the fireside cabal had awarded him high praise for his radiant companion. Even Clara had lit up at the mention of the 3:30 appointment. Only then had Xander considered Sarah anything more than a Washington bureaucrat sent to tease his brain. A bureaucrat with a rather lovely smile, he had to admit. He had spent a good ten minutes in his office thinking of nothing else.

The sound of a double bolt releasing brought him back to the present. The door inched open and Sarah appeared through the shadows of a room lit only by a single lamp on the bureau. For a moment, the two stared at each other, until Xander smiled and asked, “All right if I come in?”

His own familiarity seemed to snap some life into her expression; with a gentle nod, she answered, “Sorry. Of course.”

He stepped into the room; Sarah immediately bolted the door, then moved past him to the bed and her pillow propped against the wall. It was then that he noticed the television, her eyes riveted to the screen. She hadn’t even asked for his coat. Without looking over, she said, “Take a drink if you want. It’s a small bar, but it’s well stocked.” Xander saw the miniature JD on the table next to the bed, the hotel glass steeped high with ice and whiskey. Evidently, she had started without him.

“Thanks.” He nodded stiffly, uncertain as to what he should do next. A drink. Right. He nodded again, placed his satchel on the rug, and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. Her gaze remained on the set, her expression confirming the misgivings he had felt over the phone. He wanted to convince himself that the difference lay in the informality of a second meeting, her lack of makeup, her casual clothes. But it was clearly more than that. He stepped closer to the bed, his hand awkwardly in his coat pocket. “So,” he said, “what exactly are we watching?”

Sarah turned to him, a momentary look of confusion in her eyes. “You haven’t seen any of this?”

Xander shook his head, smiled. “I’ve been at the office. The … stuff with Eisenreich took some time to—”

“Then you should probably take a look.” She picked up the remote and flicked from channel to channel. Xander stood watching as every station seemed to be covering the same set of stories—reporters amid the sounds of sirens, fire trucks, ambulances. Different scenes, all portraying the same confusion, the same controlled mayhem. National Guardsmen in evidence at every site. “You’re looking at Washington, Dr. Jaspers.” He slowly sat. “Not a pretty sight, is it?”

L
URAY,
V
IRGINIA,
F
EBRUARY
26, 8:17
P.M.
Searchlights cut across the thick wood of the barn, glaring white against a backdrop of open field, streaks of red and blue from police cars encircling the lone building. Intermittent pockets of steamed air floated into the black sky, men with rifles waiting for their prey, newsmen with cameras waiting for the latest installment from a night unlike any they had ever seen.

“I’ve just been told that all three of the Dutch diplomats are alive,” blared a voice through the bullhorn. “Critical, but alive. Which means it’s not murder. You still have a chance if you come out now.” Silence. The FBI man turned to the agent next to him. “Are we set in the rear?” The man nodded. “We give him three minutes; then we go. And tell these reporters to move way the hell back.”

From the darkness, a crow swooped down and settled on the frozen ground between barn and police. It stood quietly, head cocked to the left, drawn by the powerful beams. Half a minute passed before the sound of a hinge creaking broke the silence; the bird turned. A stooped figure appeared at the barn door, lost in shadow. The bird suddenly began to run at him, flapping its wings, the man at the door confused, his hands up to his face to shield the light as he tried to run.

A single shot rang out. Eggart’s head snapped back; he dropped to the ground.

“Who the hell shot?” screamed the man with the bullhorn. He ran toward the body, two others in suits with him. “Jesus,” he said under his breath, “I hate these local guys.” The three men arrived at the body and flipped it over. The man shook his head and stood, then turned back to the lights. “No one’s going anywhere. I want to know who fired that shot.” One of the agents pulled a note from Eggart’s pocket and handed it to the man standing. He unfolded it and read: “For the sins of all Sodomites and those who protect them. Our wrath shall be swift.” He recognized the insignia at the bottom of the page. Another militia-inspired lunatic. “Seems he didn’t like the fact that our Dutch friends came from a country that tolerates homosexuals.” He placed the note in a plastic bag. “We’ll see what the lab has to say. See if it connects to the rest of today’s insanity.”

Another pair of suits approached, these escorting a state trooper, a man in his late forties.

“Is this Trigger-happy?” asked the man. Both nodded.

“Grant, Thomas. Virginia—”

“All right, Mr. Grant, Thomas. What the hell happened?”

The trooper said nothing.
Sacrifice, my government friend. There must always be a place for sacrifice.

 

Sarah had moved to the fridge and was refilling her glass. “At last count, eight distinct acts of terrorism. The city’s been turned on its head—”

“Hold on a minute,” Xander cut in, the last few minutes clearly having taken their toll. “In an
alley
? Did they … hurt you in any way?”

“No, they were professionals.” She dropped the bottle into the trash.

“
Professionals
?” He shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on her back. “I’m not sure I understand …
professionals
? How does that relate—”

“Exactly my question.” She turned to him. “Why would they describe the chaos on that screen as a ‘
first trial
’?”

“They called it a first …” A sudden recognition crept across his face, his words following of their own will: “First trial of conjecture by experience.”

“What?” she asked.

He looked up, his eyes still distant. “It’s the way someone in the sixteenth century would have explained experimentation.”

“In English, Professor.”

He turned to her. “A dry run. Something to test the waters. That’s what a first trial is. Why would they refer to Washington as a—”

“Because they wanted to convince me to forget about Eisenreich.”

“
They
mentioned Eisenreich?” Xander could do little to mask his surprise. “How could they have known about Eisenreich? Even I didn’t make the connection until …” Fear crossed his face. “Oh my
God
. Of course.” He looked back at the screen. “They
a re
Eisenreich.”

 

Xander paced along the aisle created by bed and heater, a half-filled glass of scotch wedged firmly in his hands. Two steps, turn, two steps, turn. He seemed entranced, stopping every so often to lift his head and stare directly at Sarah, who was on the bed, trying to sort through some of the papers he had brought. After a rather uncomfortable five minutes, he slumped into the chair by the window and drained the alcohol in his glass. Aware that the strange routine had come to an end, she looked up.

“I can’t make heads or tails of these. Half of them aren’t in English.”

“German and Italian,” Xander answered, his tone distant.

“Right. Look, Professor—Xander,” she said, trying to reassure, “I realize this isn’t exactly the sort of thing you deal with every day—”