The Overseer (37 page)

“Why?”

Again she waited. “All right, Bob. … I want them to know that I was angry, that I felt betrayed, that I was looking for … something to make sense of everything that had fallen apart for me. But I can’t have them
knowing
why
. I can’t have them reading how much I hated the chaos and the structures it had led to. Pages of endless rantings. If they find that, they’ll know I consider them—the Tiegs, Sedgewicks, Votapeks, and Schentens—no better than the Safads, men who think they have a right to destroy in order to make their vision of an ordered world come alive. You read the file, Bob. In those passages, I’m everything they hate and fear. I’m the voice of reason.”

  Stein sat silently, then spoke. “And these men are capable of creating that kind of mayhem?”

She remained by the windows. “How’s Washington these days, Bob?”

“What?”

“Last week. Washington. That was their dry run. Any other questions?”

Stein stared at her for a moment, uncertain, until his eyes went wide. Sarah said nothing; he reached for the list she had left on the coffee table, scanning the numbers on the page as he spoke. “There’s a Department jet flying at nine-twenty. I can be back in Washington in three and a half hours.”

“That’s quick.”

“It flies
real
high and
real
fast.”

“Thank you.” The words were honest, an admission of genuine need Sarah had not allowed herself in a very long time. Maybe O’Connell wasn’t the only man at COS she could trust.

Stein folded the paper and wedged it into his pocket. “I’ll leave the rest with you.” Sarah moved to join him as he began to shuffle the pages into neat stacks. Halfway to the sofa, she heard the muted knocking at the door. No more than a tap, the sound froze them both, heads turning as one.

Sarah lifted a finger quickly to quiet Stein. “Yes?” she answered, a calm, if impatient, response.

Two more raps.

Sarah looked down at her newfound confidant, his face having grown ashen, his hands tight around the files. Motioning him to take them out to the terrace, Sarah walked slowly toward the door. “Who’s there?”

No response as she peered through the peephole, her view the empty
corridor
. She stepped back, waited a moment, and then quickly opened the door. Standing off to the side was a tall, strikingly handsome man, a shock of white hair combed back, revealing a high forehead, clothes impeccably well tailored, wide shoulders above a trimly built body. The gambit with the door had worked to little effect, his composure intact, Sarah only now aware of a second man farther down the hall. The man at the door glanced at her, then beyond and into the room—a look of caution masked by a practiced smile.

“Ms. Trent, I’m Laurence Sedgewick. I believe you’re in town to see a friend of mine.”

 

Xander stared at the name.
Rosenberg. Alfred Rosenberg.
Trying to place it, he turned to the next page, saw the date of publication, and instantly recalled the face. Images of the close-cropped hair at Nuremberg, the man slightly slumped in the back row of the dock flashed in Xander’s mind.
Of course. Rosenberg, self-proclaimed philosopher of the Third Reich. But why?
Xander stared at Ganz, his own expression sufficient to prompt response.

“I have had this little book for nearly thirty years,” said the restorer. “It was not, I should say, something I ever really took much notice of, except that I am virtually positive it is the only copy.” He sat forward, indicating with a nod. “You will see that it is still in typewritten form, making it a
pre-published
manuscript that never quite made it to press. Evidently, Hitler did not think it worthy of printing, ironic given it is the only thing his
dim-witted
ideologue ever wrote that showed even the slightest coherence. I had not read it in its entirety until yesterday”—Ganz paused, pulling a
second
, much larger book from the drawer—“when I remembered this.” He pointed to the book in Xander’s hands and said, “Turn to the third page, where Rosenberg reveals the source of his Nazi wisdom. You, too, will be quite surprised.”

Xander obliged, flipping through the thin pamphlet until, staring up at him, he saw the all-too-familiar name.
Eisenreich
. He looked back at Ganz.

“Yes,” said the older man, “who knows how, but the manuscript must have fallen into Nazi hands. If you were to read Rosenberg’s piffle, you would notice that the book is written as a sort of schedule, a detailed process whereby the Nazis, not yet in control, could create the mayhem necessary to position themselves as the only reasonable alternative. Hitler might not have published it, but he certainly took to heart a number of its suggestions. One of the last pieces of advice is the burning of the Reichstag. Hitler obliged in February of 1933, his final act before
assuming
full dictatorial power.”

“A schedule,” said Xander almost to himself.

“Pardon?” asked Ganz.

“Something I always thought it would have. A way to set the whole thing in motion.” He turned to Feric. “It’s what I told Sarah in New York. Then it was hypothesis. Now”—he looked at Ganz—“you’re telling me that Rosenberg used the manuscript to create a how-to book for the Nazi rise to power.”

“
One
possible version of that rise to power,” Ganz corrected. “I do not say that the book details the precise movements between 1919 and 1933. But it is interesting how the first ten pages of a twenty-page pamphlet are devoted to the first
thirteen and a half
years of that association, whereas the entire second half discusses a period of less than
three
months. Not exactly equal space for equal time. The first half of the book is little more than a
glorified
history of a thoroughly deranged group of men up to the point they take control. The second half, on the other hand—it is those sections that are the schedule to which you refer, and it is those sections that Rosenberg believed he had taken from Eisenreich.”

“And this other book?” asked Xander, nodding to the volume in Ganz’s hand.

“Ah, yes, this other one.” Ganz took a moment to smooth its cloth cover. “This one, as well as the one you are holding, were gifts from Pescatore. Years ago.” He placed the book on the desk. “You should know that he was an excellent scholar, but not one to indulge the sentimentality of the books themselves. Whenever he finished with a volume, he would send it on to me. By his generosity, I amassed quite a collection”—he looked at
Xander
—“all of which cite Eisenreich as their source. This one is a tract written by Ireton, Cromwell’s co-conspirator at the Putney debates. He, too, writes a short book on the best methods to secure the realm, and also sets out a
schedule
whereby Cromwell may assume full authority. Do you begin to see the connection?”

Xander nodded to himself, the idea gaining momentum as Ganz continued.

“Though far more lucid than Rosenberg’s feeble attempt, it was, as you can imagine, also never implemented. Which brings us to this.” Ganz reached into the drawer for a third time and pulled out a small
leather-bound
volume, the Medici crest unmistakable in the light. “I only reread the others after receiving this two days ago. I believe you have a phrase for what happened—‘something clicked.’ It was in the middle of the final chapter”—Ganz opened the book, flipped to the end, and read with strained eyes—“
‘an exhortation to action.’
At first, I did not understand why the chapter held such fascination for me. Then I recalled the two books on the desk. In that last chapter”—he looked at Feric—“Eisenreich
does
give the detail that so interests you. In no more than a page and a half, with several examples drawn from his own period, he outlines the methods best employed during the crucial final stage, before the chaos is to erupt. A period, I might add, that is meant to last no longer than two to three months. It is incomplete, but it makes its point.” He glanced at one or two passages. “Rosenberg, of course, muddled the theory. Ireton was
somewhat
better. Yesterday morning, I saw the connection as quite exciting. Today”—he put the book down—“it is far more unsettling.” Again, he looked at the operative. “That, Herr Feric, is why it should matter to those men if you were to find
any
copy of this book. Given what you have told me, it would seem that they, who are eager to put the theory into practice, have written their own schedule as the manuscript instructs, one that they believe Dr. Jaspers would understand if he were to find the last chapters of the Eisenreich. You would have your
how
and your
when
.”

“I imagine that is true, Herr Ganz,” answered Feric, “but there seems a far more likely reason why they would be concerned.”

“And that would be?” asked the man at the desk.

“Not whether the doctor can piece together the schedule, but whether he is aware of it
at all
.”

Ganz paused. “And why would that be so?”

“Because if Dr. Jaspers can draw the connection between
their
schedule and that of the
Nazis
, surely it is then easy enough, with what he has of the manuscript, to expose these men as nothing more than latter-day fascists.”

The room was silent until, with eyes widening, Xander turned to the operative. “Of course.” The point began to come clear. “It wouldn’t matter if it were true, just so long as people
believed
there was a link. Get hold of their schedule, expose it as the great-grandson of Rosenberg’s schedule, and the men of Eisenreich become nothing more than another neo-Nazi fringe element.” The idea was picking up steam. “There’d be no need to explain the subtler parts of the theory—the autonomy, the deception, the spheres. Just connect them to something people are terrified of.” Again something struck him. “That’s why they’ve gone to all the trouble to find the extra copies—they know the link is out there. They know we could set them up.”

“Exactly,” replied Feric.

“I am still somewhat unclear,” said Ganz.

Xander looked at the older man and continued. “All we need do is
produce
these few books and link them to the men who have the manuscript, and the press will do the rest. The media. Exposure—even half-baked exposure—is a dangerous thing. These men thrive on secrecy. By connecting them to these books—no matter how tenuous that connection might be—they’ll have lost the two things vital to their success: deception and
credibility
. We find their schedule, place it side by side with the Eisenreich and Rosenberg documents, and the entire structure comes tumbling down.”

Ganz picked up the two books on the desk and said, “If you are right, it means their version of these tracts is their own Achilles’ heel.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when the sound of a squeaking hinge tore through the darkened house. It had come from below, a reminder of the kitchen door. Feric immediately pulled the gun from his pocket and pointed for Xander and Ganz to turn out the lights. Feric sprang up, grabbed the long-backed wooden chair he had been sitting in, and pushed by Xander toward the door. Just as the footsteps reached the landing, Feric slammed the door shut and jammed the chair under the knob. The
pwit-pwit
of a silencer erupted instantly in the hallway, the immediate burst of lead on wood sending Feric back, a sharp wincing in his left arm as he fired back, his own silencer muffling the shot that seared through the now-splintered wooden door. He looked to his left, to see Xander moving to the window, the three books safely deposited in the computer satchel as the scholar stepped halfway out to the eaved roof. Ganz remained immobile in his chair, a strangely serene look on his face as the second wave of bullets pelted the door. Feric quickly covered the old man with his own body, the tiny explosions bursting all around, tearing through books and plaster. Turning again, Feric let go with another volley, the sound of a muted cry from without indication that his shot had
somehow
found a target. Feric stepped back, Ganz unharmed underneath. The old man rifled through the top drawer of his desk, pulling out his gun and a set of well-worn keys. He handed the chain to Feric and mouthed the word
car
, a knobby finger pointing to the window as he nodded for Feric to go. The exchange took only a second, but it was clear that the old man was not going to leave, the blue eyes now fixed firmly on the door,
waiting
for the bodies to crash through, his gun leveled, both hands grasping at the handle.
Such men must be stopped, no matter what the sacrifice.
A final act—fifty years in the waiting—a final moment of true purpose. Feric understood.

He slid over the desk to the window, looked back before stepping through to the roof; Ganz was locked in position, strong fingers letting go with a furious barrage, the unsilenced gun exploding in a thunderous wail as the first assailant smashed through the door, his body lurching
backward
, bullets tearing through his head and chest, a lifeless body tripping to the wall in a heap of crimson flesh. A moment later, a hail of gunfire strafed across Ganz’s chest, bouncing his torso against the cushion of the chair, his head rolling to the side as his eyes, sapphire stones, stared off into
emptiness
. For an instant, they held Feric, only the sudden crescendo of racing feet in the hall enough to tear him away.