The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  But survive alone. That had been the aim at the outset. Those in the field flew solo—a few words over a phone, a command from a computer—none permitted even to know the building from which their orders came. A single, unknown voice of authority. O’Connell had often thought it ironic that there was no room for group players in the Committee. Both he and Pritchard, though, had recognized early on that such an arrangement was vital to COS’s integrity; and they had spent long hours creating an infrastructure that produced strict operative independence.

  Not surprisingly, the two had grown on each other over the years. In fact, it had been Pritchard who had finally convinced O’Connell to get rid of the polyester pants. He was still working on the ties. “A minor operation to make sure that the money of politics remains ostensibly aboveboard.” The Irish lilt was unmistakable.

  “Exactly,” answered Stein. “We track them, find them together, and start asking questions. Then, whammo, a dead girl turns up. This might sound a little weird, but I don’t think we can ignore that given Anton Votapek’s history. I told you we should have picked him up the moment we located him.”

  “‘Picked him up’?” asked Pritchard somewhat incredulously. “For what? For something that happened nearly thirty years ago, and that no one’s ever been able to prove? A few children go beserk in the woods of upstate New York during the Summer of Love, and you think it’s linked to this?”

  “The Tempsten Project was ’69, not the Summer of Love,” corrected Stein.

  “Dating aside,” O’Connell conceded, “he’s right, Bob. A girl appears on a tiny strip of Montana highway, less than a mile from an area we’ve been watching for about a week—for reasons, lest we forget, that have nothing to do with teenage girls. Nothing. She’s riddled with bullets; just then, some unknown character drives by, pulls over, clasps her in his arms, and has time to hear her blurt out one word before she dies. One word.” O’Connell tossed the paper clip onto the coffee table. “Where’s the connection?”

  “All right,” countered Stein, “but then, why no records? Less than seven hours after the incident, police and hospital reports, gone; the guy who picked her up, vanished. It’s as if the girl never existed—no past, no family, not even dentals. If we hadn’t been running the sweep, there’d be no trace at all. I’m telling you, it’s a little weird given Votapek’s history.”

  “Votapek’s history,” Pritchard repeated. “Wonderful. And because of that, you think our conservative senator and his cronies are killing young girls.” He turned to Stein. “Whatever the history, Bob, I find that very hard to believe.”

  “Then why the missing records? Why the complete whitewash?”

  “We could always ask Schenten,” smiled O’Connell. “‘Excuse me, Senator, but we seem to have found a dead girl in your vicinity. Any comments?’” He shook his head and again picked up the clip. “We weren’t even supposed to be there in the first place. You’ll have to do—”

  “Granted,” Stein admitted. “But we still have the dossiers on the folks who were there—Votapek, Tieg, and Sedgewick. If nothing else, we have to see if there’s a connection between their arrivals and the girl.”

  “And, of course, the dying word.” O’Connell shook his head. “Which was … what, Bob?”

  Stein hesitated. “To be honest, sound and visual distortions were tough. Our guys were over a hundred yards from the point—”

  “Technoexcuses aside, what did she say?”

  “As best as we can make out—Enreich.”

  “Enreich,” exhaled O’Connell. “Now that’s very helpful. He—or she—could be anybody. Or maybe it’s not even a person.”

  “Do we have anything on it?” asked Pritchard.

  “A former East German dissident—Ulf Peter Enreich—disappeared in the spring of ’63,” replied Stein. “The body was confirmed in ’74. We’re still running the name; something might come up, but Gael’s right. Beyond that, it’s a dead end.”

  “As you know, gentlemen, I don’t like dead ends. Not at all.” Pritchard took the file in his hands and leaned back.

  “We could pressure Tieg and Sedgewick,” offered Stein. “See where—”

  “Because of the girl?” chided O’Connell. “Where in the hell do you get that? We don’t even have an idea how the three men tie into Schenten, let alone to one another. And Votapek—the linkup there is pure guesswork. It might surprise you, Bob, but being a conservative doesn’t make you a conspiratorial loony.”

  “Just someone with a misguided perspective.”

  “Whatever young Mao here might think,” O’Connell continued, “all we know is that they’ve been visiting the senator with some frequency. Once in August, twice in October, and, now, two nights ago. Let’s not forget, this was a minor operation. Snap a few photos; ask a few questions.” He turned to Stein. “Why the cover-up, Bob? Maybe the sheriff was having a little something on the side. It got out of hand and he didn’t want anyone to know. It’ll be a made-for-TV movie. That doesn’t, however, make it a Committee priority. Sorry, boys, but right now, our recently deceased young friend—”

  “Is a dead end,” interrupted Pritchard. He tossed the file onto the desk. “Which would seem to bring us back to my earlier suggestion.”

  O’Connell said nothing for a moment. “I thought we’d agreed—”

  “To leave her alone?” answered Pritchard. “She’s had time to recover.”

  “Recover?” The Irishman seemed unable to find the words; then, as if explaining something very rudimentary, he spoke. “She’s now part of research, Arthur. At State proper—”

  “And, no doubt, bored out of her mind.”

  “Which is probably a very big step forward for her.” O’Connell waited for a response; when none came, he reminded Pritchard, “State’s not Committee jurisdiction. You couldn’t touch her even if you wanted to.”

  “We both know that’s not true.” He stood and moved to the bar. “She’ll turn over a few rocks. Test her wings. Probably the best thing for her.”

  “Have you been listening, Arthur?” O’Connell had become far more animated. “Putting her back in the field, no matter how simple the task—”

  “She’s perfect. Her work in Jordan remains textbook.”

  “Was perfect, Arthur. Was.” He watched as Pritchard took a sip of his drink. “Or are you forgetting what she was like after Amman?” He waited until their eyes met. “This is not an issue for discussion. We leave her alone, Arthur. We let her get on with her life.”

  “Actually … she already has some of the information.”

  “What?” It was Stein who spoke. “That’s all very sensitive—”

  “Don’t worry, Bob,” Pritchard continued, avoiding O’Connell’s gaze. “She has the absolute minimum. Names of organizations, various players—oh, and that Enreich thing. If nothing else, she might be able to figure out how that fits in. All of it’s through our contacts in research, so there’s no way to link it to this office.”

  “It’s not this office I’m concerned with,” snapped O’Connell.

  “The report reads like a routine fact finder on the New Right,” Pritchard continued, “no mention of Schenten, our operation, the girl—”

  “What?” O’Connell was doing everything he could to contain his rage. “Her mental state aside, you brought her in blind?”

  “The report’s been put together so that she’ll think she’s doing a general file update. Don’t worry—nothing to set off any alarm bells.”

  O’Connell stared for a long moment at his old friend. “As much as I agree that Bob is blowing this thing way out of proportion, these are major players here, Arthur. Being chummy is one thing, but if the killing is connected—if these men are capable of that—we’d have to ask why. We’d be throwing her into something potentially far more dangerous than Amman.”

  “And that’s exactly why she’s perfect.” Pritchard’s tone became far more pointed. “If it turns out that this is all a wild-goose chase, then we
’ve wasted a little of her time, and saved ourselves far more by not having to mount an entire operation. If not … she knows how to take care of herself.”

  “That remains open to debate.”

  The two men stared at each other; Pritchard then arched his back and turned to the window. Streaks of pink and red darted through the clouds, sending a single beam of light onto the dome of the Capitol. “You know, I love this view. Insisted on the office. Smartest thing I ever did.” The ice in his drink popped and sent a rivulet of whiskey over the side. He turned. “You have to trust me, gentlemen. Know me a bit better than that.” He took a long sip. “I’ll be watching her the whole way—pull her out if things get tight. Chances are, they won’t, but we all agree. The files on our illustrious quartet could always be a bit thicker.” He put his glass down. “Given the nature of the thing so far, something’s bound—”

  “To turn up?” O’Connell had heard it too many times before.

  Pritchard smiled. “Exactly. And when it does, we pull her out. Fair enough? Look, the ball’s already in play. If there is anything here, all she has to do is raise a few eyebrows. How hard could that be?”

  Saddled with overnight bag, purse, and briefcase, Sarah Trent looked the typical attorney making her weekly trek to New York. The heavy winter coat bounced playfully just above her knees, revealing a pair of rather exquisite legs. At five foot seven, trim and athletic, Sarah was used to the turned heads, the long stares. She smiled back, her deep chestnut eyes flashing in response, as she moved along the platform to a nonsmoking car, the Metroliner surprisingly empty for noon on a Thursday. She knew she would probably be able to find two seats for herself, stretch out, and enjoy the three-hour ride to New York.

  She had opted for the train rather than the shuttle for the simple reason that she needed more time with the files—two days hadn’t been enough to digest all the material that had landed on her desk. A research update. “Just some background information for the new system,” the note had read. “We’ve got the space, we need to fill it.” Typical bureaucratic reasoning.

  Now, finding a pair of seats midway through the car, Sarah swung the two cases onto the window seat, then dropped herself into the one on the aisle. She turned to the briefcase as she unbuttoned her coat.

  She had spent the last two days on the phone, trying to piece together the strands of information in the files. Very little had come up. Most of the people knew less about the three names than Sarah already knew herself. And whenever she tried to dig a bit deeper, awkward pauses followed by curt responses had made it clear that she was not meant to look further. Brush-offs notwithstanding, a few names had popped up to catch her attention—organizations that seemed to fit into a category with various right-wing fringe groups but which remained just this side of respectability.

  In all the digging, one name had continued to crop up. One Alexander Jaspers, a prolific academic who had spent the last few years churning out article after article on the “new decency in conservatism.” His phrase. Sarah had leafed through a number of his pieces and, realizing she had found her font of information, had made an appointment to see him. His office had been a welcome surprise of cordiality, given her recent track record, staffed by a sweet woman who spoke with a thick German accent, and who had no problem accommodating her by setting up the meeting on such short notice. Mrs. Huber had penned her in for 3:30 today.

  As the train emerged from the station, Sarah opened the one file that had intrigued her most during her first perusal. Tieg. The infamous host of Tieg Tonight—one of the country’s more popular evening television entertainments. She knew more than simple curiosity was prompting a second look. Jaspers would be well up on Tieg’s history, having mentioned him in at least two of the articles. Never comfortable with academic types—always a bit intimidated—Sarah was determined to hold her own with Herr Doktor Yaspers. Even the name daunted her. Another few times through Tieg’s file would give her the necessary confidence. She settled into her seat and let her shoes drop to the floor, ready now to peruse the file more carefully.

  The first pages were standard form: born ’33 to Hungarian émigrés, public schools, regional wrestling champion, scholarship to St. John’s. Nothing unusual until ’51, when, in a period of less than six weeks, Tieg’s father died, he dropped out of school, and he set sail for Europe. No explanation.

  What might have occurred during these three years is left to the reader’s imagination.

  Nothing. Not even the city, or cities, where he had lived.

  It picked up again in ’54, charting Tieg’s rise from low-level peon to programming executive with the then-burgeoning television division of NBC. By ’63, he had become a central figure for various regional affiliates and stood as one of the bright boys in NBC’s future.

  His sudden dismissal in early 1969, and his subsequent blacklist at the other major networks, is yet another gap in the story.

  Sarah took a moment to jot down a few notes and then turned to the last few pages. The story beyond ’69 was common knowledge. Buying up a number of radio stations—the source of the initial capital unclear—Tieg had parlayed them into a series of local television outfits, and by ’73 had the largest media package in the Southwest. Then the shift to telecommunications in ’75, when he started to drum up business in Washington. His involvement in the early stages of SDI remained unclear, but by the time Star Wars hit its prime, he had severed all Washington connections. His current linkups included Europe, Southeast Asia, and South America. By ’92, he had an estimated five to seven pieces of high-tech machinery orbiting, all under the aegis of the recently formed Tieg Telecom, headquartered in San Francisco.

  And then, just as quickly as he had gotten into the technology, he moved on, turning his attentions to Tieg Tonight, the homespun talk show that blossomed from a four share in ’93 to a twenty-two share by ’97, a legendary rise by any standards. The ratings established Tieg as the premier “pontificating politico” on the airwaves.

  A final page had been added hastily. Sarah read:

  His central aim is to maintain a reputation as champion of working-class sensibilities. In the last five years, he has allowed that persona a much more public face through the Centrist Coalition. Originally a small enterprise, the Coalition has gained considerable momentum, and it now stands as a beacon of small-town concerns. During the flood disaster in the Midwest several years ago, Coalition volunteers shipped in food, supplies, and medical technicians to some of the more remote areas hit. Tieg himself was spotted in over twenty different locations, not as speechmaker, but as one more pair of helping hands. While most agree that at this time he has no political ambitions of his own, it seems clear that his reluctance will be short-lived. In a recent election for a midterm replacement to the Iowa legislature, Tieg received nearly fourteen thousand write-in votes. He is not a resident of Iowa.

  That was where the file ended. Sarah placed it on her lap and closed her eyes. She had read the last few pages without the attention she knew they deserved, preoccupied by the three-year hiatus Tieg had enjoyed in Europe. The question remained: Who—or what—was allowing him to escape the keen eye of the world’s most thorough intelligence agency forty years later? How had those three years remained hidden? Three years of anonymity. Of unaccountability.

  Her mind suddenly raced to memories of her own past, images breaking through to conjure an existence she had known a lifetime ago, and which now resonated with an unkind immediacy. Her year of anonymity, unaccountability. Her gap to be filled. A reality of shadows. A life created by the Committee, a persona shaped by COS that let her slip into the madness of a Middle East ready to implode. And how quickly she had been able to lose herself, abandon Sarah Trent, assume an emptiness without ties. A vacancy that had granted violence a chilling ease, a comfort. Memories still so close, never dulled by the passage of time, ever more acute by their distance.

  Amman.

  “BWI.” The shrill voice of the conductor bolted her from
the violent images. “Arriving BWI Airport. Three minutes.”

  She was cold; her hands shook as she reached for her coat. Not bothering to slide her arms through the sleeves, she draped the heavy wool around her shoulders and chest, the swelling in her eyes prompting a quick finger to her cheek. With a deep breath, she leaned her head against the soft slope of the seat and concentrated on the gentle slowing of the train. The numbing throb in her temples began to ease. She was learning to hold the moments at bay.

  WASHINGTON, FEBRUARY 26, 12:43 P.M. The disc popped from the slot: forty seconds to download the information, twenty to initiate the delay sequence. Everything like clockwork. The young man at the screen took the disc and placed it in his pocket. He was dressed in coveralls, the usual attire for maintenance staff at Hodge Wentworth, bankers to Washington’s elite for over 150 years. He had found the clothes at the drop-off point four hours ago; the ID badge and disc had arrived in the mail yesterday.

  He turned off the computer and stepped from behind the desk. Pulling a lightbulb from his pocket, he proceeded to screw it into the lamp’s vacant socket. It was, after all, the reason he had been sent, the reason security had let him onto the eleventh floor in the first place. He tossed the old bulb into the trash and tested the lamp. Perfect.

  At the same time, having made his way to the subbasement, another young man—similarly clad, similarly instructed—stood in front of what looked to be a large medicine cabinet filled with wires and computer chips, a tangle of the building’s phone and modem lines. He had snipped one of them and was now threading the second of the two strands of copper through a small black box. After a few seconds, the light on the box flashed green, then turned yellow. Attaching a strip of adhesive to its back, he affixed the box to the side of the cabinet and closed the front panel.