The Overseer (43 page)

“I have no idea what you had in mind, Ms. Trent,” continued Tieg, “or why you thought you could take us on as your special project.” He looked at Votapek and Sedgewick, both men unable to match his glance. “Neither does our good friend, whom she calls
Eisenreich
.” He stared at Sarah for a long moment. “You’ve never actually been in contact with him, have you, Ms. Trent?”

Sarah remained strangely calm. “No.”

“Of course not.” Tieg stood. “I would like to thank you, though, for having brought a number of things out into the open. If nothing else, you’ve made us aware—some of us more than others—that we’re not
invulnerable
. What exactly you’d hoped to accomplish”—he shrugged—“that still remains a mystery.” He nodded to George. “There are, as you no doubt know, certain …
narcotics
that will help us to fill in the gaps.” George moved in behind her chair. “Keep her downstairs until I’ve finished here.” He looked at Votapek and Tieg, then moved off into the living room. The two men rose slowly, neither returning Sarah’s gaze as they followed.

George waited patiently. She stood, placed her napkin on the table, and accompanied him out into the darkened corridor.

 

Hydra. Drenched in an amber sky, a dry heat billowing on chest and thighs, water gliding to the small incline of his back, skin a deep brown from days on the beach. Her arm lies gentle across his stomach, sprinkles of sea held on each lash as a distant boat races by. Gently, the waves begin to lap against their
bodies
, hers arching at the touch of the cool swirl, he turning to see her lips, dark red, her hair, so perfect, sprayed on the powder-white sand, auburn streaks of light radiating from a thousand freckles she calls a tan. One eye pops open, a smile, the head turns and lifts, lips parched for his, rising closer, moistened by
an eager tongue, his body intoxicated by her, the touch of her fingers on his chest, lips to his, and he breathes again as she slips back to her sleeping pose beside him. Fiona.

The sun beats down, a muffled voice whispers at him from somewhere behind, his head too heavy to turn, his eyes too stained by sea and sun to open, the voice more and more intense, the cool water growing less pleasant on his back, her arm somehow gone. He turns, his eyes now struggling for sight, and he sees the mouth, the face, the voice beckoning at him. Feric. Day suddenly night, sand suddenly snow, a chill coursing through him, his body airless, breathless, slipping from Feric’s grasp, falling from the train, the eyes bloodied and cold. …

“Mein Herr, wir sind am Flughafen angekommen.”

The mustachioed face of the conductor stared down at Xander, a hand to his stiffened shoulder, trying to shake the sleep from his crumpled frame. Xander’s head had clamped down onto his neck, his entire side wedged deep within the seat, his knees pulled in tight for warmth. Squinting into the light, he slowly tried to straighten his neck. The pain he felt was far more than just the odd strain from sleep. Forcing himself forward on the seat, he watched the conductor move to the door, attention fixed on his pocket watch.

“The train leaves in six minutes, Mein Herr,” he continued in German. “Please be certain to have all your belongings.”

With that, he disappeared, Xander once again alone in the compartment. His surrogate family was now long gone, their books and satchels only a distant, fond memory. He had slept for twenty minutes, enough to infuse his brain with that disconcerting sensation of floating, his nose prickling at the cold air that was creeping through an open window. Hoisting himself up—the case still firmly in his grasp, the pack on his back—he tried to recall the dream.
Something with sand. And water. Or was it snow?
He shook the sleep from his head and started to rise. It was then that he noticed the woman.

“Did you have a good sleep, Dr. Jaspers?” She held a gun at her hip, a modest weapon, but one capable of ripping a hole through him at such close range. As she spoke, she latched the door behind her, long, thin fingers easily managing the ancient clasp. “Looks as though the reports of your death were greatly exaggerated.” The accent was American, the tweed suit and raincoat English. Somehow, the small gun looked rather elegant in her hand.

Xander stared at it and then up at the woman.

“There were only two bodies from the Saltzgitter train,” she explained, “neither fitting your description.”

Again, he did not answer.

“Don’t look so surprised. We knew you’d try to get to the airport. In fact, we had no intention of doing anything with you on the train. Just wanted to keep you tight until Frankfurt. Shame about your little friend.”

She took the seat across from him, the gun aimed at his chest.

For some reason, Xander was finding the prospect of death surprisingly calming. “The train leaves in six minutes. I assume we’re not getting off.”

“It does, and we are,” she answered. “But we’re going to wait until everyone else is off. Fewer crowds. Less congestion. Much better that way.”

“And then?”

“I really have no idea.”

“Another loose end to take care of?”

The woman smiled. “I could have done that the moment I walked in. No, my orders are simply to get you”—she stopped and smiled again—“to get you off this train. We each play a role, Dr. Jaspers, and for the next few hours, yours will be that of the accommodating captive. It’s not a difficult one, I can assure you.”

Sitting, staring at her, Xander focused on the eyes. Deep brown, almost black, they sent a message of confidence, even arrogance.
Such assurance conveys truth.
It was as if Feric were by his side, explaining, cautioning.
Control requires no mask, only simplicity
. Simplicity and truth—which meant he had been granted a reprieve. She was no executioner, only a courier, an agent of Eisenreich sent to deliver him to some unknown place, unaware of the treasures hidden within his briefcase. Otherwise, she would have checked to make certain he still had the disc. It’s what the manuscript would have taught:
At every level, give them only the information they need, only the role they are to play.
She had said as much.

He was learning. And knowledge granted power, power its
own
arrogance, its own role to be played. It was not difficult to understand why so many had found Eisenreich’s theory so comforting.

“How old are you?” he asked. “Twenty-four? Twenty-five?” The woman did not answer. “And you’ve killed—”

“In one minute, you and I are going to walk out of here as a happy
couple
, only you’ll have a gun nestled to your ribs.” She had no patience for his prodding. “On the platform, we’ll be arm in arm. Do you understand?”

“Three, four?” continued Xander, ignoring her question. “More? I wonder how someone makes a choice like that, at that crucial moment? How—”

“At least one.” She stood. “That’s all that really matters, isn’t it?”

“I’ve no idea.” His response conveyed little emotion. “I’ve only watched people die. I suppose killing me would be quite easy?”

“Get up, Dr. Jaspers.”

“
Sie sind keine Mörderin—
”

“
Get up
, Dr. Jaspers.”

The words had meant nothing to her, her eyes giving away too much in the repetition of the command. It was clear what she had expected—what she had been
told
to expect: an easily daunted academic, a man beyond panic. What she had found—what he
himself
had found—was someone quite different. He was learning. He had unnerved her, the German causing an instant of confusion.

As she had said, the platform was empty, no one to get in their way before the escalators leading up to the airport’s sublevels and main
terminal
. Her grip was firm, her movement agile. Until now, he had not realized just how physically strong she was, his right arm virtually immobilized by the pincerlike hold on his elbow. Perhaps no killer, she had been trained very well.

At the top of the escalator, she nodded to the U-bahn, pushing him toward the track for one of Frankfurt’s myriad suburbs. Following him through the turnstile, she drew up to his side as they trundled down the steps. Within a minute, she had taken them to the far end of the platform.

“We’ll wait here.” Her hand now became a vise. “Smile.”

Xander complied, still somehow guided by the calm he had conjured on the train. Half a minute later, a burst of light flashed along the far wall, the arrival of an incoming train. As it sped past, she dug the gun deeper into his back, twisting his elbow to make her point.

“When it stops, stay calm, wait for the passengers to get off, and then step on to the train.” The words were whispered, direct, hot bursts of air moistening his ear. “If I feel even the slightest bit uneasy, I’ll twist your elbow right out of its socket. Do you understand, Dr. Jaspers?”

Xander nodded, the pain already reaching up to his shoulder, his mind racing for some means of escape. If it was going to happen, it would have to be in the next minute. Once inside the train, he’d be trapped, no further threats necessary, and no chance of a second reprieve at journey’s end.

The train began to slow, sweat creasing his neck, the last car coming into view. To his amazement, the windows were lined with people. Somewhere, he could hear Feric telling him that crowds were a tool, a mechanism to be used. The doors peeled open, the agent of Eisenreich pressing ever tighter to his side as people poured out. He waited, certain that she could feel the tympanic throbbing in his chest.

“Just remain calm,” came the voice, hers or his own, he could not tell.

And then he saw it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Xander noticed a man jump up from his seat, his hands pushing through the other passengers, the strain on his face apparent—a man about to miss his stop. Slowly, Xander stepped into the car, timing his approach as the desperate commuter darted for the door.

At the last possible moment, Xander thrust her into the man’s path.

“Sie hat eine Pistole!”
he yelled in German as, elbow miraculously free, he managed to push his way to the door. “
A gun!
”

Screams erupted throughout the car as people backed away, the gun in full view, the doors beginning to close. Xander leapt to the platform, she too slow, too confused to escape the now-frantic crowd in the car. The doors slammed shut and, for a moment, their eyes met through the glass, hers lost in disbelief. The realization of failure began to rise on her face, terror in her eyes as the train inched out of the station. He watched as she backed herself into a far corner, the crowds cowering in their seats, the gun still in her open palm.

Xander turned and walked away, his pace casual, his head down. It was over.
We each play our roles.
He had learned to play his.

N
EW
Y
ORK
, M
ARCH
5, 4:12
A.M.
 
Janet Grant crept through the darkened room, a tiny flashlight bobbing along with her movements. The instructions had been curt, no detail:
“Notes, Italian, a small book.
Perhaps
an envelope from Europe.”
The address of the brownstone on West 107th Street. Nothing more.

A long green sofa sat along the far wall, two matching chairs neatly across from it to create a small sitting room. Doilies adorned each of the armrests. Everything neat, ordered. A rather ancient record player sat atop a cabinet to the left, a row of records—Brahms, Beethoven, and Bach—nestled at its side. The most contemporary piece was the stern desk by the window, four plain legs below an equally plain top. Nineteen sixty-five, at the latest. It was a room that had not changed in thirty years.

Janet moved to the desk, the top empty save for a few old picture frames, the photographs equally dated. She sat at the chair and began to open the drawers, the bottom left locked. She removed a penlike object from her pack and threaded it through the slot. The latch released. Inside, a large manila envelope stared back at her, the stamps European. She took it from the drawer—the envelope’s flap already open—and pulled out the contents.