She reached for her briefcase and noticed the flashing red light on the telephone. For a panicked moment, she wondered whether the message in the alley had been sufficient. They had found her in the streets. No doubt they could find her here. Ignore it. Let someone else play the game. But for some reason, she couldn’t. She had to hear it, hear them for herself, know she was running for the right reason. She slid across the bed, picked up the receiver, and dialed the operator. An electronic voice answered, informing her that a single call had been taken at 5:10. After a momentary purr, a second voice came on the line.
“Hi. Xander Jaspers at around six. Look, I don’t know how I could have been so stupid, but when I got back to my office, it suddenly clicked. The Enreich thing. It’s not Enreich. It’s Eisenreich. At least that’s what my instincts tell me. If this does connect, it could be a lot more than either of us bargained for. Call me.”
Jaspers. Oh my God. She wasn’t alone; she wasn’t isolated. He had made the connection. Eisenreich … And she had been the one to contact him, draw him in. Whose responsibility, Sarah? Whose trust?
She pressed down on the receiver, released, and started to dial.
2
Education … can turn aggression to fervor, obstinacy to commitment, and volatility to passion.
—ONSUPREMACY, CHAPTER IV
XANDER HAD RACED out in such a hurry that he’d left his scarf on the banister, and now, catching an updraft on Sixth Avenue, he reluctantly recalled Lundsdorf’s warning: “button it up if you want to live as long as I have.” Sometimes he could be infuriatingly sensible. Xander walked up the taxi drive of the Hilton, then through the door and into the stream of warm air that embraced both neck and face. It was a welcome relief.
As he walked down the concourse, his mind returned to Eisenreich. The moment of revelation had come some two hours ago, standing over his desk, shuffling through various papers—astounding in its simplicity. And perhaps his own thickheadedness. So obvious. So damn obvious. At first, he had wondered whether it was just another crazy theory—one which Lundsdorf would dismiss with quick dispatch. Crazy, yes. But theory? No. It made too much sense to be fiction. Of course, he would have to run it by Sarah. After all, she was the expert, the one from Washington. You’re only the simple academic. Even so, instinct told him he had uncovered something to make sense of his research, something that might shed light on whatever Votapek and Tieg had in mind. How Sarah and the government tied in, though, remained a mystery.
Inside the elevator, he glanced at the papers he had brought. Scanning one or two, he recalled the rush, the excitement he had known perhaps only twice in his life—the first, three years ago, when he had found an unknown manuscript by an obscure eighteenth-century theorist; the second, earlier tonight, when he had remembered Eisenreich. Of course, the eighteenth-century essay had turned out to be of little use—as Lundsdorf had predicted—but the thrill of the hunt, the chance to see something through, that was what had caused such stirrings. And what was now coursing through his chest. The elevator arrived, and he tucked the papers inside his satchel.
Before knocking, Xander paused to consider what he could expect from the woman who had called him just over an hour ago. Then, he had anticipated enthusiasm, even excitement at his discovery. Instead, a distant voice had told him to come by the hotel; bring whatever he thought might be important. And that had been it. Not the reaction he had hoped for. Even so, behind her apparent detachment, Xander had sensed urgency, a thinly veiled need for the two of them to meet tonight. Wrapped up in his own eagerness, he had put her surprising coldness from his mind. Now, he couldn’t help but recall her tone on the phone, far from that of the friendly, delightful woman with whom he had shared tea that afternoon. And he had not been the only one to appreciate her appeal. On arriving back at the Institute, the fireside cabal had awarded him high praise for his radiant companion. Even Clara had lit up at the mention of the 3:30 appointment. Only then had Xander considered Sarah anything more than a Washington bureaucrat sent to tease his brain. A bureaucrat with a rather lovely smile, he had to admit. He had spent a good ten minutes in his office thinking of nothing else.
The sound of a double bolt releasing brought him back to the present. The door inched open and Sarah appeared through the shadows of a room lit only by a single lamp on the bureau. For a moment, the two stared at each other, until Xander smiled and asked, “All right if I come in?”
His own familiarity seemed to snap some life into her expression; with a gentle nod, she answered, “Sorry. Of course.”
He stepped into the room; Sarah immediately bolted the door, then moved past him to the bed and her pillow propped against the wall. It was then that he noticed the television, her eyes riveted to the screen. She hadn’t even asked for his coat. Without looking over, she said, “Take a drink if you want. It’s a small bar, but it’s well stocked.” Xander saw the miniature JD on the table next to the bed, the hotel glass steeped high with ice and whiskey. Evidently, she had started without him.
“Thanks.” He nodded stiffly, uncertain as to what he should do next. A drink. Right. He nodded again, placed his satchel on the rug, and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. Her gaze remained on the set, her expression confirming the misgivings he had felt over the phone. He wanted to convince himself that the difference lay in the informality of a second meeting, her lack of makeup, her casual clothes. But it was clearly more than that. He stepped closer to the bed, his hand awkwardly in his coat pocket. “So,” he said, “what exactly are we watching?”
Sarah turned to him, a momentary look of confusion in her eyes. “You haven’t seen any of this?”
Xander shook his head, smiled. “I’ve been at the office. The … stuff with Eisenreich took some time to—”
“Then you should probably take a look.” She picked up the remote and flicked from channel to channel. Xander stood watching as every station seemed to be covering the same set of stories—reporters amid the sounds of sirens, fire trucks, ambulances. Different scenes, all portraying the same confusion, the same controlled mayhem. National Guardsmen in evidence at every site. “You’re looking at Washington, Dr. Jaspers.” He slowly sat. “Not a pretty sight, is it?”
LURAY, VIRGINIA, FEBRUARY 26, 8:17 P.M. Searchlights cut across the thick wood of the barn, glaring white against a backdrop of open field, streaks of red and blue from police cars encircling the lone building. Intermittent pockets of steamed air floated into the black sky, men with rifles waiting for their prey, newsmen with cameras waiting for the latest installment from a night unlike any they had ever seen.
“I’ve just been told that all three of the Dutch diplomats are alive,” blared a voice through the bullhorn. “Critical, but alive. Which means it’s not murder. You still have a chance if you come out now.” Silence. The FBI man turned to the agent next to him. “Are we set in the rear?” The man nodded. “We give him three minutes; then we go. And tell these reporters to move way the hell back.”
From the darkness, a crow swooped down and settled on the frozen ground between barn and police. It stood quietly, head cocked to the left, drawn by the powerful beams. Half a minute passed before the sound of a hinge creaking broke the silence; the bird turned. A stooped figure appeared at the barn door, lost in shadow. The bird suddenly began to run at him, flapping its wings, the man at the door confused, his hands up to his face to shield the light as he tried to run.
A single shot rang out. Eggart’s head snapped back; he dropped to the ground.
“Who the hell shot?” screamed the man with the bullhorn. He ran toward the body, two others in suits with him. “Jesus,” he said under his breath, “I hate these local guys.” The three men arrived at the body and flipped it over. The man shook his head and stood, then turned back to the lights. “No one’s going anywhere. I want to know who fired that shot.” One of the agents pulled a note from Eggart’s pocket and handed it to the man standing. He unfolded it and read: “For the sins of all Sodomite
s and those who protect them. Our wrath shall be swift.” He recognized the insignia at the bottom of the page. Another militia-inspired lunatic. “Seems he didn’t like the fact that our Dutch friends came from a country that tolerates homosexuals.” He placed the note in a plastic bag. “We’ll see what the lab has to say. See if it connects to the rest of today’s insanity.”
Another pair of suits approached, these escorting a state trooper, a man in his late forties.
“Is this Trigger-happy?” asked the man. Both nodded.
“Grant, Thomas. Virginia—”
“All right, Mr. Grant, Thomas. What the hell happened?”
The trooper said nothing. Sacrifice, my government friend. There must always be a place for sacrifice.
Sarah had moved to the fridge and was refilling her glass. “At last count, eight distinct acts of terrorism. The city’s been turned on its head—”
“Hold on a minute,” Xander cut in, the last few minutes clearly having taken their toll. “In an alley? Did they … hurt you in any way?”
“No, they were professionals.” She dropped the bottle into the trash.
“Professionals?” He shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on her back. “I’m not sure I understand … professionals? How does that relate—”
“Exactly my question.” She turned to him. “Why would they describe the chaos on that screen as a ‘first trial’?”
“They called it a first …” A sudden recognition crept across his face, his words following of their own will: “First trial of conjecture by experience.”
“What?” she asked.
He looked up, his eyes still distant. “It’s the way someone in the sixteenth century would have explained experimentation.”
“In English, Professor.”
He turned to her. “A dry run. Something to test the waters. That’s what a first trial is. Why would they refer to Washington as a—”
“Because they wanted to convince me to forget about Eisenreich.”
“They mentioned Eisenreich?” Xander could do little to mask his surprise. “How could they have known about Eisenreich? Even I didn’t make the connection until …” Fear crossed his face. “Oh my God. Of course.” He looked back at the screen. “They a re Eisenreich.”
Xander paced along the aisle created by bed and heater, a half-filled glass of scotch wedged firmly in his hands. Two steps, turn, two steps, turn. He seemed entranced, stopping every so often to lift his head and stare directly at Sarah, who was on the bed, trying to sort through some of the papers he had brought. After a rather uncomfortable five minutes, he slumped into the chair by the window and drained the alcohol in his glass. Aware that the strange routine had come to an end, she looked up.
“I can’t make heads or tails of these. Half of them aren’t in English.”
“German and Italian,” Xander answered, his tone distant.
“Right. Look, Professor—Xander,” she said, trying to reassure, “I realize this isn’t exactly the sort of thing you deal with every day—”
“That’s putting it mildly.” He placed his glass on the bureau. “If you recall, I do theory, Ms. Trent.”
“Yes, I—”
“I sit in my nice little office, read lots of books and articles, and then I write about it. That’s it. I don’t do anything that might warrant an attack, professional or not. I suppose I expect someone else to see how the theories pan out.” He stopped. “Which raises a very interesting question. Who exactly are you?”
“What?”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but the little I know about State, especially its research branch, has nothing to do with dark alleys or professional assailants. You’re like … academics. You don’t get involved.”
“I’m aware of that.” She paused and looked over at him.
“Meaning …”
“I’m involved. So are you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I might be able to figure out why if I knew what Eisenreich meant.”
“I see.” He waited for more; when none came, he continued. “Look, I’m happy to talk about Eisenreich. That’s why I came. But I’d prefer to know if I’m dealing with the CIA or the FBI or whatever acronym is the most popular these days—”
“You’re dealing with me,” she said.
“That’s cryptic.”
“No, it’s safer.” She stared at him. “Eisenreich, Professor. How does it tie in to Washington?”
He returned the stare, trying to maintain his edge. After half a minute without success, he let out a long breath, then shook his head. “All right.” He sat back. “Eisenreich. Not an it. A he. Swiss monk. Died about four hundred and fifty years ago under some rather unpleasant circumstances—”
“A monk? How does a monk—”
“Because of a treatise he wrote on political power.”
Now Sarah shook her head. “A book is supposed to explain what happened today? Forgive me, Professor, but how dangerous—”
“Could a manuscript be?” He leaned toward her. “It’s never the document itself, Ms. Trent. It’s how people use it. Remember Machiavelli? As long as they trust its message, a piece of theory can create all sorts of trouble. If you need further proof, you can always flip to another station.”
“You’re telling me a manuscript did that?” she said, pointing to the screen. “That’s sabotage on a very sophisticated level, Professor. We’re talking about computer manipulation, high-tech explosives, acts of terrorism no sixteenth-century theorist could possibly have understood.”
“He didn’t have to understand—”
“A major U.S. city is on the verge of declaring a state of emergency. I find it hard to believe that a manuscript could be responsible.”
“Don’t. Peter the Great kept a copy of a book by a man named Pufendorf by his bedside. Wrote in his diary that it was the key to every political decision he made. Charles the Fifth had Marcus Aurelius. Cromwell, Hobbes. And Luther’s ninety-five theses have kept Rome on edge for the last four hundred years. Remember, these people didn’t have television or radio; Oprah didn’t tell them which books to read. So they had to find their own guideposts. Those who couldn’t read found theirs in the church; those who could found theirs in books; and those who sought power found theirs in a specific type of manuscript, a few of which have provoked some of the darker moments in history.” He placed the remote on the set. “Can you tell me who invented television, Ms. Trent?” Sarah shook her head. “Exactly. But we all remember Guttenburg and his printing press.”
“Then why this book?”
“Because it was supposed to make the Medici masters of Europe. Machiavelli had offered them only Florence.” He seemed suddenly struck by something. Almost to himself, he said, “One city wasn’t enough.”
She watched as his eyes continued to wander. “Why ‘supposed’?”
It took him a moment to regain focus. “What? Oh. Because … we’re not sure it exists.”
“What?” Her head snapped forward. “He never wrote it?”
“We don’t know. There’s a lot of … speculation.”
“Then speculate.”
WOLF POINT, MONTANA, FEBRUARY 26, 8:42 P.M. Laurence Sedgewick stood on the veranda, his hands resting on the rail, the night hovering just below zero. He enjoyed the cold, his eyes tightening at the sudden gusts from across the open field. A shock of white hair—somewhat premature for a man only in his mid-fifties—lent an added distinction to a face that tended to draw stares for its extraordinary good looks: the high cheekbones, the supple lips, the gentle smile that seemed always to grace them.
Sedgewick checked his watch. The last car had been due ten minutes ago.
The sight of headlights bouncing through the woods allayed his concerns. Within a minute, the car appeared at the gate, its exhaust swirling in a gray cloud along the dirt path. As it pulled up, Sedgewick moved to the steps.
“Why the delay, Ms. Grant?” No greeting. No words to acknowledge a
job well done.
“Turbulence” was her equally curt response. She waited for him to press further. When he merely nodded, she moved past him and into the house. The two young men followed. Inside, all three placed their bags and coats in a hall closet and stepped through the archway to the living room. A fire was at full blaze, the old man at its side, stoking in herky-jerky movements.
“I trust you had an easy trip.” He thrust one last time at the wood, watched as the flame burst toward the flue, and then turned. “The car—what happened with Mr. Eggart’s car? Why was it not in place?”
All three looked at one another, then at him. Janet Grant spoke. “It was on … Thirteenth. He never showed up.”
“Yes, I understand that.” He moved to the chair nearest the fire and sat. “I am simply asking a question.”
“Did you know he’d been compromised?” Sedgewick appeared at the arch.
“Only … once we were in the air,” she replied.
“But you were instructed to maintain radio silence.” The old man spoke with little emotion. “How, then, could you have heard?” The woman did not answer. “I suspect that you failed to do as you were told because you were aware of your earlier mistake on Twelfth Street. Am I not correct, Ms. Grant?”
She kept her gaze straight ahead. “Yes.”
“At last we have the truth.” He stared into the fire. “Such a mistake can be costly. And, of course, there is always the matter of rectifying it.”
“I understand—”
“You understand very little. Otherwise, this situation would never have arisen.” The cold directness of the old man’s response caught her off guard. He turned to her. “Your father has accepted the responsibility for your actions. He has always understood the process, the role he must play.” He paused. “Do you understand that process, Ms. Grant?” Again he waited. “I trust that is something you will think about.”
The Overseer Page 6