The Overseer (70 page)

That same week, news of Laurence Sedgewick’s mysterious disappearance made it to the back pages of several national papers. His bank accounts untouched, files intact at his offices in New Orleans, it looked as though he had once again been caught with his hand in the till.

 

Not quite the same attention was given to the death of a rather esteemed, if obscure, political theorist, whose passing managed only a few lines in the
New York Times.
Herman Lundsdorf had died in his sleep, so they reported, at the age of eighty-six. A solitary man, his books remained his only legacy.

 

Few of the articles, however, elicited more than a moment’s perusal from the residents of a small farm in Maryland. They were too busy with other things. The owner, an Irishman somewhat famous among the locals for his reclusiveness, had begun to show real signs of life, chatting up customers at the town market, and even inviting one or two out to the house. Most of the gentry attributed the sudden change in O’Connell to the young woman who seemed to be always at his side. She, too, was flowering, more and more at ease with each passing week. Haiden Dalgliesh, the groundskeeper at the farm, had even started up a pool—how soon before the Irishman would make an honest woman of young Alison. Not usually a betting man, Gaelin had put a fiver on a date in late September.

 

P
ATCHES OF SNOW
peppered the wide expanse of manicured grass. The augurs had promised it would be the last of the season; the clear sky seemed to be proving them right.

Xander and Sarah sat on a bench a good distance from the grave, neither much interested in the inscription, neither absolutely sure why they had made the trip. He had phoned and asked her to come, the first time they had spoken in several weeks. The time apart had been particularly hard on him, the strange good-bye, the sudden aimlessness, but he had known it was for the best. She had said she needed to spend time on her own, start again, find her way back. He should try to do the same. The week on Hydra, however, had done little to help. Only memories of Fiona. Still, it had been time away.

Now, sitting side by side, they peered at the name Lundsdorf. Perhaps they needed to see it for themselves. Together, one last time.

They had both missed the funeral—or rather, they had been
unavailable
that weekend, sequestered at a small house somewhere in the Virginia countryside. The debriefing specialists had been rather unhappy to learn that there were no names or files to help them mop up the loose ends. Manuscripts and documents were evidently not to their liking. Xander had pleaded with them to destroy everything. They, in turn, had assured him that they would “handle the material with the utmost sensitivity.”
Not
good enough, he had explained.
Not
his concern, they had answered. It was only when the president had called to offer his personal guarantee that everything would be
fully
secured that Xander had backed down. What else could he do? There was still the small matter of the charges connecting the two of them to Schenten’s assassination, Huber’s death, and whatever else had cropped up along the way. “You let us take care of this, Doctor, and we’ll forget about all of that,” the president had said. “Of course, if there’s anything else …”

Bob Stein had been a bit more helpful, but even he had admitted that the boys at Langley didn’t like to share, even with the folks who had started the ball rolling. Pritchard’s role had placed COS in a rather delicate position; they would need a little time to win back the skeptics. Until then, everyone would have to trust that the manuscript was in safe hands, or at least that it had been locked away somewhere. For the time being, though, he would be cleaning house. That is, of course, after some well-earned vacation time. Two days chained to a bed had left a few scars. The Bahamas, Bob had heard, were especially nice this time of year. He’d be in touch.

That had been two weeks ago.

“What are you thinking,” asked Sarah, arcing her back to relieve the strain in her ribs.

“I don’t know. Votapek, Sedgewick. I’d like to know that they’ve been handled with the ‘utmost sensitivity.’” He continued to stare out at the undulating rows of stones. “Feric …” He looked at her. “Anyway. Are those better?”

“They will be.” She smiled. “As long as I keep them out of air vents and computer labs. They’ll be fine. Just like everything else.” She turned to him and took his hand. “Xander, I came here because I need you to know that. Things will begin to make sense. They always do.”

He nodded. “So once again, I have no choice but to trust you, do I?”

“You have to let it go. It’s never going to leave on its own, so
you
have to let it go.”

“And do what?” He took in a long strain of air. “Academia isn’t exactly the most appealing place right now. Not that they’d have me back. Even exonerated assassins don’t really fit in.”

“Then look to what you know.”

He paused, then turned to her. “Right now, Sarah, that would be you.”

She squeezed his hand tenderly. “I wish it were that easy.”

“So do I,” he answered. “So do I.”

She waited and then pulled an envelope from her bag. She placed it on his lap.

“What’s this?”

“Notes. A manuscript.” She looked at him. “I took it from Lundsdorf’s lair, buried it before we were picked up. Maybe you can start there. I thought someone who understood it should have it.”

Xander slowly opened the flap and stared at the pages inside. The Italian version. He then looked at her. “You should have burned this.”

She shook her head and smiled. “That’s up to you.” She then let out a deep breath and stood. “Have we seen what we came to see?”

“I suppose.” He closed the envelope. “I’m still not exactly sure what that was.”

“A beginning.” She looked out over the expanse and then turned back to him. “There’s an eight o’clock flight out of Kennedy. I’d like to try and make it.”

He looked up at her, nodded. “I understand. I’ll give you a lift.” He stood; they began to walk.

Very gently, she slipped her arm through his. “Have you ever been to Florence in the early spring, Professor? I hear it’s quite beautiful.”

“That’s what they say.”

“I’ve only been once. I was very lucky, though. I had a charming guide. I was thinking … it would be nice to find him again.”

Xander stopped. He turned to her and peered into her eyes. “Are you asking me along, Ms. Trent?”

She smiled. “It does look that way, doesn’t it?”

“On doctor’s orders?”

“Intuition.” She took his hand. “Let’s just call it a beginning. Right now, I think that’s the best either of us can do.”

A light rain began to fall. She pulled him to her side and they started to walk.

 

T
RANSLATED BY
A
LEXANDER
J
ASPERS
I
NSTITUTE
OF
C
ULTURAL
R
ESEARCH
C
OLUMBIA
U
NIVERSITY