Three minutes later, both men stepped from separate elevators to the lobby, coveralls now folded inside attaché cases, new ID badges hanging from necks on silver chains. One set from the World Bank, the other from the fed. The blue blazers and gray pants screamed intern. No one took any notice as they moved through the revolving door toward a car at the curb and the young woman who sat waiting for them.
It had taken them twenty-seven minutes, four fewer than they had planned on. That meant an additional four minutes for the excursion to Dulles.
Reaching the car, they tossed their attaché cases next to the driver and settled into the backseat. Both slipped off their jackets and began to undo their ties as the young woman handed each of them a plastic bag.
Another set of coveralls. Another set of ID tags. Another black box and disc. As she eased out into the traffic, she glanced in her mirror at the two half-naked men in the backseat.
“Enjoying the view, Janet?” The two men laughed.
She smiled. “Not half as much as you like me watching.”
“What would your daddy say?”
She checked her watch. They would be on the flight to Montana by two.
The train arrived at 2:45, on time to the minute. Sarah had been deep within the files at the time and was therefore one of the very last to leave the car. She placed the papers in the briefcase, pulled it and her bag from the window seat, and strode out onto the eerily empty platform. The maze of stairs and corridors that crisscrossed the underbelly of Penn Station sent her in several wrong directions before she broke down and asked a passing redcap for the quickest way to the West Side trains. When he simply pointed to the sign ten feet in front of her, she was mildly embarrassed. She had been to New York too many times to act the tourist.
Twenty minutes later, the iron gates of Columbia University and the smell of roasting chestnuts greeted her as she took the last few steps to street level. Smoke cascaded from the vendor’s cart and lifted gently into the sky, lending an added haze to the wintry gray. As she passed through the gates and into the sudden quiet of the campus—its pockets of brown grass amid a backdrop of overbearing buildings—she noted the stark contrast to the bustle of Broadway. To her right, a lone stone structure, perhaps a hundred yards long, glowered at her through the single eye of an equally long window that stretched the entirety of its second floor. A building to be taken seriously, if only for the names that rose from its facade in huge sculpted letters: Plato, Cicero, Herodotus. An avenue of steps to her left led to an even more grandiose building, whose dome seemed to vanish into the intensifying slate of the sky. Other equally stern buildings completed the quadrangle that sufficed as the Columbia campus.
Following Mrs. Huber’s instructions, Sarah ventured left, toward a set of narrow stairs and the Amsterdam crossway—a concrete platform that covered the avenue from 116th to 118th Streets. Arriving atop yet another set of stairs, Sarah felt the sudden swirl of chilled air unleashed by the open expanse of the crossway. She walked to its railed edge, fighting a gust of wind, to see Amsterdam continue on for miles and disappear to a fine point in the distance. Cabs raced along, somehow less frantic from her raised perch. As she turned away from the hum of traffic, an extension to the crossway drew Sarah’s eye. Moving toward the peninsula, she neared what she assumed to be the Institute of Cultural Research. A simple plaque to the right of the door confirmed the guess.
The three-floor New England house—white wood shingles and all—stood out as an incongruous transplant alongside the more modern buildings that lined the crosswalk. For Sarah, the quaint anomaly conjured images of her own college days, the creaky buildings of New Haven’s Prospect Street, with their faint aroma of damp wood. Mounting the steps, she pushed through the oak door and found herself in a windowed vestibule, the customary umbrella rack to her left. The cold white tile of the small enclosure seemed to heighten the chill and prompted her to move quickly through the second door and into the dimly lit carpeted entry hall. A large wooden banister greeted her, its swirling line leading up to the second floor and the sound of several electric typewriters. In the sitting room to her left, Sarah spotted two ancient scholars in a pair of deep, embracing leather chairs, the men rapt in heated debate. The whining cackle of a fire rose through the conversation.
From around the staircase, a young man suddenly appeared carrying a tray of tea and cookies. He seemed overeager to dive into the fray by the fire—food and drink clearly his means of invitation. As he tried to dash by her, Sarah said, “I’m looking for the office of a Dr. Alexander Jaspers.” Tea in one of the cups swayed dangerously close to the rim as the young man made his abrupt stop. “Jaspers?” he asked, a furrow creasing his brow. “Right,” his eyes suddenly wide. “He’s on the top. The attic thing.” He jerked his ear toward the sitting room, not wanting to miss any of the discussion. A smile touched his lips. “He’s got it all wrong, you know,” he confided in Sarah, nodding toward one of the two by the fire. “All wrong. Anyway, you want Jaspers. This staircase”—he indicated with his head—“and then the corner one at the far end of the second floor. Clara’s always up there. Or usually. You’ll find her. Must run. It’s getting cold.” And with that, the man darted into the room to take his place in the chair nestled between the two older men. He—or rather, the tea—was received with considerable enthusiasm as Sarah began to climb the winding staircase.
Two sets of stairs later, she emerged on the third floor, a large open area, a few chairs placed at center, amid ceiling-high bookshelves on each of the four walls. No doubt this was the Institute’s attempt at a library, she thought, one with a very select clientele. Several desks jutted up against the stacks of books wherever one of about eight windows appeared, each distracting with a lovely view of New York. Only one of the desks was occupied, its claimant deep in the pages of an enormous tome. Directly behind the chairs at center, a set of stairs rose on a leftward slant; a note card tacked to the banister read JASPERS, followed by an arrow pointing up. Sarah’s nerves began to kick in. Images of a wizened old figure bent menacingly over a desk came to mind, his cold stare cutting through her as she reached the topmost step. She tightened her grip around the handle of her briefcase and mounted the stairs.
The attic office—or offices—were a good deal larger than Sarah had expected. Although constrained by the sharp angle of the ceiling, there was enough room for a sizable desk—a small wooden plaque with Mrs. Huber’s name positioned on its front lip—two chairs for those with appointments, and a midsection wall that divided the entire top floor into two separate areas. At the far end of the wall, a door—with Jaspers’s name on it—stood slightly ajar. At the opposite end, a small copy machine was in full hum, at the moment operated by a tall young man in jeans, tweed jacket, and running shoes who looked the typical graduate student, no doubt making some extra money—and some helpful connections. Sarah checked her watch, realized she was still a few minutes early, and took a seat in one of the chairs to await Mrs. Huber, whose desk was unoccupied. The view from the small porthole-like window caught her eye as she settled back into the leather—Morningside Park at the first hint of dusk. For a moment, it seemed rather inviting.
“Waiting for Jaspers?” asked the young man while he tried to stack the papers he had just finished copying.
“Yes,” Sarah answered, and placed the briefcase on the floor by her side. “I have a three-thirty appointment. Do you know if he’s in?”
“Most definitely.” The young man smiled, setting the papers on Mrs. Huber’s desk and scribbling some instructions on the top page. He dropped the pencil on the desk and extended his right hand. “Alexander Jaspers. You must be Ms. Trent.”
Sarah’s eyes opened wide, an embarrassed smile forming on her lips. “You’re Dr. Jaspers?” she said as she quickly stood to take his hand. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I expected someone … older.”
“I know,” he laughed, sitting on the edge of the desk and motioning for Sarah to retake her seat. “It’s all
that ‘Herr Doktor Yaspers’ stuff that Clara insists on. Everybody gets it wrong.” Sarah couldn’t help but smile. He folded his arms across his chest and asked, “Would you like something to drink? We have coffee, tea, water, smelling salts.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “No thanks. Sorry if I’m a bit early.”
“No problem.” He rose from the desk just as Mrs. Huber popped her head up from the stairs.
The tight bun of black hair seemed to pull mercilessly at her forehead, accenting the look of surprise on her face. “Oh my dear!” Her thick legs tried vainly to take the last few steps. “Oh dear! You are here already.” The German accent was even more pronounced in person, thought Sarah. “I was only in the kitchen with some cookies for you, but, you see, they have disappeared, and I was expecting you at half past three. I am so sorry. I was to be here at the time of your arrival to make introductions.” She was back by the desk, straightening with a frenzied neatness. “This is so dreadful of me.”
“Clara,” Jaspers interrupted with a little laugh, “it’s all right. We managed to work through the introductions without any major disasters. Ms. Trent, Clara Huber.” Mrs. Huber stood silently, bowing somewhat sheepishly as Sarah said hello.
“It’s Sarah. And I’d like to thank you for being so nice on the phone. It was a welcome surprise.”
“Oh?” A wide smile replaced the hint of anguish on Mrs. Huber’s face. “That is most kind of you. You see, Herr Doktor Yaspers is an expert—”
“Clara is invaluable,” Jaspers interrupted, somewhat embarrassed, “and I know Ms. Trent—Sarah—would like to get started. But since we’re out of cookies”—he winked at Mrs. Huber—“and because I happen to have an awful sweet tooth, I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if we do this at a little pastry shop not too far from here. Every day at four—it’s a … family thing. Can I convince you to—”
“Yes.” Sarah smiled back. “I’d love to have tea.”
“Great. Let me get my coat.” Jaspers disappeared into his office and a moment later returned in an old gray wool coat that had clearly seen better days. He thrust his hands into the pockets and stopped. “Right. The Domberg stuff should be sent to Bill Shane in Chicago and, if you could, try to get hold of Lundsdorf and see if I can steal some of his time tomorrow. Before I have to take off. Anytime before three.” Clara nodded as Jaspers turned back to Sarah. “Sorry.”
“Not a problem.”
“Good. Tea it is.”
Jaspers pulled his hand from his coat and gestured for Sarah to lead the way. Mrs. Huber was already busy at the desk as Sarah said good-bye and trotted down the stairs, Jaspers behind her, grabbing a scarf that hung on the banister. The two walked in silence until they reached the first floor, where the debate by the fire was in full flame. “Anything from One-twelve?” Jaspers poked his head through the archway to the sitting room. “We’re out of cookies.” The three faces turned, the youngest answering, “Some of those little crunchy ones with the green bits. That would be nice. If you could.” Jaspers nodded. “Don’t put yourself out for us,” one of the older men said. “Only if its no inconvenience. But yes, the crunchy ones. Good choice.” Jaspers pushed off from the archway and smiled.
“No inconvenience.” He pulled the door open and followed Sarah through the vestibule and out into the cold air. “That rather imposing triumvirate,” he said as they walked across the overpass, “all happen to be brilliant. If you want to know anything about the Middle East, those are the boys to go to.” Sarah nodded and pulled the collar of her coat tight around her neck as they took the steps down to the open quadrangle of the campus.
“And they’re all cookie enthusiasts.” She needed to shift the topic. “They were digging into a fresh batch when I arrived.”
“Didn’t you know that about academics?” Jaspers asked. “If Entenmann’s or Nabisco went out of business, the wheels of education in this country would come to a grinding halt.” He was about to continue when he noticed a familiar figure moving slowly not too far off in the distance. “Professor Lundsdorf,” he shouted, a slight quickening in his pace. He turned to Sarah as she tried to keep up. “I’m sorry. That’s the man I need to see tomorrow, and I could save myself some time if I set it up now. If it’s all right, this’ll just take a minute.” He continued to hurry them along.
“Why don’t you run ahead,” she said, slowing. “This pace is a little tough in heels.” Jaspers looked down at her shoes, back to her, and smiled in apology. “Don’t worry,” she added, “I’ll catch up.”
He raced off, his coat billowing behind in the wind before he reached the side of the older man. Sarah watched the two in conversation as she passed a small fountain on her way down to the central walkway. Nearing them, she saw the older man place a hand on Jaspers’s arm, the two a moment later lost in laughter. Sarah arrived to hear Jaspers say, “—without Parliament. Otherwise, there would have been legitimate claims of tyranny.”
“I am sure that is right. Yes, quite sure. So you will see what comes of it.” Sarah stood at Jaspers’s side.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jaspers said. “Professor Lundsdorf, this is Sarah Trent, from the State Department. For some reason, she thinks I’ll be able to help her unpack the New Right.” Here, at last, Sarah thought, was the old wizened character she had expected in Jaspers’s office. But once again, all fears were quickly allayed when the five-foot-five Lundsdorf, slender and somewhat frail from age, and tucked deep within several layers of clothing, took her hand and offered a little bow.
“Enchanted.” The twinkle in his light green eyes betrayed the spirit of a man who had once fancied himself something of a ladies’ man. Even now, Sarah was unsure whether the venerable professor was flirting with her.
“The pleasure is mine,” she said as he released her hand.
“How kind. Herman Lundsdorf,” he corrected Jaspers. “I have known this young man for fifteen years, seven—no, eight—as a colleague, and still he insists on calling me ‘Professor.’” He winked at Jaspers, who fidgeted under the scrutiny. “One day perhaps. One day, he will not see me as so frightening an old man, my dear. Be that as it may, you have certainly come to the right man, and I, unfortunately, must take my leave of your company and get out of this cold weather.” He nodded again to her and looked at Jaspers. “Tomorrow at two will be fine.” A short bow and Lundsdorf started to walk away, piping back over his shoulder, “And your coat—button it up if you want to live as long as I have.” With that, he tossed his hand into the air and waved good-bye. Jaspers started to laugh to himself.
“There goes my mentor. And mother. The combination is sometimes a little unsettling.” The two walked through the iron gates and crossed over to the west side of Broadway. “One minute he’s explaining German parliamentary procedure; the next, he’s telling me to button up.” He shook his head. “I hope your shoes are okay on the ice.”
“I’m fine. He seemed very sweet.”
“Very sweet and very rigorous. He forced me to finish my degree in three years. I never worked so hard in my life.”
“That’s a little quick, isn’t it?” asked Sarah.
“Lundsdorf wouldn’t have it any other way.” Jaspers dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. “He’s had it all planned out, ever since I got here. On average, it’s eight years. So yes, it was quick.”
“I’m impressed. That would make you—”
Jaspers smiled. “Thirty-three. And don’t be. I wrote an incredibly mediocre dissertation, which the grand old man and I spent a year and a half reworking into a book. He kept on saying, ‘Just get the degree, get the degree.’ He was right. I got it, got a job, finished the book….” He paused, his eyes distant for a moment. The smile returned. “Then I started doing stuff that was interesting.” He stopped. “It’s right here.” Jaspers opened the door to a small café that smelled of thick black coffee; he waited for her to step through the doorway with her overnight bag and briefcase.
“You don’t have to ho
ld the door for me,” she said.
“You’re right. I don’t,” he replied without moving. “It’s another bit of Lundsdorf. German propriety. I’ve been trained too well.”
Sarah smiled. “In that case, all I can say is thank you.” She walked into the dimly lit room and spotted a table against the back wall. She led the way through the legs and elbows at the packed little tables and began to disentangle herself from her coat as Jaspers slipped his off and draped it over the back of his chair. He waited until she was seated to take his chair.
“More Lundsdorf?” she asked.
“Of course.” They sat. “I’d recommend a nice cup of tea and a piece of the raspberry chocolate cake, but not everybody’s a chocolate nut.”
“No, that sounds nice.” Everything was nice, she thought—the idea of tea, the funny little café that wanted so desperately to evoke images of Paris or Berlin—and the company. There was something very relaxing about young Dr. Jaspers. Something that seemed so … unacademic. It was the only way she knew how to describe it. Jaspers lifted his hand, raised two fingers in the direction of the waiter, and turned back to her. “I … always get the same thing,” he said almost apologetically. “They know me here.”
“Must be nice.”
“I guess it is.” He smiled and shifted gears. “So, Clara mentioned the State Department and my articles. I can only guess we’re here to talk about ‘The New Right and the rise of conservativism.’” The self-mocking tone in his voice prompted another smile from Sarah. “The title of a very dull article I wrote.”
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