The Overseer (33 page)

“Couldn’t they have had someone waiting at the Institute?”

“For what purpose? And even so, you yourself said the bald man looked utterly surprised to run into you. Am I mistaken?”

Xander had to think. “He did seem … shocked. Then again, I could be wrong. I was running from you; I’d just found the manuscript—”

“All of that is true. Does it change your impression of the man?”

Xander slowly shook his head. “No. He was genuinely surprised.”

“Exactly. And from the description Ms. Trent gave me, I spotted him before your encounter. It seems quite clear that he was there for the manuscript, not for you.” Feric nodded and ripped off a piece of bread. “No. There must be something else—or
someone
else who knew where the manuscript would be. Someone who had access to Pescatore’s notes and who could send our bald friend to London, regardless of your presence there—past or present.”

“Someone
else?
” The words made no sense. “There were only two people who knew what those notes said—myself and Sarah.”

“And”—Feric paused, his eyes fixed on Xander’s—“the person to whom you sent the copy in New York.”

A sudden tightness crept up through his neck. “That’s different,” he answered, recalling how long it had taken him to convince Sarah to let him send the notes to Mrs. Huber. “The copy went to New York the day I left for London. There’s no way it could have reached there the
next
day. Even if it had, I can assure you that the person on the other end is
completely
trustworthy.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” an edge to his tone. “No question.”

“Let me determine whether—”

“I said no.”

A set of eyes Feric had not seen before peered at him from across the table, no warmth, no self-doubt, none of the trappings he had come to expect from the scholar. Only conviction, perhaps a tinge of anger. He had to admit his new companion was showing real promise.

“I ask only because it is a possibility.”

“I answer because I know it isn’t.”

Feric nodded, pleased with the response. “Good.” He took a sip of wine. “That leaves only one possibility. Pescatore.”

“What?”
The suggestion was ludicrous. “
Carlo
?”

Feric removed an envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table. “There are
four
people who have had access to the notes. Your friend in New York, who, as you say, would not have received them in time to orchestrate the run-in at the Institute. You and Ms. Trent, who are clearly not at issue. Which leaves only Pescatore.”

“That’s impossible. Carlo’s …”

Feric slid the envelope across to Xander. “I found that on our bald friend at the Institute. Evidently, the professor was not as reticent as you think. It’s a note that details the location of the Danzhoeffer Collection. No doubt you recognize the writing, the signature.”

Xander stared at the scrawl.
Pescatore
. He couldn’t take his eyes from the page; it was clearly Carlo’s hand.

“One wonders,” added Feric, “if Signore Pescatore is as familiar with the whereabouts of your friend Ganz?”

N
EW
O
RLEANS
, M
ARCH
4, 3:31
P.M
.
His legs burned; his arms tore at his shoulders. Several times in the past four hours, he had let himself sink, his body drift into the current for as long as his lungs would allow—moments of release—before propelling himself up to the pier. Only once had he let himself go too far, the sudden realization of consciousness ebbing, the frantic struggle to find the surface again. In all the jostling, he had nearly knocked the radio detonator from his belt. Failing to plant four of the explosives had been bad enough. Losing the detonator would have been unthinkable.

He had been ready to go half an hour ago. The arrival of a small tanker and its subsequent unloading, however, had made escape impossible. Now, as the sound of the last trucks faded to a distant part of the wharf, the
soldier
of Eisenreich slowly drifted out from his lair. He clung to the edge of the pier and made his way out into the Mississippi. Reaching the end of the cement wall, he dove deep, using his flippers to send him farther and farther from the light overhead. A minute later, he emerged to the surface, a good hundred yards from the pier.

The swell was overwhelming. He floated for perhaps half a minute,
trying
to find the strength to dive again, when he heard the sound of an engine no more than twenty yards from his head. A routine Coast Guard patrol. Fate was not being kind.

He dove, his legs and arms thrashing through the current, the pier his only chance once again. But his strength had left him, limbs cramping at the sudden exertion. He felt himself drift to the surface, the sunlight slicing across his face seconds later.

He knew what they would expect to pull from the water—a frightened, grateful survivor. The scuba suit and detonator, however, would quickly alter that picture. And raise questions—questions he could not afford to answer.

There must always be a place for sacrifice.

The words ran through his head as he slowly let himself sink. Pulling the detonator from his belt, he entered the code.

He felt nothing as the water around him erupted in flame.

 

A smattering of stars winked through the cloud cover, intermittent flashes of light speckling the rutted lane of German countryside. Sounds of late-night drinking spilled onto the street as Xander and Feric plodded on. Just ahead of them, the Schlossplatz, Wolfenbüttel’s onetime home to Saxon nobility, edged its way through the mist, dwarfing the no less impressive Zeughaus, a three-story block of stone and wood that cast an ominous shadow and seemed ill-suited as home to one of the great libraries of Europe. Its counterpart, the more elegant Herzog-August-Bibliothek, stood across a short cobbled lane and offered a far more majestic profile. But it was in the Zeughaus, Xander recalled, that the real books were to be found and where he had spent much of that summer six years ago.

It was there, in the Lesungzimmer—the rare-books room on the third floor—that he had first met Ganz, a tall, scaly man with barely enough skin to cover his endless arms and legs. Xander had never forgotten that first glance, a pair of ice blue eyes peering over his shoulder as he had flipped through a manuscript, the smile that had crept across the older man’s face as he had lured Xander to the small cantina on the lower floor, all the while describing his colleague—long dead—who had been the last to restore the book now again in need of repair. Xander had listened for hours, several cups of strong coffee in hand, as Ganz had relived in painstaking detail some of the more extraordinary finds of his long career. The exhilaration that had reverberated in the man’s voice had reminded Xander of someone he knew only too well. It had been a perfect match from the start.

After that, the two had continued to meet, mostly in the evenings, for no other reason than to add a necessary splash to their rather patterned lives, beer or pastry, and once, on a whim, for a long weekend in Berlin—Ganz’s first since the war. Like many, he had stayed away, unwilling to
tarnish
his childhood image. A week of incessant prodding from Xander, and a reminder that the city was once again whole, had finally broken Ganz’s resolve. Three glorious days in Berlin. The gift of an early German edition of Machiavelli’s
Prince
had been his way of saying thanks.

Back in Wolfenbüttel, the two had continued their friendship, only once, Xander recalled, ever straying from the topic of books. On occasion, Xander would invite Ganz to his room at Pension Heinrich Tübing, where the proprietor would manage to provide a king’s feast for his esteemed guests. “Two such men of learning,” Tübing would say. “It is an honor to be of service.”

And now, years later, Herr Tübing was proving himself the consummate hotelier again. His recognition of Xander’s voice—even given the dreadful phone connection from Göttingen—placed the innkeeper in a class by
himself
.
No, there would be no trouble at all setting up Herr Doktor Professor’s room. And his guest, as well? No difficulty at all.
The man’s enthusiasm had been hard to miss.
Would he be staying for an extended period?
A few shouts back and forth to Frau Tübing (a woman Xander had never actually seen during that initial three-month stay), and all was put in order.

Now, bags in hand, they made their way alongside a lovely covered bridge, past a darkened row of shops. Turning right, they entered Jürgenstrasse, home to the Pension Heinrich Tübing—two floors, with perhaps ten rooms for guests upstairs, breakfast area and sitting room downstairs—all shrouded in darkness. Xander checked his watch. Ten to eleven, late by Wolfenbüttel standards, but Herr Tübing had insisted that he would be up to welcome his guests. And, good to his word, a light from above flicked on before Xander could knock, the front door pulled back a moment later, revealing the upright figure of Herr Tübing. He was in bathrobe and slippers, his eyes
trying
to adjust to the light.

“We’ve kept you up,” apologized Xander. “We had no idea the train would take so long.”

The older man shook his head once rapidly. “Pah, these trains are always the same.
Viertel vor elf. Prompt
. I keep the lights off for the electricity. Please.” He indicated for his guests to enter the foyer. “I have given you your previous room. There was a young woman from Bremen staying. She has been kind enough to move.”

“There was no need—”

“For the Doktor Professor, there is
always
need. She is merely a
Privatdozent
.” He flicked on the hall lamp.

Xander smiled and followed his host up the narrow staircase, Feric directly behind. He had forgotten how strictly the Germans regarded the distinctions within the academic hierarchy. Doktor Professor, the grandest of the grand, and she
merely
a Privatdozent. For all Xander knew, the woman was fifty, far more distinguished than he, and had probably insisted on the move herself. It was a culture he would never fully understand. Turning left at the top of the stairs, the three moved along to the corner room; Herr Tübing unlocked the door and handed Xander the key. He then reached into his pocket for the spare for Feric, pausing before transferring the key.

“Ah,” Xander quickly said, “this is—”

“Signor Caprini.” Feric smiled the smile from the car-rental counter, his head in a gentle nod, cocked slightly to the right as he extended his hand. Again, the strained German stunted from his mouth. “I am assisting Doktor Jaspers in investigations for your magnificent libraries. I hope it is no convenience.” He paused. “Ah,
Entschuldigung.
Inconvenience.”

The German bowed his head and placed the key in Feric’s hand. “There is never inconvenience where the Doktor Professor is concerned. I trust the room will be satisfactory.”

“
Belissima,
” answered Feric, and moved through the door. He returned a moment later to carry Xander’s bag through. Tübing bowed again, announced breakfast—“
Halb-sieben prompt
”—and turned toward his own bedroom, his back straight as an arrow as he disappeared around the
corner
. Xander smiled and stepped through, closing the door behind him.

The room was exactly as he remembered it. The same blue towels, the same thick white comforter and pillows on each bed, even the same brand of soap in the tiny dish at the basin. Xander recalled having placed the small desk by the window all those years ago—he preferred natural light—returning it to its original location before vacating the room. To his
surprise
, the desk was again by the window, another nod to Tübing’s precision. Meanwhile, Feric had perched himself by the sill and was peering through a gap in the curtain at a small yard, a few shrubs, the beginning of a wood. The orb of a streetlamp glared down on the graveled dead-end street, where two cars sat quietly for the night. Feric let the curtain fall back, its thin material no match for the light outside.