The Overseer (36 page)

Xander started to answer, then stopped.

Ganz continued. “For how long have
you
had this beard, Doctor?”

Xander met his gaze, the eyes no longer the warm and gentle blue of moments ago. He had forgotten the hair on his face, now several days old, his immediate response to place his hand to his cheek.

“It is a recent addition,” said Feric, until now quiet in his chair.

“Ah, and I am to take the word of the man with the gun?” Ganz returned to his chair, choosing not to sit. “Perhaps now you understand why I wait with a revolver? I receive the Eisenreich—mind you, only the second half—and a day later, a man to whom I have written to tell of my discovery—because he is one of a handful who will truly appreciate it—is dead. But not dead
that
day. No, he is dead at least a week earlier, about the time that London sends me its books for restoration. Coincidence?
Perhaps
. I am deeply disturbed by the loss of a colleague—the strange
circumstances
no less upsetting—but I do not yet concern myself.

“Then, the next evening, I am informed by our mutual friend Herr Tübing that the
second
man to whom I have sent a letter about the Eisenreich is arriving in Wolfenbüttel—no letter to
me
to forewarn of the visit—and that he is traveling with a companion. A
companion
. Has he ever traveled with an assistant before? No, not that I can recall, and he has always said how much he enjoys the
solitude
of research. Moreover, he calls from the train station in Göttingen, a last-minute choice for a man I know to be a meticulous
planner
.” The interrogation continued, fatigue slowly beginning to show on the older man’s face. “And now, when you
do
arrive, you break into my house with a man who has a gun, and you sporting a beard. These things I cannot view as coincidence.” He picked up the revolver and raised it. “You are an old friend, but old friends do not act as you have. The Eisenreich is at the heart of this,
natürlich
. I must know why.”

Xander spoke before Feric could stop him. “Because there are some very powerful and capable men who are trying to put the theory into practice.”

Ganz’s eyes locked on Xander’s. For a long moment, he remained still; slowly, the hard stare slipped away, the blue neither gentle nor unkind as the words took hold; his gaze drifted to the desk. After nearly a minute, Ganz spoke, his voice controlled, direct, “Then it is far worse than I feared.” He looked at Xander. “Trying or succeeding?” When the young scholar did not answer, Ganz nodded, glancing at Feric. “That of course explains why
you
are here. No doubt, you would have killed me for the book.” Feric said nothing. “I understand. Such men must be stopped, no matter what the sacrifice. I trust you would agree, Doctor.” Xander sat silently as Ganz opened the top drawer and placed the gun inside. “Very few had the courage to make those sacrifices fifty years ago. Do not think your friend ruthless because he accepts the burden with such easy
detachment
. I can assure you, those who use the manuscript will act with equal indifference.”

“They already have,” replied Xander.

Ganz closed the drawer. “I see. The …
first trial
.” He nodded to
himself
before looking up. “The manuscript makes it all quite clear.” He held Xander’s gaze for a moment, then turned to Feric. “You may retrieve your revolver. I do not like such things in the open.” As Feric leaned forward to pick up the gun, Xander found it impossible to tear his eyes from the older man, the piercing eyes somehow more focused, more determined, a sense of purpose radiating from within. Ganz continued, his words equally
forceful
. “You, naturally, have the first nine chapters?”

“Yes,” answered Xander.

“Which would mean there is
another
copy of the manuscript.”

“Two others,” corrected Xander. “One German, one Latin. The men I just mentioned have them both.”

“And they, of course, are eager to have the third.”

“That,” said Feric, depositing the gun in his front pocket, “is
something
that continues to trouble me. Why should they be so concerned with the
other
copies? From what the doctor has told me, the theory is filled with broad suggestions for a process years in the planning; it does not, however, offer any substantiating detail. Only general points: what they intend to do, what they have been doing, how many men are needed, the spheres where the chaos is to occur, and so forth. But if it does not tell us exactly
how
, and, more important,
when
they intend to initiate the scheme, the manuscript is of limited value. It gives an overview, but nothing tangible, nothing to specify the essential day-to-day process we must assume they are following. They know the manuscript is incapable of giving that detail, so why would it matter if we should find any of the other copies?”

“You answer your own question, Herr Feric.” The first hint of a smile graced Ganz’s face. “Most assuredly, there
is
something in the manuscript that gives the detail you seek. Otherwise, as you say, there would be no
reason
to take such interest in the two of you, nor in our dear friend Pescatore, now would there?” Ganz swiveled in his chair, looked momentarily at Xander, and then opened a thin drawer at the bottom of the desk. He pulled out a small book, its color and binding difficult to discern in the light.

Xander sprang from his chair and took the book from the collector’s hand, flipping open the cover in anticipation. His heart sank as he saw the words on the page—thick umlauted script of typewritten German. For a moment, he could only stare.
German? It should be Italian. And where’s the notation of a second volume?
Xander looked at the cover again. No sign of the Medici seal. “Read the author’s name,” advised Ganz. “Not quite what you expected.”

W
OLF
P
OINT
, M
ONTANA
, M
ARCH
4, 8:45
P.M
.
The call had come in from New Orleans an hour ago, but it had clarified nothing; CNN had been airing pictures of the devastation since six o’clock. The old man had not moved from the television, both entranced and exasperated by the images filling the screen.

Too soon,
he thought.
All of it too soon.
Fate, once again, was testing his resolve. The explosion had been designated as part of the final stage, not the first trial, its effects mitigated by its singularity. The events it had been coordinated with would not begin for another three days, the destruction of the port now little more than an arbitrary act of terrorism.

Still, it was proving instructive. Via satellite, Bernard Shaw was
interviewing
the trade commissioners from Argentina and Chile, two men as yet unwilling to speculate on the impact of the recent disaster.

“As I understand it,” Shaw continued, “close to one-third of all trade in and out of South America finds its way through New Orleans.” Both men nodded. “And with the port inaccessible to commercial shipping for at least ten days—according to earliest estimates—that raises some rather interesting questions, gentlemen. Coupled with the recent crash of the grain market. …”

The old man listened with only half an ear, wondering what the reactions would have been had a number of key Midwestern railway and trucking arteries also succumbed within a few hours of the port’s demolition. What kind of questions might that have raised? What sort of economic panic?

But it was not to be; the timing had gone wrong. The final stage would now need reassessing, perhaps even a shift in the schedule.

An acceleration.

 

“
Confirmation?
What the
hell
does that mean?” Stein was the second person in the last ten hours to press Sarah with the question.

“I need some people to know what happened to me after Amman.”

“You
need
—”

“They’re going to get their hands on my file anyway. Trust me.”

Stein shook his head. “You’re telling me there’s a
leak
? At most, ten
people
have access—”

“Trust me,” she broke in. “The problem is, my
recovery assessments
are included in those reports, and they contain more information than I want our friends to have. They’re psychological accounts—”

“I know what they are.”

“Good. Then you won’t have any trouble finding mine.” She stood and moved to the bed and her overnight bag.

“No problem at all. Yours have been in my office for the last week.”

Sarah’s face registered a moment of surprise. “That’s convenient. Should I ask why?”

“I like to know whom I’m dealing with.”

Busy with one of the zippered compartments, she asked, “How many copies are in circulation?”

“None.”

“Even more convenient.”

“Convenient for what?” he asked, an impatience to his tone.

Sarah turned casually. “There’s a list of four passages, date and hour installments that I need you to … get rid of. Lose them.”

“
What?
”

“In their place, write whatever you want. ‘Patient incapacitated,’ or ‘Needed to sedate. Session canceled.’ Whatever they
did
write down during the days they thought it best to
restrain
me.” Sarah paused momentarily, her eyes locked on an unseen point. Voices from a past broke through, images of a bed, tethered wrists, syringes filled with … “Anything you want just as long as it looks like there aren’t any holes. Then slip them back in and return the file.” She pulled out a piece of paper. “These are the dates—”

“Hold on.” Stein had twisted round, his eyes following Sarah. “Not only do you want me to tamper with something I’m not even supposed to have seen, but you also want me to put it back so that someone
else
can get their hands on it?” He shook his head as he reached for the pitcher of coffee. “You’re going to have to do more than smile to get me to do either one. I need answers.”

“No, you don’t.” She zipped up the case and started back to the sofa. “There’s information in those assessments that will make everything I’ve set up meaningless. These men have to believe I’m part of them; Votapek’s already convinced. My files, as they stand now, would compromise that position.”

“I see. And do I get some idea of what I’m looking for?”

Sarah placed the paper in front of him. “This is the list.”

Stein shook his head, easing himself into the cushion of the sofa. “I’m sure it’s fine, but that’s not what I asked. Remember, I’ve seen the files.”

Sarah stared at the analyst, her face devoid of the charm of only moments ago. “Just follow the list.”

“Seven years is a long time to remember the exact dates you want removed.”

“Trust me, Bob,” she said, her tone cold, precise, “I won’t have forgotten.”

“Oh, I have no doubt that the dates are accurate. I’m just wondering if something might have slipped out during a
different
session. As I said, I’ve read those reports. I think I know what you want me to take out—”

“Then why all the questions?”

“Because I need to know
why
. You don’t want to tell me what Jaspers is up to, what this manuscript has to do with anything, why Schenten is so important—fine. I can almost accept all of that because for some unknown reason, I actually believe you know what you’re doing. But I
won’t
be an errand boy, and I
won’t
be a part of this if you don’t trust me enough to give me something to work with. All I want to know is what makes the rantings of a drugged-up, half-dead, slightly psychotic operative from seven years ago cause any consternation to men like Tieg? What’s in those files that I’m not seeing?”

Sarah waited, watching his eyes before responding. “Because they give the complete picture, and I can’t have Eisenreich seeing that.”