“What I need is someone who knows what he’s doing.” This time, it was Sarah’s turn to think. There was little chance she could persuade him not to make the trip. And if he’d made the plans … maybe the sudden change would raise a few eyebrows, make him an even more acute target? Acute target—it was a phrase she hadn’t let enter her mind in months, years. And now it returned with relative ease.
It also made it all the more apparent that Pritchard had known exactly what he was doing. Sending her out, letting her get tangled up with someone like Jaspers, her sense of responsibility. “Then walk away.” He had never meant it, knew she would never take the bait. He had played her perfectly. “No loose ends.” The question remained—why? Why force her back in?
She looked at the academic. His logic, much as she hated to admit it, was annoyingly on the mark. What exactly did she plan to do with the document once she had it? Once again, the voice—somehow fainter than before—broke through: Whose life are you playing with, Sarah? Whose trust? “Considering there’s very little I can do to stop you—”
Do you have a choice?”
“It doesn’t seem that way, does it?” She stood and stared directly into his eyes. “You have to promise me that you won’t do anything until after your conference, until he’s back in Florence. Nothing more than casual contact.”
“Why? Wouldn’t it make sense—”
“No.” The operative was now giving orders. “Remember, you’re not the only one who knows he’s been working on the manuscript. You have to lay low, at least until I get there.”
Now it was Xander’s turn to show surprise. “Until you … Isn’t that the sort of thing that would cause our friends in the alley to take notice?”
His naïveté was losing its charm. “I’ve got some business to take care of in Switzerland. I’ll be in the neighborhood anyway. And remember, I’m the one with the files on our three friends. If things do get rough”—again she held his gaze—“it would be nice to have someone there who knows what she’s doing.” She paused. “On some fundamental level, you might just need me.”
Children scampered about, tossing quickly packed snowballs at one another, missiles whirling through the night air at targets almost unseen. The large expanse of open ground, nestled comfortably at the base of a long hill that tumbled down from the side of the redbrick building, served as the perfect battleground. Shrieks of laughter echoed, muffled by the sound of crunching boots racing through the near-frozen snow. The small wooded area that bordered the little arena lent the picture a calming quality.
A lone figure stood atop the hill, a cigarette between his fingers, his other hand clenched tightly inside a pocket for warmth.
Jonas Tieg watched as the smoke from his cigarette drew upward, colliding with the puffs of steamy air that poured from his nose. He knew it was a mistake; his doctor had told him to cut back, but Tieg had never been one to deny himself life’s pleasures. At just under six feet, he had the stomach to prove it, although a barrel chest managed to hide a good deal of his most glaring indulgence. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds tucked judiciously within the confines of a double-breasted blazer.
The scene below allowed him a momentary respite—these children, so different from those in his own tightly woven world. He closed his eyes and let the last few months slip from his shoulders, the past day and a half fade from his thoughts. Memories of his own childhood—cackling laughter, sweat-soaked shirts and socks, panting breath, the cold wonder of a sudden explosion of snow on an unsuspecting back. So much easier. So much more tangible.
The cigarette began to taste sour in his mouth; he tossed it to the side of the hill and heard the momentary fizz as flame met snow. The sound of cars arriving, the sudden intrusion of headlights against the ethereal backdrop, drew him back to the evening’s task. Turning to face the oncoming lights, Tieg heard the hurried steps of one of his aides as he approached. It was time to put on the determined face, the mask of authority that had come to characterize the most popular figure in the world of television rabblerousing. Tieg smoothed back his jet black hair and walked toward the large brick building. As he made the turn toward the school entrance—his aide now at his side—the large letters above the two oak doors rose from the brick in majestic fashion: THE ELKINGTON CHARTER SCHOOL.
Tieg unbuttoned his coat as he made his way through the thick doors and into the small, tiled front hall of the school. An impressive glass case full of trophies stood directly in front of him; he removed the coat from his shoulders and handed it to the young man at his side.
“Keep it with you. I’ll want to make a quick exit tonight.” The aide nodded and moved off toward a set of doors at the end of the hall. A young woman appeared at the end of the hall, clipboard in hand, a harried look on her face. Amy Chandler—producer of Tieg Tonight—had been less than thrilled with the two-week-tour proposal that had landed on her desk three months ago. Fourteen shows in fourteen towns. Tieg had wanted to get to know his fans, hear their concerns. Her concerns had not been an issue.
“You’ve got about four minutes before we go to air,” she said, moving toward him. “Your devoted fans—five hundred of them—are patiently awaiting the promised schmooze session. Give them a quick sweep and then head down. I’ll spot you when we’re at thirty.”
Tieg started toward the double doors, adjusting his earphone before he answered. “I’ll come down the center aisle,” he said as they met at the door. She began to adjust his tie. “Pick me up with the forward camera just before I make my way up to the stage.”
“Done.” She pressed the tie against his chest, gave him a wink, and spoke into her microphone. “He’s coming through. Cue them up.”
Amy slipped quietly through the door; fifteen seconds later, a deep, resonant voice broke through the dull hum of voices just beyond the doors.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Tieg Tonight.” A smattering of applause accompanied the sudden hush of the room. “We’ll be on the air in just a few minutes, so sit back and relax, and please give a warm welcome to the host of the show … Mr. Jonas Tieg.” Tieg waited for the cue from Amy; a moment later, the doors opened in front of him, the applause considerably louder as he strode into the spotlight. The classic gym-cum-meeting hall, with ever-present stage and wooden floor agleam under untold layers of wax and varnish, served as the setting for this evening’s off-the-beaten-path taping of the show. The studio equipment had been slotted into an area just below the far basketball hoop, cameras and booms at the ready for the on-air cue. Tieg raised his right hand in a fist of appreciation and then set off into the crowd. As he moved through the audience, he seemed a man with boundless energy; a man with vision, they would say.
“What a pleasure to come out here and listen to what you people have to say,” boomed Tieg, shaking one man’s hand and turning to another. He continued to wink and nod his way through the now-standing audience; two minutes into the ritual, he heard Amy’s voice in his ear. “We’re at thirty.”
Tieg pulled himself away from one adoring young lady and started for the stairs at the far end of the stage. The set looked small, the bookshelves and desk pulled far down on the stage, but Tieg knew the cameramen would work their magic. He stopped just short of the steps and waited for the intro. “Smile, Jonas,” came the voice in his ear as the familiar music swelled up.
He did as he was told, speaking under his breath, the tiny microphone on his tie keeping him in touch with his producer. “The plane’s scheduled out of Rochester at eleven forty-five?”
“It’ll wait if we run late.”
“Not tonight, Amy. In and out. That’s the plan.”
“But what about your adoring fans?” He heard her laugh. “They’ll want some time with you after the show, Jonas.”
“In and out.” He waved at a young man in the front row, smiled as he talked. “Not tonight.”
The voice boomed over the music, the audience now at full pitch as Tieg took to the stage.
“My, oh my, aren’t we a spirited bunch tonight.” The audience erupted one last time; Tieg waited for them to settle down—nodding, waving, stacking the pages—until, staring into the number-one camera, he continued. “Let me extend an Elkington welcome to everybody watching out there. As you can hear, we’re a bit on the rowdy side tonight.” Another wave of applause. “Folks, we’ve been in ten towns in ten days, and the amount of support we’ve been getting continues to astound me.
“Over the last week, we’ve tackled jobs, immigration, taxes”—a groan rose up from the audience as he turned to camera two—“and yesterday”—he paused, suddenly more serious—“well, we all know what was on everyone’s minds yesterday.” He let a silence settle on the hall. “To our friends in Washington, our prayers.” Again he waited, then turned back to camera one. “Now, we’re not going to rehash those stories tonight, but it seems pretty clear to me that they all carry the same message: What’s happening to this country? Where are we supposed to place our faith when our jobs—our very lives—are at risk? Are we losing control?” A burst of applause forced him to pause.
“What it boils down to is that it’s time for us to make our voices heard. That’s what this two-week tour is all about. And tonight, we were thinking, What would be more appropriate—in this beautiful high school setting—than to talk about the state of education in this country. It’s true—we might all need to tighten our buckles from time to time; we might even have to put a few extra locks on the door, but we’ve done that before. When it comes to our children and their future … that’s when we really have to sit back and do some thinking.” A number of voices rose in agreement from the back of the hall.
“As you know, I don’t usually start out the show with a monologue, but tonight, well, I’m going to ask you to indulge me. I want to take a few minutes here and talk to you about something that’s just too fragile to leave in the wrong hands. Our children’s future.” He took a sip of water and then placed both hands on the desk.
“There are some pretty strange ideas out there when it comes to educating children. Ideas that say morality isn’t supposed to be taught in the school, that religious faith isn’t to be encouraged. That strikes me as a little sad, especially when a school is meant to be a place where we shape young men and women into the sort of people who can make a difference. It’s why we’re here tonight, because we’re sick and tired of a system that tells us—no, that forces us—to give up our own ideals, and claims that our vision is somehow unacceptable. Unacceptable?” Tieg allowed himself a quizzical laugh. “When we’re the ones asking for a higher moral standard, a greater sense of community commitment, an investment in our children’s future?” More voices from the audience. “I know. It makes no sense to me, either. The question is, Does that mean we’re asking for a system that demands a bit more control over those young lives, that wants the same sort of freedom to choose what not to teach as others want in choosing what to teach? Perhaps. But what’s so wrong with that?” The applause sign flashed as Tieg turned to camera two.
“Limitations, parameters—these are healthy things when they have a strong moral justification, when they help to define a character. As you’ve heard me say time and time again, too much time has been spent championing the fringe elements, the causes that only abuse the word right—in this case, a right to teach this, to protect that. Some things don’t merit that kind of protection—at least not in the schools.” Tieg picked up a newspaper from the desk and pointed to a headline. “I was reading this the other day, and it absolutely astounded me. ‘COURT OPENS THE DOOR,’” he read, shaking his head while he stared at the page. “New York Times, tickled pink by a ruling that says sexuality must have a place in the classroom.” The audience broke into laughter; Tieg looked up, a sheepish grin on his face. “Now come on, you know what I meant, folks.” He laughed and turned to one of his cameramen. “We’ve got a frisky bunch tonight, Pete. Maybe I will have that glass of Vermont spring water.” The audience applauded.
“But seriously,” he continued. “Let me ask you—does my daughter need to know about birth control? Perhaps. But not in our schools. Does my son need to know about homosexuals and single-sex parenting? Perhaps. But not in our schools. Do my children need to come in contact with music that teaches pornography and hate? I would say never. But certainly not in our schools.” Tieg took a sip from the glass. “That’s why, by petitioning your school boards, we’re asking to distance our children and ourselves from a system that, in the name of some constitutional freedom, claims the right to impose those standards—and I use the term very loosely—upon all of us. These aren’t standards. They’re an excuse. An excuse to give up responsibility for what goes on inside these walls.” Another burst of applause.
“When I ask government officials—and I have—why my child needs to be indoctrinated by a bunch of liberal policy makers, they have no answer. At least none that makes any sense to me. It’s become painfully apparent that they realize that schools are nothing more than holding pens, part-time jails for children who have no desire to learn about themselves, let alone anything else. They aren’t children. They aren’t allowed to be children, with all the mumbo jumbo that’s thrown at them. Does a fourteen-year-old understand the questions abortion raises? Does a fifteen-year-old recognize the implications of a single-sex home? Can a sixteen-year-old distinguish between music and political brainwashing? I don’t think so.” The room erupted in applause.
“Standards.” Again Tieg laughed in disbelief as he turned to camera one. “Standards imply caring—caring for those young minds, their spirits, their senses of themselves. And that’s been lost.” Again he paused. “Now, suppose I told you that the system, the chain that we’re forced to wear around our necks, can’t survive? And that when the time comes, we have to be ready with schools where children actually graduate with a sense of purpose, a mission. A new type of student, a new approach to learning and activism. How would you respond? How do you respond?” Waves of applause. “But the only way for that to happen, for those schools to pave the way and set those standards, is if we set ourselves apart now.
“Folks, that’s what we’re working toward. We have to be prepared to assert ourselves when the moment comes. We’re on the brink of a powerful period of turbulence; too much is happening for us not to see it. I’m truly afraid that Washington yesterday was only the beginning. That’s why this school, these schools, must be ready to take the reins, to stand as the very rocks on which our future is built. To pave the way to that future.” He shifted his gaze to camera two.
“What does that future bring? And how do we prepare for it? That’s what we’ll be talking about tonight.” He picked up the papers in front of him and placed them to the side. “You’ve been nice to let me have my say, but now it’s your turn. When we get back, we’ll see how far we can take this tonight. So start thinking, folks, and we’ll be right back.”
The bright light on his face dimmed and Tieg sat back. He pulled the earphone from his ear in anticipation of the makeup man, who approached from the wings for a few touch-ups. Amy was right behind him.
“Keeping them awake?” Tieg asked.
“Just keep it within reasonable limits,” she answered, placing another stack of papers on the desk. “You were pretty close to the edge there at the end—‘the brink of turbulence.’ Let’s stay this side of the apocalypse.”
“Trust me, Amy. They were eating it up.
”
“They always do, Jonas. That’s what’s a little frightening.”
“Are you complaining about the ratings?”
She smiled and picked up the earphone. “Stick it in your ear. We’re back in thirty.”
Tieg smiled. Close to the edge, he thought. Far closer than she could possibly imagine.
The whiskey glass was all but empty, resting gently in O’Connell’s palm. He had turned off the overhead fluorescents and was allowing himself a few moments in the somber glow of lamplight. A reflection stared at him from the darkened window, his slouching body comfortably wedged into a leather couch. Somewhere through the glass, the icy waters of the Potomac ran silent and unaware, speckled by the light patter of a winter rain. The streaks of water slid along the window and cut through the still portrait.
The day had been filled with surprises, not the least of which had been the unexpected appearance of a dispatch from Bern. The operative fund. SARAH TRENT: ACCESS GRANTED. He had wasted no time in confronting Arthur.
“I thought we were pulling her in.”
“She appears to be on to something,” Pritchard answered, “and she’s chosen to be a part of it. I wasn’t going to leave her high and dry.”
“‘Chosen’?” snapped O’Connell. “Jesus! That’s an interesting way of putting it. Did you at least fill her in on the rest of the file—Schenten, the girl in Montana?”
“Over the phone?”
O’Connell stared at Pritchard for a long moment. “You expected this, didn’t you?”
“It was a contingency, yes.”
“Why? Why would she come back in? What aren’t you telling me, Arthur?”
Now he sat drawing the last drops of alcohol from his glass. His office was a bit smaller than Pritchard’s, but it had all the amenities—desk, couch, and plenty of whiskey. No books. He knew he’d never read them, so why bother? And no Washington—just the river and Arlington beyond. It was the view he liked. Arthur had never understood. How could he? He’d never been in the field. He’d never needed a drink to soften the twinge of guilt. No. Arthur would never permit himself that sort of involvement. For twenty years, they had worked that way. It was, he supposed, why he had the ulcer and why Arthur had the bigger office.
The Overseer Page 8
