The Overseer (35 page)

Feric immediately retreated from the room. “He is not here.”

The voice was only half-whispered, but the sudden intrusion of sound was enough to jump-start Xander’s heart, his self-confidence evidently
premature
. Feric explained. “It is his bedroom. The bed is made, unused. We have been lucky. He is elsewhere tonight.”

Xander drew in a deep breath and stepped back as Feric turned to the last door on the hall. With no less precision, he managed the handle and pushed the door open, this time not quickly enough to avert a squeak
rising
from the hinge. Xander’s grip tightened on the flashlight. Following Feric through, he saw a lamp with fringed shade, the only image to have remained from his last visit. Somehow, it had a soothing effect. As Feric moved toward the desk, Xander turned to close the door.

Staring back at him, the metallic curve of a revolver barrel flickered in the thin beam of light, a pair of ice blue eyes above.

 

S
ARAH SAT IN THE
hotel room, scanning various pages, so caught up in the text that she flipped past the final sheet, expecting another. All she found was the back cover, the all-too-familiar government seal staring up at her. She turned again to the last page. “This is still very sketchy.”

“Nice to see you remembered I’m here.” Stein sat down next to her. “I didn’t say it was perfect. I said it would help.” He had spent the last hour watching her, every so often trying to offer an explanation over her
shoulder
, only to be rebuffed with a quick hand to the air. Her concentration had been unwavering, the intensity in her gaze almost hypnotic. It was a lesson in analysis, in the art of scrutiny from the woman he had known only as the assassin of Jordan.

“These sections were omitted from the copies I was given. Why?” The question was tinged with accusation.

“Pritchard thought they were too sensitive.”

“That was
very
kind of him.”

“His reasoning,” replied Bob, “was that if we gave you the complete dossiers, you’d have no reason to look beyond them. You’d be in the same position we were in. He wanted to leave the loose ends so that you’d have to start from the beginning—something, obviously, we couldn’t do anymore.”

“I don’t buy that. I can’t imagine O’Connell would have—”

“He didn’t,” Stein cut in, knowing full well what Sarah was going to say. “And neither did I. Why do you think I’m here?” Sarah said nothing. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust—”

“Any theory on why Mr. Pritchard wanted to play it this way?”

“No.”

“And you’re absolutely certain he’s shown you everything?”

“
Absolutely
certain?” Stein shrugged. “A week ago, I would have said yes. Now I don’t know. Absolutely certain is … pretty absolute.”

She turned to him, slightly less edge to her tone. “To be honest, I was expecting Gael. My invitation.”

“I understand—”

“No, you don’t.” She paused. “You’re right, I don’t trust you … for the simple reason you don’t understand this.”

“And O’Connell does?”

“Not specifically, no.” She stood and moved toward the French windows and the balcony. “But enough.”

“Look, I didn’t choose to send you—”

“Of course you didn’t.” She turned to him. “Let me paint the real
picture
. None of you had a clue as to what was going on or how any of this tied together, so you threw the unknown into the works. The unknown, Bob, doesn’t have to have
perfect
credentials. In fact, she doesn’t have to have
any
credentials. She just has to stir things up so that the big boys can see how the field is playing.” She stared directly at him. “Well, it’s playing a little rough, a little rougher than any of us expected.” She opened the doors and enjoyed the breeze on her face. “So you’re right—I wasn’t the best choice for the job, if
choice
was ever applicable.”

Bob was quiet for a moment. “No, I don’t suppose it’s Committee
policy
to give people choices.”

She turned to him. “Is that why you’re here, Bob? Is that what this is all about? They let you get in a little too deep, and now you’re feeling
responsible
? If that’s the reason you’re here, you won’t be very useful.”

“I’m here,
Ms. Trent
, because I thought I had something you needed and because I thought you asked for my help.” The words flew out, a stream fueled by pent-up tension. “Could be I’m wrong, but I don’t think it matters a rat’s ass whether I feel responsible or not. You don’t want me to join in in your game, play on your
rough
field? Hey, then I’m happy to hop the next plane to Washington. But I don’t think that’s the case. I think the information I gave you, coupled with whatever Jaspers has turned up, may just be the only way to derail whatever these people have in mind.”

The outburst caught her by surprise, genuine emotion from a man she had pegged as little more than an anxious analyst suddenly in water over his head. “It’s nice to see that blood can boil under a bureaucrat’s skin.”

“Bureaucrat? You’d be so lucky.”

“Don’t worry, no one’s got the time to blame you or anyone else.”

“I’m not worrying.” He lifted the pitcher of coffee, swirled around what was left, and poured out a stream of coal black liquid. The smell was enough to dissuade tasting. “So exactly how important is Schenten?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“That’s the problem,” answered Stein. “I’ve given you what
I
have. So I think we’ve come to the part where you reciprocate and bring me up-todate on what you and Jaspers have found.”

Sarah turned and looked at Stein on the sofa, his paunch at even length with the armrest. “I thought you were playing the Good Samaritan? I didn’t realize you expected anything in return.”

“Two heads are better than one, something like that.”

“Perhaps.” She sat next to him and produced a lovely, ingenuous smile. “I need a favor first. I assume you have access to my files.”

“Yes,” he replied, the answer more question than response.

“Good. Then you’re going to need to destroy a few pages of them.”

“
What!
” Stein nearly dropped the cup of rancid coffee in his lap. “You want me to
destroy
highly classified information that no one can get his hands on anyway? What the hell for?”

“Confirmation, Bob. Confirmation.”

 

“Put the gun down, or I shall be forced to shoot Dr. Jaspers directly in the chest.” Ganz’s tone was hushed, no signs of his seventy-plus years in either voice or movement as he rose and remained by the door. Xander stood silently listening to the sound of Feric’s gun landing on carpet, the
movement
slow and deliberate. Ganz stepped to his right—eyes fixed on the two men—and reached across his body to turn on a standing lamp. Each man squinted momentarily, Ganz measuring Xander, the blue stare somehow gentle, even warm, though out of place given the circumstances.

“Who is he?” asked Ganz.

It took Xander a moment to realize that the question had been directed at himself, his natural instinct to turn and look at Feric so as to describe the operative. At the first sign of movement, Ganz interrupted.

“Do not move, please. I ask again, who is he, Doctor?”

Xander exhaled, barely able to swallow with the pounding that had reached his neck. His words were muffled, half-asperated bursts, as a stream of wet nausea rose from his stomach, the revolver fixed in his stare.

“I am Bruno Feric,” came the reply from behind. “We are here for the manuscript.”

“I have many manuscripts,” answered Ganz, his voice a monotone, his hand equally still around the gun. “Your name is not familiar to me, Herr Feric. How do you come in contact with Dr. Jaspers?”

“We are recently acquainted.”

“I was not aware that he
acquaints
himself with men who wield guns.”

“Then you might have to question your
own
familiarity with him.”

“Do not be clever.” Ganz showed no sign of emotion. “This revolver is purely defensive.”

The sound of two native German speakers conversing in English finally shook Xander from his stupor. “He’s helping me,” he broke in. “I wasn’t aware he’d pulled the gun.”

“Move away from my desk, Herr Feric,” continued Ganz, choosing to ignore Xander. “The two chairs by the fireplace—please, gentlemen.”

Slowly, Xander and Feric moved through the piles of books littering the floor, both careful to keep hands visible. At the same time, Ganz arced behind the desk, stepping gingerly in front of his own seat in order to turn on the small fringed lamp that stood atop the crepe blotter, his eyes ever trained on the smaller of the two men. All three sat at once, Ganz showing the first signs of strain as he let his arm rest momentarily on the edge of the desk. Feric shifted in his seat, prompting a sudden surge of energy from the old restorer, his gun again raised to chest level. Keeping his eyes focused on Feric’s hands, Ganz spoke, “You were saying, Dr. Jaspers?”

“Emil, this man was sent to protect me.”

“And why does a sixteenth-century scholar need such protection? Your work has always been interesting, but not, shall we say, dangerous.”

“It’s not my
work
that’s dangerous, and you know it.” A certain vigor had returned to his voice. “It’s the eleven chapters of Eisenreich that are somewhere in this mess; otherwise, you wouldn’t be pointing that gun at my friend’s chest.”

Ganz paused. “Two men break into my house in the middle of the night and I merely seek to defend myself.”

“And you decide to make your bed before dashing into the study?” Xander surprised himself with his own composure. “I hardly think so. When was the last time you slept?”

“So you are now a detective, as well?”

“
Emil
, do you have the Eisenreich?”

Ganz looked at Jaspers, the eyes gentle as before, their warmth oddly juxtaposed against the cold reality of the gun barrel stemming from his hand. After nearly a minute, Ganz slowly lowered the gun, his hand still firm around it, letting his back release into the cushion of his chair. “Of course I have it.” He rested his free hand on the desk as if to stand. Instead, he began to rub the wood, his eyes tracing the pattern of knobby fingers. Looking up from the strangely calming routine, he said, “And now I ask you the question I have been asking myself for the last two days: Why is it so important?”

Xander looked at Feric, then Ganz. “It’s a great find—”

“
Don’t
treat me like a child,” he broke in, standing as he spoke, the first explosion of emotion he had shown. His words were angry, the movement forceful, strong. “A first edition
Dante
is a find. No one, though, prowls through your house to find it. And no one does
this
.” He picked up a
newspaper
that had been resting on the desk and tossed it across to Xander, the sudden burst of activity making the catch somewhat awkward. Xander flipped to the front page and scanned the articles for an answer.

“No, the third page.” Ganz, too, could be impatient. “At the bottom. It is from yesterday’s
Algemeiner
.”

Xander opened to the page. There, staring back at him was the face of another old friend, Carlo Pescatore. The words below the picture were even more devastating.
SCHOLAR FOUND IN ARNO—POLICE CONTINUE INVESTIGATION.

“It becomes even more interesting,” added Ganz. “The police say that his office was broken into, that there were signs of a struggle, his computer discs tampered with, and”—he paused for effect, resting the gun on the desk—“that two unknown people were seen leaving the university courtyard the day of the break-in, one a man with a beard. That seemed an odd detail to me.”