The Overseer (58 page)

“Enter Pembroke”—Sarah nodded—“and you have an antidote to the chaos.”

“From the looks of it, they plan to play up to every major fear in the book during the buildup—sharp declines in the market, foreign terrorism, urban crime—nothing new, and nothing startling by itself, but now it’s all going to happen in a matter of
eight
days.”

“Tieg’s going to have a field day with the media.”

“Of course.”

“How many groups are we talking about?” she asked, pulling the book across the table and glancing at the chart on the inside back cover.

“About thirty. Each assignment is divided up into four separate phases, one cell or team—”

“Per phase,” she cut in, the words spoken almost to herself, her eyes now scanning the page with greater intensity.

“Right,” he agreed, concerned by the sudden change in her expression. “What is it?”

She continued to read, ignoring the question. “Jump rotations,
redundancy
cells”—she nodded—“and, naturally, separate stagings.”

“What do you mean, ‘naturally’? What are you talking about?”

She looked up. “This is … I’m familiar with this design. It’s a—”

“Pritchard matrix,” came a voice from behind her, its sudden intrusion shocking them both into silence. “Number of cells, assignments, the overlap. Finish one job, wait for instructions for the next.” The voice paused before adding, “But it’s the staging that gives it away, isn’t that right, Sarah?”

The Irish lilt, the clipped words. She turned and looked at the man. He had slid to the corner of his booth and was staring directly at her.

“O’Connell?”

“Gaelin Patrick at your service.” He smiled and looked at Xander. “The good doctor, I presume?” Xander could only nod. “You’ve had a nasty time of it, but you seem to be in one piece. As for you, you’re looking remarkably blond. I preferred the deep auburn, but, then again, you know my tastes.”

“How did you—”

“The lady’s going to ask me how I found you.” He winked at Xander. “And I’m going to tell her that another friend of ours thought it best to keep an eye on the two of you. A man with an appalling taste for cheese balls.”

A loud gasp at the counter forced all three to turn; a woman was staring at the television affixed to the far wall. On screen, a reporter stood
silhouetted
in flames.

“In what appears to be a return to the madness of last week, a bomb exploded just after six
A.M.
, engulfing the western wing of the Capitol in flames. Washington has awoken, once again stunned as firefighters. …”

 

“It changes nothing,” answered O’Connell. They were outside by the VW, Alison seated on the passenger side. “Either they’ve gone ahead of schedule or something snafued. How much time before the next one?”

Xander scanned the chart. “There’s a gap of about fourteen hours before number two—the kidnapping and execution of the English
ambassador
. In fact, the first six events are spread out over a two-and-a-half-day period. After that, it picks up considerably, something every four to five hours.”

“That’s Pritchard.” He nodded. “First few events to make sure things are playing clean. A mock-up. Then acceleration. It gives us time—not a lot—but it gives us time. By the way,” he added, “I was expecting two. You haven’t introduced me to the red-haired beauty.”

Sarah knelt by Alison and took her hand. “This is a friend, Alison. His name is Gael.”

A blank stare, then a smile. “Hello, Gael,” she said. “You have a pretty name.”

The Irishman seemed caught off guard by the comment. He looked at Sarah, then at Alison. “Thank you. I’m … rather fond of it myself.”

Sarah motioned for him to join her on the other side of the car. In a hushed voice, he said, “You’ll have to tell me what that was all about.” Fifteen minutes later, O’Connell sat on the lip of the hood, arms crossed at his chest. He’d heard enough. “It’s a hell of lot more than Bob was
letting
on. He doesn’t even know about the redhead.” He looked at Alison through the windshield. “Jesus, no wonder she’s …” He shook his head.

“It’ll have to be quick, a small strike,” said Sarah. “Shut it down from the center. If we blow up the site, my guess is they’ll have a fail-safe on the computers. Any interference and the signals on the accelerated stage will go out automatically. We need to dismantle the system from the inside.”

“Agreed,” he said. “Probably six to eight men to get into the compound.”

“And we’ll need a few pictures detailing the house—layouts, numbers.”

“The details are not a problem.”

“Details?” interrupted Xander, exasperated by their rapid-fire exchange. “What do you mean dismantling? We know what they’re targeting—it’s all in the schedule. All we have to do is take that information—and Alison—to someone who can stop them. Set up security at the various attack points—”

“And allow them to crawl back under a rock once they realize they’ve been exposed?” Sarah shook her head. “They’ve been waiting thirty years. If they see anything out of the ordinary, they’ll pull back and draft another schedule. No, we have to go now. If we don’t, I can assure you that none of us, including Alison, will be around to stop them the next time they try.”

“Wait a minute,” insisted Xander, “you’re telling me that not
one
of your
all-powerful
government organizations could race in, save the day—”

“And create the kind of panic that we’re trying to avoid?” Again, Sarah shook her head. “You send out an alert like that, with the National Guard swooping down on God knows how many places—people will get
very
concerned. Remember Waco? They create the martyrs while Tieg plays up the anxiety. Abuse of power. Government paranoia. And six months from now, they fire up—”

“Another schedule,” interrupted the Irishman. “Unfortunately, it’s not an option either of you has anymore.”

Xander turned to O’Connell. “What does that mean?”

“Back there, that was the first news you’d seen today?” Both of them nodded. “I thought so. Since about six, they’ve been talking about nothing but the Schenten assassination. You’ve both been implicated.”

“What!”

“It gets better.” He stopped and brought his hands to his lap. “It seems, Doctor, that you’re also wanted for questioning in the deaths of a man in Italy, another in Germany, and a woman in New York … a Mrs. Huber—”

“Oh my God!”

“She was found in your office. It’s not a pretty picture—of either of you. The crazed academic and the former assassin.” He looked at Sarah,
hesitating
before he spoke. “They’ve leaked Amman. They’re saying … you were responsible for the death of the ambassador’s daughter. I don’t know how they got the information, but there you have it.” He saw the reaction in Sarah’s eyes. “Descriptions of the two of you, the car—it’s all over the wire. That’s why I had to make contact.”

Xander sat on the hood, head tilted back. “Did they say how she died?”

O’Connell waited before answering. “You can’t let yourself worry about that, son.”

“I’d sent her Carlo’s notes, everything. I didn’t think—”

“You couldn’t have,” said Sarah, revelations about her own past pushed aside for the moment. “And Gael’s right. You
can’t
think about it. You have to think about the men who killed her—who are so desperate that they’re willing to use the police to try and stop you.” She took his arms. “And they
a re
trying to stop you, whatever Schenten might have said.”

Xander brought his head forward, eyes on Sarah. He nodded slowly.

She turned to O’Connell. “It means we can’t risk flying. And we can’t use this car. I’ll have to take it into the woods, cover it up.”

“I’m one step ahead of you. Give me half an hour.” He slid off the hood and placed a hand on Xander’s knee. “You’re in good hands, son.
Sometime
, I’d like to know how you got yourself out of Germany.”

“Sometime,” answered the academic, “I’d like to tell you.” O’Connell winked and headed for his bike. A minute later, Xander and Sarah were seated in the VW, its engine purring in loud diesel overtones.

“He’s a nice man.” It was Alison who spoke as she stared through the window at the Irishman’s back. “A very nice man.”

 

“Do you
realize
how difficult it will be to undo what you have done!” In three different states, three men winced at the voice screaming at them over the telephone. Each conjured his own image of the old man as the sound of coughing erupted on the line. His fits were occurring with greater frequency, thought Tieg. It wouldn’t be long now. Still, he had survived this long. “Fifty years—
fifty years
—you think you know what to expect; you think that somehow they will rise above themselves and act as they have been
taught
to act. But time and time again, you realize you are wrong, that they remain children, that you have chosen unwisely, and that they are no more now than what they were when you first found them.” He paused, the sound of
breathing
filling the line. “‘
The burden shall be his to choose his pupils wisely.
’ Perhaps mine was too great a burden.” Again the sound of breathing. “Can any of you explain why you have made Jaspers a pariah, a criminal … a madman?”

The line was quiet. Tieg was the first to speak. “Because there were no other alternatives.”

“The voice of reason.” The old man made no attempt to hide his
disdain
. “You were all in agreement, then, that this was the only course for Jaspers?”

“We all discussed it—”

“I am not asking you, Jonas,” he cut in. “I am asking Laurence and Anton. Or have they ceded that role to you as well?”

Again a pause; Sedgewick: “The recording from Schenten’s made it very clear to
all
of us that both Jaspers and the Trent woman are now in
possession
of a rather damaging document.”

“And to you, there is no difference between this assassin and Jaspers?”

“At this point, no. We might not get to them before they have a chance to pass on that information.”

“You think he would run to the police? You think they would take him seriously?” The old man waited. “You agreed with this, Anton?”

“I … yes. He is a … a liability. He had to be … resolved.”

“You would have made a very poor actor, Anton. Next time, Jonas, take more care when you teach him his lines.”

“He’s a grown man,” answered Tieg. “He makes his own decisions. We
all
make our own decisions.”

“Ah,” said the tired voice, “so at last we come to it. At last we see why all the private plotting has become so important. It has nothing to do with Jaspers, or Alison, or even Miss Trent, does it, Jonas? It has to do with who makes the
decisions
, who has the
control
.” He waited, hoping for an answer. When none came, he continued. “You stupid,
stupid
man!
You
are concerned with decisions;
you
know how this will all fit together. You know
nothing
! Do you think I do not understand you, Jonas? Do you think I am so old or so foolish as to have been blind to what you have wanted all along? Chaos, naturally. It is what we
all
want. That, though, is where we part company. Am I right? Chaos is as far as you wish to go. Order bores you, permanence and stability—merely secondary concerns for a man like you. You prefer the freedom that chaos brings, the unlimited possibilities.” His words were laced with contempt. “You think I do not know, that it is not obvious? It has been
obvious
from the beginning, the reason I chose you—your egoism, so vital to the task. Why do you think I have kept the leash so tight these last few years? Perhaps I was foolish to think you would not pull at it from time to time. It was my mistake. I shall not make it again.”

The line fell silent. Finally, Tieg spoke, his words controlled, precise, clearly masking the fury beneath. “Did you choose Jaspers?”