The Overseer (34 page)

“If I remember,” said Xander, “the light goes out just after three.”

Feric nodded and placed his bag on one of the two beds. Save for the short exchange with Tübing, he had been virtually silent since the changeover in Göttingen, his look far more concentrated than Xander could recall. He had felt compelled to make a few comments about German railway inefficiency, but had offered little more in the way of explanation for some of his
directives
: that Xander make the reservation at the pension, that he offer up the exact time of their arrival, that he mention the “colleague” who would be accompanying him, and that he
not
ask Herr Tübing if there had been any recent inquiries concerning the young Doktor Professor. If the men of
Eisenreich
had found their way to Wolfenbüttel—a possibility that seemed less and less remote—their first stop would no doubt have been his old haunt,
number
twelve Jürgenstrasse. Or perhaps their second stop. Ganz lived a
five-minute
walk from the central market. They could easily have rummaged through Ganz’s material, found the manuscript, and simply been waiting at the station to dispense with a few more “loose ends.” The fact that Feric and he had arrived without incident had eased Xander’s mind only slightly.

Settling onto his bed, Xander watched the operative remove a pair of dark trousers, a sweater, and a black cap from his bag. Xander adjusted his pillow. “I have to admit, I’m somewhat relieved, given the way we rolled into town.”

“Do not be,” Feric answered. “Eisenreich would not have done anything to this point for the very reason that we
did
make our arrival clear to anyone who might be interested.” He placed his shoes neatly by the bedpost. “
They
are the unknown quantity here, not you.
They
must be cautious.” He pulled a second pair of pants, a turtleneck, and another cap from his bag and tossed them across to Xander. “Put those on.” Feric stood and placed the wallet and passports in his pockets. Then, sitting down at the desk, he pulled a piece of stationery from the wooden drawer and began to write.

“What are you doing?” Xander was following orders, his shirt off, his fingers busy with his shoelaces.

“A note for Herr Tübing. Your apologies at being unable to stay. Sudden emergency. We will rest for a few hours, then go. Should something happen later tonight, the word
emergency
will have the proper effect, more so if the note is in my handwriting as your assistant. I will leave a hundred marks.”

“That’s twice what the room costs.”

“You are a generous man, Herr Doktor Professor.”

 

Sarah had the pilot fly her to Tempsten, Alison now too valuable to leave in the open; after all, she could tie the men of Eisenreich together, whether she realized it or not. And, of course, Votapek would want answers about the tape. Sarah knew she had to move quickly. To that end, she found Alison a place to stay and stocked it with food for a week. She also gave her a gun—a precaution. Alison took it without a word.

Staring at the weapon in Alison’s hand, Sarah felt strangely detached, aware that she had lived the very same moment before, once again no choice but to follow through.
“You will come back.” “Yes.” “You will come for me.” “Yes.”
Alison had to be kept from Tieg and Sedgewick; Sarah had to confront them, undermine their resolve as she had undermined Votapek’s. Find a way to the heart of Eisenreich and destroy it. She knew it was the only way to keep Alison safe.

The only way to save Xander.

Now, six hours later, Sarah was in San Francisco’s Ghirardelli Square, her thoughts, though, six thousand miles away. She phoned into the relay point for Feric’s message. They were in Germany, with only part of the
manuscript
. He did not elaborate. More encouraging, though, was his synopsis of the part they had found. It confirmed everything she had put together on her own—the isolation, the taboo on contact. And the fourth man. But it was his final words that brought the smile to her face.

“The Doctor is doing well. I am actually growing quite fond of him.”

An uncharacteristic admission, but one she understood only too well.

As she replaced the receiver and stepped out into the flow of bodies, Sarah became acutely aware of the man following her. Her first thought was Justice, but he didn’t fit the profile.

Needing an answer, she began to drift into the crowds, slowing so as to pull in her prey. The sound of his steps drew closer, almost on her, until, with a lunge, Sarah bent over, an instant later her torso colliding with his, legs and arms lost in a wild jumble. Before he could respond, her hand was buried in the small of his back, her grip viselike around the base of his spine. He winced as she prodded him to keep walking.

“You seem to have taken an interest in me,” she said quietly. “Not a very subtle one, I might add.”

“It wasn’t meant to be subtle,” he answered, his gait more clipped as she dug her fingers deeper into his flesh. “I’m with the Committee.”

 

Five minutes later, they sat in a coffee bar, two cups of caffè latte on the table.

“Would the Committee man have a name?” she asked.

“Stein. Bob Stein.” He smiled uncomfortably, his thick fingers around the tiny spoon. “I wasn’t quite sure how to approach you.”

“Well, here we are.”

“Yes.” He removed the spoon from the cup, licked at the foam, and cleared his throat. “I’m with the Committee—”

“You’ve said that.”

“Yes. Well, it has to do with your …
investigation
.”

“Take your time, Bob.”

“I’ve brought some files with me.”

Sarah stared at him as he sipped his coffee. “That isn’t Committee
policy
.” Stein didn’t answer. “Then why did Pritchard send you? A sudden pang of conscience?”

“No one at COS knows I’m here.”

Sarah watched as he stared into his cup. “That’s rather bold, isn’t it, Bob? A bit outside the parameters of acceptable behavior.”

He looked up, his unease momentarily forgotten. “It’s a bit outside the parameters of
acceptable
behavior to send out retired operatives. But we’ve moved way beyond that, haven’t we?”

Sarah smiled. “Yes, we have.”

“Look,” Stein continued, his voice now a whisper, “we lost both of you in Florence. I won’t ask you where the good doctor is, because that’s not why I’m here. You appear a day later on your own passport, which I took to be an invitation: Here I am; come find me. If it wasn’t, tell me and I’ll be happy to fly back to my desk, forget about all of this, and hope I haven’t made some sort of horrible mistake. Otherwise, I think I’m here to offer help.”

Sarah had not lost her smile. “Well then, I guess I should be willing to take it, shouldn’t I, Bob?”

 

A deep black sky had turned to slate when the two emerged onto
Jürgenstrasse
. They had been careful on the stairs, more so with the front door, and were now maintaining the same posture on the lane leading toward the center of town. A stoic traffic light guarded the only large intersection, its amber beam flashing at a road that drove on for countless empty miles. The stillness of the night, ideal for their purposes, only compounded Xander’s concern. They were alone, scampering through a town locked deep in sleep. Xander held his shoulder bag tightly against his side, the premium on quiet in strict contrast to the easy gait of their first hike to Pension Heinrich Tübing. Beads of sweat began to formunder Xander’s turtleneck as Feric quickened the pace.

Passing the palace and libraries, the two arrived at the market center—as in most German towns, a pedestrian area walled in by shops and stores, too many of them overwrought boxes of cement and glass staring menacingly down at the roofs of the older timber buildings. Xander led the way along the wide cobblestone court, a few arteries crisscrossing the main
thoroughfare
in an endless maze of small-town life. Only the sound of rubber-soled shoes landing in contrapuntal
pit-a-pat
broke through the heavy silence. At the end of the promenade, the sustained green of a traffic light cast a
welcome
glow on the street. Ganz’s house, another twenty yards beyond, lay in deep shadow.

Xander stopped and nodded toward the small two-story home. From where they stood, the two men could make out the vague outlines of bushes dotting the lawn. As they drew closer, more of the house came into detail, including the sudden appearance of a car—from the profile, an ancient Saab—a monster with a hunched back, standing guard at the lip of the curb. They cut across the lawn, the grass brittle underfoot, each step prompting a hushed crunch, impossible to muffle against the sterility of the open yard. Within a minute, both stood on the second step of the front porch, the drip under Xander’s turtleneck having grown to a mild trickle, his breath short and choppy, less from exertion than nerves. Xander gently rapped his fingers against the thick wood of the door, quickly pulling his hand back to listen for movement inside. Nothing. He tried again, more conviction this time, his heart jumping with each touch of wood. Feric was already by one of the windows, his gloved hand feeling its way round the wooden frame, his eyes lost in concentration. After a minute, he looked over at Xander and mouthed the word
alarm
. Then, pulling a small metal strip from his coat, he swept it along the gap between the window and frame, found the catch, and returned the strip to his pocket. He pushed the window up and listened; satisfied, he lifted the window higher and nodded for Xander to join him. The episode had taken less than two minutes.

Once inside, both men removed flashlights from coat pockets and began to examine the room. Ganz’s kitchen, seen only through narrow beams of light, proved in far worse condition than any book he might have been asked to repair—cigarette burns dotted the tabletop, paint chips hung from the
cabinets
, and the smell of cheese filled the place. Xander recalled Ganz had been a widower for some twenty years, evidently never having mastered the finer points of housekeeping. Feric quietly led them across the room to the
swinging
door, whose ancient hinges threatened a squeak but mercifully remained silent as the two men moved out into the narrow hall. Keeping the light on the floor, they slipped down the corridor toward the staircase; Xander tapped Feric and pointed to the second floor. The study. That much he had
remembered
. If Ganz had the book, it would be there, next to the bedroom.

Taking the steps two at a time, they arrived on the upper landing, the sound of a radiator hissing the only accompaniment to their near-silent strides. Several doors stood ajar; Xander could make out stacks of papers and books in the rooms, storage areas for a man who had always prided himself on an unwillingness to throw anything away. The two doors at the end of the corridor, however, remained shut, the hiss growing louder as they crept along. Feric pressed his ear close to the first door, raising a hand for Xander to step back. A moment later, he pushed the door open, no sound from knob or hinge. Surprising even himself, Xander stood quite calmly as the entrance widened, Feric’s head disappearing round the door before a streak of light momentarily caught the edge of a mirror. Even then, Xander remained composed.