The Overseer (32 page)

“The German?”

“I assumed you had that information.”

Ignoring the barb, he asked, “What happened to this … Jaspers?”

Facts coupled with instincts. Sarah spoke. “Two men arrived to make it very clear they didn’t want Jaspers to get near the manuscript.”

“I don’t see the problem.”

“
I
had been sent to monitor Jaspers, and I had no idea who they were.”

Votapek looked confused. “You’re telling me that these two—”

“Appeared out of nowhere. We have no idea who sent them.”

Votapek took a moment. “You’re sure this had to do with the
manuscript
?”

“No question. A day and a half later, a man named Bruno Feric
contacted
Jaspers, and the two of them disappeared.”

“And you say you have no idea who these two men were.”

“None whatsoever.”

Another pause. “This Feric—why is he of any concern?”

“Bruno Feric was a lieutenant in the East German Stasi—a highly skilled assassin with links to several political groups in Europe and the Middle East. After the Soviet collapse, he began to hire out his services.”

“You’re certain it was this Feric who contacted Jaspers?”

“I know the man.” Now she paused. “I was the one who got him out of East Germany in 1989.”

Votapek’s jaw again tightened. “The question remains—why should any of this concern
me?
”

“Clearly, someone is very eager to keep me from doing my job.”

“Your
job
, Ms. Trent, remains somewhat unclear.”

“Does it really, Mr. Votapek?”

The momentary look of puzzlement on his face quickly gave way to an icy stare. “You thought that someone was
me
?”

“It still might be.”

“
Please
, Ms. Trent. Are you implying that someone within—”

“I’m not implying anything.” She now paused for effect. “But it would seem that someone, or some group, is making up their own rules.”

“Explain.”

Sarah spoke deliberately, measuring each word. “The
first trial
. Maybe someone’s getting a little overanxious. Maybe someone wants to accelerate the
process
.” She let the words settle before adding, “Or maybe that’s been the idea from the start. It’s one of the things I was sent to find out.”

“
One
moment,” said Votapek, his eyes fixed, controlled. “You’re saying that someone, someone like Jonas or Laurence—”

“Your names, not mine.”

“Is attempting to move ahead of schedule?” He shook his head, the idea gaining clarity. “That’s impossible, given the need for coordination.
Ludicrous
. I know these men, Ms. Trent.”

“Twice, Mr. Votapek.
Twice
someone has tried to stop me. In New York and in Florence. So I must be getting in someone’s way. The fact that I’m here tells you that I’m not the only one concerned.” She waited. “Eisenreich wants to make sure we’re all on the same page.” Again, she paused. “That’s what I’m here to confirm.”

Votapek remained silent as he sat on the low wall. He stared out at the lapping water below. He then turned to her. “I
know
these men, Ms. Trent.”

Sarah could see him losing focus; she knew the conversation had run its course, the seeds planted, Votapek having taken the bait. “I hope you do.” She stood. “Which, as I see it, leaves very little else for us to discuss. I will, of course, pass on the information.”

He did not bother to answer. The gull flapped its wings in a flurry of motion, disappearing below the cliff almost instantaneously. “You will, of course, keep me apprised of your … analysis.”

His request caught her off guard. It was nothing less than an admission of concern, a hint of suspicion of his fellow players. “I don’t know if we’ll be in touch again.” Sarah smoothed out her skirt and reached for her bag. “This meeting is to be kept strictly private. No external confirmation.” She smiled. “That’s what I was told. He said you would understand.”

“Of course,” nodded Votapek. He stood. “My pilot will fly you back.” Sarah started toward the gravel path. “Ms. Trent,” Votapek interrupted; she stopped and turned. “You still remain something of a mystery.”

Sarah looked directly into his eyes. “As it should be, Mr. Votapek. As it should be.”

 

“My friend and I are taking a few days to visit some family, and then on to the south and the Zugspitze. Maybe some climbing.” Feric’s German showed no traces of the usual accent and instead lilted along with the thicker sing-song quality of Austrian Hochdeutch.

The official continued to examine their passports. “And you were in England for …”

“Business.” Feric continued to crane over the high desk in the assumed pose of a harmless, if anxious, traveler.

“Yes,” answered the guard, flipping through the weathered books, only once looking up to match pictures with faces, “and you return to Austria in …”

“A week. Ten days at the most.”

A few moments of well-practiced silence, a quick burst of mechanical stamping, and the two holidaymakers were on their way. Xander had been to Frankfurt only twice and had forgotten the impressive layout of the
self-contained
monolith. He continued to stare up at the vaulted dome as they headed down the central escalator. Car-rental booths lined the walls below, each staffed by a garishly togged attendant, the glaring yellows, blues, and reds of the international competitors vying for attention. Feric moved to one of the indistinguishable carrels and placed his case on the counter.

“A car, please.” Feric’s German had now become stained with a
northern
Italian accent. Xander couldn’t help but stare at him, the stance, the head cocked to one side, even the easy posture of the hands a far cry from the nervous Austrian of only minutes before. He watched as Feric dug through his pockets for a half-crushed pack of cigarettes—from Milan. Xander had to smile at the precision, no less so at the simple gesture with which the little man brought the cigarette to his mouth, only to be
reprimanded
by the rental agent, a finger pointing to the large
NO SMOKING
sign on a nearby wall.

“Ah, sì.” A casual shrug, the cigarette remaining unlit between his
fingers
as he smiled up at Xander, pouring forth in impeccable Italian, “What can you do?” A knowing smile. “At least the Spanish let you have a good smoke while you wait for them to bang away at their computers.” He turned back to the agent, and again in labored German added, “We have now just been within Spain, and in there they have smoking allowed.”

The German continued to scan the screen. “This is not Spain, sir.” Feric nodded affably. “Your passports, please.”

Without a blink, Feric looked up at Xander and nodded for him to give the man the documents. Xander stood frozen until Feric, in a sign of
apology
, placed the cigarette in his mouth and fumbled in his jacket. A moment later, with a short laugh, he pulled two new passports from a pocket, handed them to the agent, and said, “No, me, I am having them.”

Xander continued to watch the performance; the agent, cool against the backdrop of Italian noise, typed away. Within a minute, he placed an
envelope
and a set of keys on the counter, Feric nodding and shrugging,
penning
indecipherable initials at all the appropriate marks.

“
Sind wir fertig?
” Feric’s extended roll of the r and the aspiration on the final g forced a pained smile from the agent.

“Yes, all is complete.”

Pulling his case to his side, Feric placed the documents in his pocket, nodded again to the agent, and said, “First, some food.” Then, hooking his arm under Xander’s, he led them off into the underground maze. Five minutes later, they were in front of an Italian restaurant, the sign above in deep red curves, the name lost to letters in the shape of the seven hills of Rome.

“I always make it a point to eat here if I have the time. Excellent
manicotti
. You will not find another like it outside Rome.” The old Feric had returned, the precision of the English the telltale sign, but somehow
softened
by a surprising remnant of the buoyant Italian alter ego. With jaunty step, he moved through the glass door and into the empty dining room. Forgoing three perfectly acceptable tables, he settled on a fourth along the near wall, dropping his bag to the floor as he sat. Xander joined him as the maître d’ placed the menus on the table before ambling back to his perch by the door. Ceiling-high mirrors lent the thin strip a well-contrived girth, the clever placement of lamps and candles adding to the illusion. Feric watched himself tear off a thousand pieces of bread.

“That was quite a performance.” Xander placed his elbows on the table, his back uncomfortable against the straight edge of the chair.

“You are too kind.” There was a hint of self-satisfaction in the way Feric gnawed away, betraying an unexpected delight in his own bravura. “A
boisterous
Italian. He sees far too many every week to remember us.”

“You enjoyed it nonetheless.”

“Naturally. That is why I can be so convincing.” A waiter arrived, took the order for two manicottis and a bottle of the house red, and vanished as quickly as he had appeared. “That expression on your face, Doctor, when I asked for the passports—now
that
I truly enjoyed.”

The waiter returned with a carafe, Feric maintaining his uncharacteristic playfulness, eyebrows raised in anticipation of an Italian wine served by a German restaurateur. Both he and Xander were pleasantly surprised by the rich flavor that washed down the stray pieces of bread.

“I’m impressed,” nodded Xander. “An excellent choice.”

“Yes. It is at that.”

“‘In the midst of the hunt,’” piped in the academic, “‘find a place to refuel—a good meal, some wine.’ Lesson—what are we up to?”

“If that is the way you want to see it, yes. All of that can be very useful.” Feric took a long sip of the wine. “However, at this particular time, it is much simpler than that. We have twenty-six minutes before we must leave, and I am hungry. They prepare the food here in record time.”

The precision in the answer was a bit much, even by Feric’s standards. “Twenty-six?” asked Xander. “What difference does it make?”

“The train to Göttingen leaves at seven twenty-seven, twenty-two
minutes
.” Good to its billing, the food arrived, Feric quick to sprinkle heaps of cheese on the already-hidden tubes of pasta; he stopped when he noticed Xander’s expression. “You did not think we were actually going to
use
the car, did you? It is the easiest thing to trace.” When Xander did not answer, Feric continued. “If they are not that clever, then we have merely wasted fifteen minutes. On the other hand, if they are better at this than you think, they will eventually discover who rented the little Fiat. They found you at the library in London; why should they not be as successful here?” Feric dared a large forkfull of the manicotti. He continued, teeth splattered with marinara sauce. “Which brings up a question that has been troubling me since this afternoon.” He wiped the sauce from his chin. “How did they know where you were going?”

The question caught Xander off guard.
How
Eisenreich had found him in London seemed slightly less important than the fact that they
had
found him. And the manuscript. “I have no idea. I assumed—”

“There are only two possibilities. Either Eisenreich has vast resources with which to trace a man—highly unlikely, given their obvious inability to keep track of you—or”—he reached for his glass—“you have not been as careful as you might think.” He looked up to measure Xander’s reaction.

The young scholar sat motionless, pasta frozen between plate and mouth. Not sure whether he had just been accused of stupidity or
something
worse, Xander momentarily was at a loss for words.

Feric saw no reason to press the point. “I do not think you have been
aware
of how it might have happened, but you might do well to consider the days since Florence. Perhaps Milan.”

“Milan?” Images from the last week raced through his mind. “I didn’t
know
about London until I’d read Carlo’s notes. And I didn’t get those until Florence. Nothing about the Danzhoeffer Collection—”

“Fine,” Feric interrupted, seeing the mounting concern on his companion’s face, “then you can dismiss Milan.”

“And until I met you, I was flying under my
own
passport. It’s not that difficult to trace someone.”

“Granted. But why did they appear at the library? Certainly
that
was not in your passport. Why not the British Museum, or Cambridge, or any number of other places? Why
London
, and why
that
library?”

“Well … it wouldn’t be that difficult to find out that I’d done most of my work at the Institute four years ago.”

“Where is the logic in that?” Feric shook his head and again embarked on a slab of pasta. “Pure coincidence. Working at the library
four years ago
has no relation to the manuscript being there
now
.”