The Overseer (22 page)

The reception at the Lowndes had been anything but warm. So unlike the Italians, thought Xander. So like the English. He had spent the better part of two years in London for his postgraduate work, always the perfect American—not one to assume the idiosyncrasies of his hosts, embarrassing both them and himself in the process. He recalled with a smile an old friend from high school who had spent a semester at one of those snottier public schools and who had returned to the States with the air of a royal, an affectation only slightly less ridiculous than his accompanying accent. Xander had vowed never to fall prey to any of that. Even so, a little
something
had rubbed off. At least enough not to raise any questions from a typically decorous concierge, a man who had been more than happy to print out two copies of Carlo’s files. Xander recalled the twenty minutes he had spent convincing Sarah that the first copy should be sent to Mrs. Huber in New York—a nod to academic superstition. Reluctantly, Sarah had agreed.

Now, after an early lunch, he found himself tightly packed within a thick clutch of bodies all bound for the Russell Square station. It was a familiar route, one he had taken almost every day during the years of
unencumbered
research. He had always referred to those months as such, that brief period free from the demands of a dissertation or the watchful eye of Lundsdorf. Free to choose his own course, to explore at will within the environs of a slightly crumbling academic setting. It was the only way he knew how to describe the Institute of Historical Research, a self-contained building tucked neatly into a large university complex at the edge of Russell Square, far enough from the British Library to keep the toughest rigors of academic life at arm’s length. Even within the cramped air of the tube, Xander couldn’t help but smile at the images of that past: the little alcove he had made his own on the third floor, the desk wedged into the single window overlooking a few barren trees and a silent walkway, the smell of ancient tomes hovering about him, his solitude disturbed only now and then by the shuffle of an equally ancient academic in search of a
long-forgotten
book. He could recall nothing but pleasure from those days. Nothing but the sheer joy of every morning, every evening, and the true contentment they had engendered.

But it had been more than the work, more than the camaraderie, even more than the sense of purpose that now colored the memories with such fondness. As much as he tried, Xander couldn’t convince himself that all those distant comforts had been anything more than mere reflections, echoes of a deeper sense of peace that he had found with Fiona. At first so dangerously assertive, so much more enticing than coy, so slender-framed and fine-boned, she had made everything lovely and real. Lulled by the familiar beat of wheel on track, Xander began to slip back. Memories impossible to keep at bay. Impossible to deny.
Why England? Why did the notes have to lead here?
A faint wisp of lilac filled his breath, his eyes closing to the clawing tightness of a longing caught between self-pity and delight.

They had met at one of those parties, where everyone seems to know one another except for the strange American—always a novelty—who gets dragged along by a recent acquaintance who insists that everyone will simply love
hearing
about whatever he’s doing at the Institute, rapid-fire conversations with the young absentminded academic, cheese and wine, and men with ponytails, and on and on. And so he had gone, well aware that he wouldn’t fit in—everyone a bit too trendy—with “smashing” drinks and “beautiful” food and “darling” hors d’oeuvres. And he had found a domestic beer instead of wine and had been happy enough to play the wide-eyed American for the record executives and literary agents who swarmed about the party, ever eager to foist their opinions of “the grand old US of A” upon him.

And she had saved him. Thoroughly out of his element, unable to fend off the cutting probes, he had turned to her, a moment’s break from the jabs
masquerading
as questions. Against the backdrop of contrivance—the noise of young culture—she had appeared real, genuine, and somehow approachable.

“Is it always like this for you?” she asked. “I mean, at parties. Do they always pounce on you as the Yank?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been here long enough.”

“Fiona Isaacs.” Her handshake was firm, a clasping of wirelike fingers.

“Xander Jaspers. Conspicuous American.”

And with that, they had spent the entire evening talking, laughing, the obvious trappings of instant attraction. Both had given in without a thought, something so new for him, something she would help him to accept. The phone calls, the long walks, his total disbelief that things were actually working out well, his writing never better, and the hint of lilac that was always there even without her. Month slipping into month, and a growing need for her that somehow felt right, perfect for the simplicity of it all.

“I can’t fall in love with you. You know that, don’t you?”

“And why’s that?”

“You’re far too beautiful. Dad told me never to marry a beautiful woman.”

“I see. Well, your loss, then.”

The wedding had been simple, a small ceremony in a garden, suit and white dress, drinks and finger food, two weeks in Greece. No one had quite
understood
the speed of the whole affair. And yet, they had all understood.

When she began to feel ill, sudden headaches and overwhelming fatigue—early signs of the cancer that would take her within the year—his heart broke and he cried. And she held him, because she knew he would have to live beyond it.

The day she died, she was again cradling him, allowing him to bury himself in her, until her hands no longer had the strength to rest on his shoulders.

She had died in the afternoon, which was somehow even more unfair. Not even the cover of darkness to comfort.

The car pulled to a sudden stop, sending several people into Xander’s back, and forcing him to steady himself with a hand to the ceiling. His eyes glanced around, a slow realization that the station had arrived, that he would have to push his way through the throng. Stepping to the sticky heat of the underground platform, he quickly rubbed away the wet patch
clinging
to the edge of his eye, allowed himself a deep breath and the welcome relief from the cramped, if pungent, subway car. The English were not famous for their rigor with a shower and soap.

Fiona had always recommended the bus. Too slow, he had always answered. Too slow.

 

The bag of cheese balls sufficed as breakfast. Bob Stein licked at the neon orange on his thumb, dabbing his moistened fingers into the plastic for what few pieces remained. He was looking for somewhere to toss the empty bag when he noticed O’Connell just the other side of the
reflection
pool. Bob opted for his coat pocket, then began to brush the grit from his hands as O’Connell neared the bench. A pair of National Guardsmen—ubiquitous since the recent turn of events—ambled along in front of the Lincoln Memorial, hardly taking notice of the Irishman. Their arrival had brought an uneasy serenity to the city, a furtiveness Stein found unnerving. Still, they were there to serve and protect.
Normalcy
at a price.

That is, if one could ignore the aftershocks. The news this morning had been filled with stories of the tremors, no saga quite so devastating as the deaths of the forty-three children from Spain, killed in a midair crash over Dulles. Cut adrift for nearly twenty minutes due to the tower shutdowns, the plane had circled into a thick cloud cover, colliding with a 727 out of Miami. The group of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds—a church choir—had been scheduled to perform at the White House, their names and pictures once again in the news because of a letter from King Juan Carlos to the
Post
. Overwhelmed by the tragedy, he was insisting that he accompany a special envoy to retrieve what remained of the bodies; the State
Department
, however, was
advising
otherwise. As yet, they could not guarantee his safety.

Bob recalled several of the names, faces on a screen. Heartbreaking as the news was, he had no time for it.

“The last contact was Milan,” he said as O’Connell sat.

“She knew we were there?” asked the Irishman.

“As far as we can tell, yes.”

“Wonderful. That means we won’t find her again unless she wants us to.”

“We still have people in Milan—”

“Trust me, Bob. We
won’t
find her. She gets in very deep. It’s her
special
talent.” He paused. “It’s why she was so damn perfect for Amman.”

Stein removed a second bag from his pocket and pulled it open. “I’ve never actually been all that clear on what happened there.”

“Join the crowd.” O’Connell let out a long breath. “No one has. It was supposed to be a basic op—for her. Infiltrate Safad’s inner group, get comfy, then pull the rug out from under them. It was all going according to script until Safad told her he wanted Ambassador Conlon’s daughter eliminated—a show of
good faith.
Sarah’d done that sort of thing before, but never with a kid. We told her we’d get the girl out. Never happened. Something with the timing. Sarah showed up with two of Safad’s men, expecting to find no one, but the girl was still there. Sarah had no choice but to kill Safad’s boys; after that, things went a little crazy.”

“And that’s how we lost the girl?”

O’Connell nodded. “The pickup never happened. No one’s ever been quite clear on that—whether it was Sarah’s fuckup or something else. In the end, it came down to stopping the coup or saving the girl. Not much of a choice, really. The girl was dead before Sarah could get back.” He stared off at the Lincoln Memorial. “I was the lucky son of a bitch sent in to retrieve our Miss Trent when it was all over.” His eyes remained distant. “Not a pretty sight.” He shook his head slowly, then turned to Bob. “We have no idea why she’s in Italy, do we?”

“We have no idea why she’s doing this at
all
,” answered Stein. “Why didn’t she just come in?”

“Why indeed.” O’Connell reached over and grabbed a handful from the bag. “I just hope to Christ she can keep herself together. She crashes again, who knows how much of her would be left to come in?”

 

The entrance to the Institute hadn’t changed a bit. He had stayed away for obvious reasons, but he had expected at least a little something different in four years. Nothing. Even the porter looked the same, the all-too-familiar tap of the cap as Xander walked past the gate. Reaching the long outdoor corridor that connected the University of London library to the Institute, Xander paused. The logical choice would be to the left and the larger
building
with its impressive stash of books. Where better to start the search than with the card catalog or computer, if they had finally put everything
online
? Instead, he turned right through a pair of swinging doors, again right, two more doors, until he nearly walked into a small table, a guard at his
station
, the final barrier between Xander and his old stamping grounds.

Digging into his coat pocket, he pulled out a rather ancient-looking identification card, the signature too faded to make out the name. Even so, the Institute’s crest was clear enough, the dates evidently irrelevant; the guard asked him to sign in. Xander scribbled something illegible and
proceeded
through yet another set of doors, finding the old stairs and the slow mount to the third floor.

The smell of scholarship met him at once as he pushed through into the European history wing. Like wet cardboard sprinkled with dust, the air had a definable taste. Taking in a nice whiff of the familiar, he nearly ran into a young woman, her brisk stride the sure sign of academic administration. Only his ability to flatten himself against the wall saved him from the open field tackle. He smiled and pressed on. Few lights were on, the rooms
surprisingly
empty. There was no reason to question his good fortune. He was distinctly less inclined, since Florence, to presume any sort of security within the walls of academia. Carlo’s office. The mad dash through the subterranean tunnels. Lessons well learned. He had even gone so far as to alter his
appearance
. Sarah had mentioned a few things—in New York, they had seemed silly—but he was now serving caution rather than his own naïveté. He had moved the part in his hair from left to right, shaped several days of growth into the semblance of a beard, and worn two extra T-shirts to give his slim frame some added bulk. Certainly nothing that would deceive a
professional
, but enough to make him seem unfamiliar to a colleague of a few years ago.