The Overseer (27 page)

With a sense of raw panic, Xander grabbed his briefcase and thrust it full force into the shadows. The movement took but an instant, but, to Xander’s eyes, the slow-motion heaving and thrashing lent the chaos a certain clarity, a precision he had never before experienced. He could see everything, feel it all as the case drove up into the man’s midsection. Xander pushed his way out into the long alley, his feet slipping along the waxed tile. He careened against several of the shelves, desperate to find his footing. No sounds from behind, no scream of surprise, no patter of feet in quick pursuit as he
propelled
himself toward the bright light at the stairs.

Time began to accelerate again as he reached the stairwell, his body now in control, turning, eager to fly down the steps.

Instead, he lurched to a stop. There, stepping up to the landing, came another familiar profile. Completely bald, large shoulders—the man from Florence. A quick intake of breath was all Xander needed to draw the man’s attention, the glance immediate, the reaction, however, completely
unexpected
. The man stared blankly—no recognition, no anticipated discovery. In that instant of stunned disbelief, Xander leapt to his right, racing up the steps toward the fifth floor.

A delayed clatter of feet behind him filled the air as he reached the next landing. Knowing he had only the sixth and seventh above him, Xander spun away from the stairs and began to move down another darkened
corridor
.
Away from the light! Get away from the light!
Ducking down the
nearest
alley, he stumbled his way deeper into the maze of shelves, trying to remember the layout of the floors; but his mind was a blank, straining to hear any sounds of his distant stalkers. A minute later, the shelves took a sharp turn to the right, forcing him to scrape along various books, one or two crashing to the floor as he whisked by. The first sounds of emphatic pursuit rang in his ears. Finding the central corridor again, he darted across and into another web of shelved alleys, the light growing fainter and fainter as he ran farther into the pitch-black of the labyrinth. With each step, his sense of direction grew more and more remote, until the stairs were but a distant memory, an unknown port lost within an uncharted sea of metal and books.

And then, with his heart racing, his breath searing to escape, he stopped. He had to take stock, regain control. He was deep within the morass of paths, somehow secure under the blanket of books above him. A fleeting sense of calm swept over him, enough to grant a moment’s lucidness. He crouched and concentrated all of his energy on the faint sound of darting feet coming from his left. It was not a single, even beat, but the
synchopated
rhythm of two sets—
pat-a-pa-tat, pat-a-pa-tat
—jostling their way from shelf to shelf, drawing ever nearer to the tiny segment of floor Xander had staked as his own. Relentlessly, the pattern rose, its echo stronger as the seconds flew by. He snapped his head over his shoulder as if expecting to find eyes peering at him, through him. But only the staccato menace of feet, the deafening whisp of panting breath, nearer and nearer.

And suddenly silence. An eerie quiet descended all about him, soundless and cold, propelling a surge of nervous energy within, the books no longer a barrier against what he could not hear, could not see. Oppressive silence. He sat like a cornered animal, waiting for the thrust of claws deep within his flesh, the stealthy gouging he could almost feel, prostrate and alone on the icy floor. Again, he spun his head round, certain that eyes were upon him, only to discover the black outline of shelf, the near-distant fade to nothingness that seemed to isolate him all the more. The silence began to suffocate, its emptiness draining, leaving only hopeless terror in its wake. He wanted desperately to find himself, to break out of the torment his assailants had so masterfully contrived, but his will was giving in, his hands able only to clasp the pages to his chest. He began to rock back and forth, slipping more and more into a numbing stillness.

A momentary shift in the shadow above broke the trance. Xander peered up into the lifeless eyes.

“You have the manuscript, Dr. Jaspers?” the voice whispered.

Xander could only stare at the man.

 

A
GAIN, THE MAN PROBED
. “You have the manuscript, Dr. Jaspers?”

Xander’s eyes fixed on the face above, a narrow oval atop a thin neck. Had he been standing, Xander would have towered over the slouching
figure
. But he was trapped, knees drawn tight to his chest, a child caught,
certain
of unspeakable punishment. There was, of course, the alley of shelves behind him, the long expanse of shadow with its promise of escape, but what was the use? No doubt, the bald giant stood somewhere in the dark recesses, happy to let his more diminutive counterpart take the first crack at interrogation. The man seemed content to let his prey make the first move. Xander could offer little more than a nod to the man’s question.

“Good.” Again, the cold precision of the northern European accent.

Xander slowly raised the small leather book toward his captor, the weight of the tiny volume somehow too much for him.

“Oh, no, you hold on to it, Doctor. I would not know what to do with it.”

Xander’s hand stopped in midair. “
What?
” he whispered, more reflex than response. The little calm he had managed now gave way under the impact of the words, his mind racing to find a rationale, anger replacing fear as one image began to crystallize.
Of course
. They were playing with him, biding their time so that the assassin could hand-deliver his prize to Votapek, or Tieg, or whoever else had concocted this nightmare. And yet, there was something strangely serene, nonthreatening in the man’s candor.
Keep it?
Where was the sense in that?

“There is no need for alarm, Dr. Jaspers.”

“No
need
for—”

“Ms. Trent sent me.”

“You’ve got—” The name ripped through him, his mind overwhelmed by words he could not comprehend.
“Ms. Trent?”
A momentary flash of coherence. “
Sarah?
Sarah
sent
you—”

“Yes. I am Feric. Ms. Trent asked me to … watch over you.”

Xander locked eyes with the man, the calm, icy demeanor somehow unreal, impenetrable. “Watch over me?” he echoed. It took a minute for the words to sink in. And with the first hints of understanding, the shock gave way to a mounting sense of resentment, the realization that he was being coddled. “What the hell does
that
mean?” Xander hoisted himself up, Feric mindful not to interfere, no hand extended. He had been told such gestures would only exacerbate the young professor.

“It means—”

“And that was
you
back at the Institute.” Pictures began to fall into place. “All that browsing through the books. ‘Wrong room.’ Why didn’t you say something?” He had regained enough composure to keep his
questions
to a loud whisper, his hands busy brushing off his pants. Suddenly, his head snapped toward Feric. “The
other
man. The
bald
—”

“As I said, no need for alarm. He has been taken care of.”

“‘
Taken care
’—what is it with you people?”

“There was no reason—”

“Look, I’m grateful—I think. But …
Feric?
She never mentioned—”

“She would not have done that. I can explain all of this
later
.” Words chosen to pacify now gave way to orders. “You have everything you need?”

Another calm voice to penetrate his confusion. So much like Sarah’s, and in that, Xander recognized he was once again caught up in their game,
playing
by their rules. Such questions were meaningless, answers an indulgence.
Concern
…
neither of us has the time for it.
Sarah’s words from the café. It took him a moment to respond. “No. I need to speak with a librarian.”

For the first time, doubt crossed Feric’s face. “Fine. I will leave first. You will follow. There is a pub, the Wayward Lamb, no more than—”

“I know where it is. I’ll need half an hour.”

 

Twenty minutes later, they were well into their first pint of beer. “The library sent out a total of ten documents for restoration,” said Xander, seated across from Feric two-thirds the way down a cushioned bench that stretched the length of the side wall. The Lamb had that homey feel rarely found in London pubs, one of the few to have escaped the onslaught of Anglified American bars and French bistros. Deeply grained oak walls, heavy under a dull shine, stood firm but easy on all sides,
cluttered
by endless drawings of horses with jockeys, each enclosed in its own slightly decrepit gilt frame. The world moved more slowly here, a hospitality extended to those willing to give in to the easy pace of the surroundings.

“To Germany?” asked Feric, the waitress arriving with cheese and a
basket
of bread. He reached out and pulled off a healthy chunk.

“Yes,” Xander responded, his eyes on the man directly across from him. Up to this point, he had accepted his new
friend
at face value. Now …

“You are hesitant.” Feric nodded.

Xander watched as the man’s strong fingers ripped mercilessly into the bread, the hunched figure sniffing at his food before popping a small piece of fondled dough into his mouth. There was something animal-like about him, the sharp nose, high forehead only accentuating the cheekbones that gnawed away in rapid, tight bursts. Disconcerting as the appearance might be, Xander had to admit that this little man gave off an aura of self-control, a quiet confidence. Straightforward, with no hint of pretension. “What do you expect?” he answered. “I don’t know who you are, and you don’t seem that eager to fill me in. All you tell me is that Sarah sent—”

“Monica,” Feric said, continuing to chew, his eyes on the bread.

“What?”

“Monica.” Feric looked up and placed the bread on the table, picking at his back teeth as he continued. “Ms. Trent suggested I mention it.”

Ms. Trent suggested
… The word suddenly registered.
Of course.
Monica.
Carlo’s office. Only Sarah would have known. Only she would have picked so perfect a signal to put him at ease.

“I see she was right.” Feric removed a large wad of chewed bread,
examined
it, replaced it, and swallowed. “This book—this
second
part—it is in Germany?” he repeated.

It took Xander a moment to respond. “Yes. We’ve just been unlucky.” Somewhat more at ease, he continued. “The good news is that they’re obviously unimpressed with the manuscript. Keeping one volume and sending out the other—they clearly have no idea what they’ve got.
According
to the woman at the desk, library policy is to split up multivolumes so that—”

“Only what I need to know, Doctor.”

Xander stopped, nodded. “Problem is, they won’t get the last eleven chapters back for another month.”

“And that is too long to wait.”

“If Washington and Chicago are any indication, yes. I’d say that would be too long to wait.”

“And you know of this place in Germany?”

“It’s a small town called Wolfenbüttel, about half an hour from the old East German line.”

“Why there?”

“It’s got one of the great libraries of Europe. It’s also famous for an absolutely first-rate book collector and restorer, Emil Ganz. He’s about a hundred and—” Xander cut himself off. Trivial details.