The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  “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.

  WASHINGTON, FEBRUARY 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.

  WASHINGTON, FEBRUARY 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.

  Eggart turned to run, pushing past the few disbelieving onlookers, the night in slow motion as he reached the end of the block and crossed to Twelfth.

  Only then did he stop.

  Where was the car? He spun around, checked the sign to see if he had somehow made a mistake. No. Twelfth—where they had promised it would be. Screams began to echo from behind him, time once again accelerating to full tempo. He could feel the panic in his throat, the acrid taste of indecision. Maintain focus. Understand the process. He needed to remain calm, listen to the command in his head. There had been too many hours spent preparing to allow a last-minute hitch to get in the way. He started down the street, aware of the eyes staring at him from the buildings above, tracing his escape. Again, he began to run.

  A car turned onto the street, oblivious to the mayhem it had just entered. Without thinking, Eggart darted out into its path, raised his gun, and aimed it at the windshield. The car screeched to a halt as the gunman moved to the door, pulled the driver from her seat, and threw her to the curb. Within seconds, the car was squealing in reverse toward the intersection. A sudden stop, the grinding of a gear; a moment later, it was gone.

  Sarah followed the bellboy into the small but comfortable
room, its view of Central Park. She placed the briefcase next to the mahogany chest of drawers, handed the young man a few dollars, and hoisted the overnight bag up onto the bed. Finally alone, she unzipped her dress and slipped off her shoes, the thick carpet a welcome relief from the confines of heels. Sliding her hands through the sleeves of her dress, she let it drop to the floor and then laid it gently across the bed. And she sat.

  She was angry. A simple stone, and she had given in. It was always hardest during trips outside ofWashington, trips away from the routine that helped to keep her in check. The unexpected conjuring memories of the all too familiar. Nothing more than a sapphire’s hue, and she had been transported: the hotel on King Faisad Street, the noise of the al-Balad raging in the background, and the girl. Always the girl, staring at her, plaintive blue eyes, forcing Sarah to promise. “You will come back.” “Yes.” “You will come for me.” “Yes.”

  No!

  She forced her eyes open, only now aware that she had once again drifted back. For several minutes, she sat absolutely still as Amman receded to a distant pocket of her mind. With great effort, she stood and reacquainted herself with the room. The briefcase stared up at her. She knew she would be no good with the files now. She needed to walk. Out and unafraid.

  She opted for jeans, a T-shirt, a pair of black boots. Transferring a few dollars from purse to pocket, she slid the briefcase under the bed, then grabbed her coat. The research update could wait.

  Seven minutes later, the lights from the traffic on Sixth Avenue glared at her as she made her way downtown. She had little idea where she was heading, but she knew it was good to be surrounded by movement. Around Thirty-sixth Street, she realized she was hungry. She turned right and decided to try her luck on Broadway. Save for a few racing cabs, the Garment District was deserted, a few pockets of dark shadow spilling beyond the sidewalk.

  The footsteps behind her only became audible halfway down the block. They were even and clipped, in close synchrony to her own, slowing and accelerating with each change in her tempo. She could feel herself begin to focus on the distinct pattern of the rubber-soled shoes, calculate the distance between herself and her would-be tracker, measure the road in front of her. Stop it! Ignore them. They’re nothing. It’s someone on the street, anyone, damn it! Don’t give into this—look back and see it’s nothing! But the signals were too well ingrained, too near to the surface now for her to shut them out with a simple plea. Twenty yards ahead, the sudden appearance of a second figure, an apparent drunk, confirmed her instincts. He seemed to weave along the street, but with each step, he drew closer and closer, tightening the net around her, forcing her deeper within the shadows. As she began to run, she could hear the quick sprint of the assailant behind, watch the drunk lunge up onto the sidewalk and block any means of escape. The trailer thrust his shoulder into Sarah’s back and sent her reeling into the arms of the man in tatters towering above her.

  With one swift move, he threw her into an alleyway shrouded in complete darkness save for the bare bulb that hung from an overhead fire escape. The cold brick scraped against her hands as she tried to cushion the impact, the wall’s brittle edge slicing across her palms and forcing a momentary scream. “Not a word!” She fell to the ground, only to be grabbed by the shoulder and pinned against the wall. The pungent odor of the man’s all-too-convincing costume caused Sarah to wince as he scanned her body, his eyes dancing with a lurid pleasure. The second man appeared over his shoulder and grabbed her by the hair. His eyes betrayed no such longing, no carnal desire for a prey well won. Drawing a small blade to the side of her cheek, he smiled, a sudden animation in the otherwise-vacant expression. “We’ve been sent to give you some advice,” he whispered, dragging the flat of the blade across her lips and down to her chin. “Forget Eisenreich. Today was only the first trial, a promise of what’s to come.” He tightened his grip. “Walk away, or next time I won’t be able to hold back my friend here. He seems to have taken a liking to you.” The other man laughed and placed his free hand on Sarah’s breast, pressing hard against her as he groped. The man behind continued to peer down at her, watch as his comrade enjoyed the moment, probe deep within her eyes for the fear, the revulsion that he craved.

  No such terror stared back at him. Instead, her gaze revealed a strange emptiness, a cold indifference, a warning that he could not recognize. Trapped for a moment in the lifeless embrace of her eyes, he let his grip relax almost imperceptibly. And in that moment, the devastating precision of a killer schooled in the streets of Amman unleashed itself in an explosion of raw energy. No longer Sarah Trent, the assassin of Jordan drove her knee into the testicles of the man still preoccupied with her breast as her once-pinned arm lunged across the face of the second man, nails finding flesh in a blur of movement. Both men reeled from the onslaught, the knife clattering to the ground in the melee. As if programmed in her attack, she swung her foot into the midsection of the man now holding his bleeding cheek, the jagged snap of breaking ribs forcing an anguished cry as he dropped to his knees. The other man, somewhat recovered from the initial blow, tried to stand but was too slow to avoid the sudden jab of her elbow to his temple. His head smacked against the brick wall, a final burst of air shooting from his mouth before his unconscious body slumped to the hard cement of the alley floor. With equal force, she slammed her coupled fists into the prone neck of the man crouched two feet from her—clutching his chest—and watched as he, too, collapsed to the ground. Only the sound of her own panting breath cut through the silence of the alley. She stood frozen, her mind racing out of control, images of dark, sand-strewn streets forcing their way into her consciousness, tearing her from the cold embrace of the Manhattan night.

  “You made the choice, Sarah. You accepted the responsibility.” A solitary face shone through the dank haze, a girl no more than twelve, thin streaks of blood trickling from the bullet hole on her forehead. “Someone had to be sacrificed. Someone.” With a frightened stare, her blue eyes faded to the shadowed recess as the bodies of eight young Jordanian soldiers appeared, each hung from a wire on the wall directly in front of her. The stench from their clothes filled her nostrils, forced her to move her hand to her nose. They dangled side by side, twisting gently against the wall—faceless bodies of men who had squealed in death and who now taunted her with their silence. “Say something! Anything!” she screamed. “I had to take you, to stop you! You were the priority, not her! Someone had to be….” The bodies continued to sway in a single rhythm. “Say something, damn you!” Her voice became choked with a torrent of tears. “Anything! Please, anything!”

  The white light of the bulb cut through the shadows, extinguishing the horror before her, as a wave of nausea filled her throat. She lay back against the wall, at the mercy of trembling limbs and pumping adrenaline. A thousand voices reverberated within her skull, crackling against the deadly silence of the alley. Violence. Violence again, passionless and exact. She looked at the two men at her feet—still motionless. She had taken them without a thought, a swirl of activity that had come only too easily, spun from a part of her that longed for the anger, the destruction.

  She had attacked. Provoked, yes, but she had been the one to unleash a blind fury, the rapid, staccato blows that might very well have killed them both. No thought, only pure animal instinct. Could she have killed? Would it have been that easy for her to slip so far back? She didn’t know, couldn’t make sense of the questions that hammered within her head. Oh God! Oh God! I was out of control.

  Somewhere within, a single voice told her she had to move, distance herself from the bodies. Clinging to the wall and unable to tear her focus from the unconscious figures, she slowly edged her way along to the alley’s entrance. A car raced by as she reached the sidewalk, forcing her to stare out into the empty street, to try to forget the men behind her. The cold calculation of the assassin was gone, replaced by a crippling fear, and Sarah stood alone, suddenly aware that her clothes were drenched in sweat. She began to tremble as
she dug her hands into her pockets so as to fold the coat around her. Somewhere safe. Find somewhere safe. Again, the voice led and she followed in numb submission, back toward Sixth, back toward lights, people, and the security of others. She didn’t run—somehow the voice would not allow it—but walked with a calm determination, unobtrusive and therefore unseen, unremarkable. As she turned toward the hotel, she felt the first tears of release wash over her cheeks.

  Only when she had stumbled into her hotel room, a safe haven now from the attack twenty minutes earlier, was she able to concentrate on what the man had said. “Today was only the first trial, a promise …” What had they meant? And Eisenreich? She turned and caught her reflection in the mirror, her face a sea of black and red, her hair a tangled mess hanging precariously about her shoulders. But it was the eyes that stole her focus, the eyes not seen since Amman, the cold, unforgiving eyes that stared back and condemned in silence.

  It was then that she began to think beyond the attack. Why? What had provoked it? A research update. That was all it was supposed to be. Nothing more. Nothing to prompt warnings—first trial, Eisenreich …

  A cold sweat creased her neck as one name entered her thoughts: the Committee.

  Sarah forced her gaze to the room around her, the box, holding her in, squeezing her, the safety of isolation. Of course, the Committee. It was all too familiar, too much of a life that had come so close to destroying her. I won’t be drawn in. Whatever this is, I won’t. She knew what she had to do. Give everything back. Files, notes—the job, if necessary. Let others take the responsibility. Let others carry the weight. Memories of the alley would pass. Memories of Amman. Of herself. She had to protect herself.