The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  The young woman stood motionless, unable to answer.

  “Fifteen thirty-one.” The tale of the monk seemed to be calming Xander. “When the Medici resumed control of Florence, Eisenreich sent some excerpts of his manuscript as a gift to the returning conquerors. Much like Machiavelli twenty years earlier, he was looking for a job. In the pages he sent, so we’re led to believe, he hinted at a method by which a few men—naturally, the Medici—could seize power not only in one city but on the entire continent. And not simply through military aggression. In that mess on the bed is a copy from the papal archives of a letter that Clement the Seventh sent to several of his cardinals at the time. Clement—who happened to be a Medici—describes the little he saw of the treatise as ‘un lavoro d’una possibilita grande ma anche perigliso,’ ‘a work of great but dangerous possibility.’ More frightened than intrigued, Clement wanted the manuscript found and burned. Had he been a bit bolder, who knows what the map of Europe might look like today?”

  “But why wouldn’t the Pope have wanted to increase his own power?”

  “To where? He was the head of the Catholic church, the largest source of social and political control in the known world, and he held the ultimate trump card. He was the Vicar of Christ. Excommunication was still a pretty potent weapon. He had all the power he could probably fathom. What he didn’t need was one of his rivals—most likely Henry in England or Francis in France—to get hold of the document and threaten European stability.”

  “So Clement destroyed it?”

  “That’s the great irony. He found Eisenreich—or rather, his bastard son, Alessandro, Duke of Florence, found him—but tortured the old monk to death before he got any information about the whereabouts of the document. Clement probably spent some very uncomfortable weeks waiting for the manuscript to emerge in some other court, but nothing ever showed up.”

  “So it didn’t cause any problems.”

  “For Clement, no. The manuscript never appeared. In fact, in a letter written to Alessandro about two months after Eisenreich’s death, the Pope was already convinced that the whole thing had been a ruse—that no manuscript had actually existed, and that Eisenreich had created the threat just so that someone would give him a job.”

  “And so the whole episode was just forgotten?”

  “If you think about it, in the early 1530s, Clement didn’t have the time to dwell on the Eisenreich document. Henry the Eighth’s split with the Catholic church was far more pressing than a hypothetical manuscript by a dead man.”

  “But it does reappear?” asked Sarah, picking out the copies of the Pope’s correspondence from the pile. “Eisenreich did write the manuscript.”

  “Yes and no.”

  She stopped. “That’s not the answer I was looking for.”

  “No proof, no manuscript. That’s what most scholars believe.”

  “That’s the no. What’s the yes?”

  “The myth of Eisenreich,” he explained. Sarah shook her head. “Over the past few centuries, Eisenreich’s name has turned up in letters, documents, even in notes on the side of a page, and always during periods of political upheaval. During the Thirty Years War, an entire treatise appeared: Die Wissenschaft des Eisenreichs—The Science of Eisenreich. Cute, but not all that coherent. Our monk pops up during the English Protectorate, the French Revolution, even into this century and the early stages of the Third Reich.”

  “So what, exactly, did they all think he had to tell them?”

  “As far as we know, when and how to create chaos. Assassinations, the burning of grain reserves, destruction of ports. Sound familiar?”

  “And you think the book could actually plot out—”

  “It’s not what I think that matters. You asked what the manuscript was supposed to tell them. Evidently, it’s done a pretty good job. The problem is, no one has ever taken the references seriously.”

  “Why? Because the chaos never played out?”

  “That, and because most academics believe that the very idea of the myth itself has been weapon enough.”

  Sarah looked up. “I don’t follow.”

  “Think about it. If you want to consolidate your forces and make certain they have a common goal, what’s the easiest way to bring them together?”

  “A common enemy,” she answered.

  “Exactly. A threat that forces them to fight as one unit. Then, suppose you discover some old story about a manuscript that calls for, say, a severe restriction on individual liberty, a dismantling of the current market infrastructure, and so forth—and convince your compatriots that there’s actually a group ready to impose those measures on the state. What do your followers do? They snap to attention so as to destroy the threat. And in the process, they destroy all opposition.”

  “And that’s what Eisenreich has been?” asked Sarah. “A fictional device used by some savvy politicians to eliminate opposition?”

  “That’s what a number of historians believe. Even the name raises questions. In German, the word Eisenreich means ‘iron state,’ or ‘iron regime.’ The coincidence is … too good to be true.”

  “And you agree?”

  “If I did, would I be here?” Xander got up and moved toward the bathroom, picking up his empty glass along the way.

  “Wait a second,” Sarah broke in as the sound of flowing water echoed through the room, “all those details about individual liberty and market restructures—how do you know that’s in the manuscript?”

  “We don’t,” Xander replied from the bathroom, a disembodied voice over the water. “Remember, this is a myth. It has a tendency to feed on itself. Over a four-hundred-year period, more facts are added; more little pamphlets appear expounding the wisdom of the great man. It all depends on what those savvy politicians require.” He reappeared, glass and towel in hand.

  “You’re making a very strong case for the nos.”

  “I realize that. So, this afternoon I did a little digging.” He joined her on the bed. “Two articles appeared less than a month ago from a professor at the University of Florence—the one man who, over the last ten years, has defended the manuscript’s existence. Carlo—”

  “Pescatore,” Sarah read from the top page in Xander’s hands. “Eisenreich: La domanda risoluto.”

  “‘The question resolved,’” he translated.

  “Does he?” she asked, trying to read over his shoulder.

  “Not entirely, though he makes a pretty good case, from the little I read. It’s all rather technical, but it’s clear that he’s seen what he believes to be authentic excerpts from one of the original manuscripts.” He handed the pages to Sarah and started to rummage once again.

  “What do you mean one of the original manuscripts?”

  “Usually, there were two or three translations—versions if the master got lost or damaged before printing. As a precaution. For those of us who place stock in the Eisenreich saga, it’s generally agreed that there were two versions. The one he sent to the Pope, and the one he kept for himself.”

  “And given today’s events, you think Tieg, Sedgewick, and Votapek have one, Pescatore the other?”

  “That would be remarkable, wouldn’t it?”

  “And you’re telling me they could use it to construct—”

  “I have no idea. Remember, it’s what they see in it, how they interpret it. Take the Bible—think of how many different visions of the Truth people find in its pages. Spoon-fed in the same way, a book like Eisenreich’s could create an equally dedicated following—one committed to a far more sinister truth.” He went to the pile and pulled out the second article. “Plus, in this article, Pescatore seems to be saying that there’s some sort of schedule linked to the manuscript. A step-by-step process, first for creating the chaos and then for building from it. That would make it a very powerful document.”

  “What if someone were to find the other version?” she asked, her expression more animated. “Would they be able to understand what our three friends have in
mind, and not just as a … dry run?”

  “I suppose … but—”

  “But what?” she interrupted.

  Xander had moved back to the chair. “Look, I could be way off base, here. It’s a … theory. There’s no proof to link—”

  “The two men in the alley were very real, Professor. What happened today in Washington is no theory.”

  Xander stared at her. “I know.” He shook his head. “It’s just that when I came here tonight, I thought—”

  “You thought it was part of some academic intrigue, something for your next article.” He nodded slowly. “Well, it’s obviously more than that,” the words as much for herself as for him. “This is no theoretical exercise. If they know Pescatore has a copy, they’ll want to get it back.” She moved to the edge of the bed, her tone more deliberate. “And they won’t want anyone else who might be able to decipher it to find it.” She let the words sink in before moving to the other side of the bed and her briefcase.

  “Look,” he said, still recovering from the last few minutes, “I’ve kept up my end of the bargain. You know how Eisenreich’s connected.” He watched as she released the lock. “So, who exactly are you?”

  Sarah paused, then looked at him. “To be honest, I’m not exactly sure.”

  “That’s not very helpful.”

  “No, it isn’t.” She reached under the bed and a moment later was busy with her boots. “Put on your coat. Take everything with you.” She could feel the operative returning. “We need to find a safe phone.”

  “A safe phone?” he asked. “Who the hell are you?”

  VIRGINIA, FEBRUARY 26, 9:04 P.M. Thomas Grant, outfitted in a recently acquired Virginia state trooper’s uniform, sat in the front seat, one FBI man behind him, the other driving. There were questions that needed answering. They had suggested he accompany them.

  “You thought he was reaching for a gun.”

  “Yes,” answered Grant.

  “You actually thought—”

  Grant suddenly reached over and grabbed the wheel, spinning the car into the railing. The man tried to regain control, but he had been caught totally unawares. A moment later, the car broke through, rocketing over the side.

  “Sacrifice!” screamed Grant. “Sacrifice!”

  The car crashed to the ravine below, exploding on impact.

  Sarah raked her nails along the brick face of the wall as she listened, the jagged texture helping to keep her mind focused. The booth was cramped, the seat offering a partial view of the bookshop at the end of the hall. Benches and shelves were piled high with books; Tiffany lamps atop the three oak tables that lined one of the walls cast a warm glow on the small room. She had hoped the shop would distract Jaspers from the uncertainty at hand. The place had had an immediate effect, although he had been reluctant to stay by himself at first. A section on medieval tapestry had managed to ease his concerns.

  “No,” she said. “Completely unacceptable.”

  “All right.” Pritchard’s voice hadn’t changed, the tone distant, even when trying to convince. “But it might be best for you to come in—”

  “And take advantage of your helping hand?” She did little to mask her contempt. “I seem to recall an evening in Amman—”

  “In which you made a choice. We’ve been through this. If you hadn’t taken out Safad, the city—”

  “A girl died because of that choice. That life—”

  “Was expendable when compared to an entire city, perhaps an entire region. The repercussions with the Israelis—”

  “Wouldn’t have made any difference!” She stopped herself, heard the venom in her voice, a tightness in her chest, knuckles white as she gripped the phone. She shut her eyes and took in a strain of air. “So why the sudden concern?” She forced herself to stare at the wall. “As ever, you’ve been more than happy to set the pieces in motion.”

  “We weren’t aware—”

  Sarah laughed, enjoying the silence it provoked. “I’m sure of that. No,” she continued. “I come in now, and you take me out to a nice little farm in the Maryland countryside, find out where the therapy went wrong—”

  “As I said, we were all very impressed with your work in the alley. I can assure you, no one questions your—”

  “I don’t give a damn what you think.”

  Silence. “Then walk away, Sarah. Come in, turn everything over, and walk away.” He waited. “I don’t think there are any loose ends this time.”

  Loose ends. She could feel the rage rise in her throat, the need to lash out at the man on the other end of the line. Instead, she forced her eyes to the shop, to Jaspers, his stooped figure craning to read the spine of a book. The gentle academic, so clearly unaware, unprepared. Loose ends. The words battered at her, as they always had. Whose responsibility, Sarah? Whose trust? She had been taught to walk away, taught that it was the only way to survive. But she had never listened, never learned. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with, do you?”

  Again silence. “It would be best for you to come in. I trust—”

  “Trust hasn’t always been your strong suit. No, this time we play it my way. No last-minute surprises. No loose ends.” Her eyes turned to Jaspers. “This time, nothing expendable.”

  Ten minutes later, she emerged to the shop’s main room.

  “Did your instincts pay off?” prodded Xander.

  “They were expecting my call, if that’s what you mean.” Her tone was distant as she picked out a volume of Trollope from the shelf, more to keep her hands busy than for any other reason. “I need to see that manuscript.”

  “Wait a minute.” His uneasiness had returned. “Who’s the ‘they’?”

  “Would it make any difference if you knew?” Xander remained silent as Sarah replaced the book and chose another. “Pescatore. Which department is he in at Florence?”

  “Political Theory,” he answered almost involuntarily. Trying to dismiss the question, he continued, no less agitated. “What do you mean it wouldn’t make any difference? Remember, I’ve written about—”

  “You haven’t written about them.” The intensity in her tone told him to press no further. “What I need from you is a letter of introduction to the Italian. Something that’ll let me see what he’s been working on. And I want you to take a few days off. There’s a place in Delaware. I’ll contact you when I get back—”

  “Wait a second…. You’re going to see—”

  “He has the manuscript.”

  Her candor was a bit off-putting. “I see,” he replied. “And what do you intend to do with it if, in fact, he lets you see it?”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  Xander nodded, his unease turning to frustration. “I give you the letter, disappear, and you talk to Pescatore. Just like that.” He continued to nod. “Unfortunately, I don’t think it will work that way, if I know Carlo.”

  For the first time since her return from the phone, Sarah looked directly at him. “If you know him?” She could do little to mask her surprise.

  “For the last ten years,” he responded casually. “He’s another of Lundsdorf’s protégés. In fact, he was the one who got me interested in Eisenreich in the first place. I tried to tell you—”

  “Did you? … It’s perfect, then. Call him and tell him I’m coming.”

  Xander tried to control his impatience. “That simple?”

  “Yes. I think I can handle it from there.”

  “Really?” He sat on the ledge of the shelf and crossed his arms. “And, again, what exactly are you going to do with the manuscript if and when you find it?” He waited. “It’s either in Italian or Latin, so I trust you’re fluent. And of course you know a great deal about sixteenth-century discourse, so you can wade through the endless pages of extraneous information, right? Oh, and by the way,” he continued, gaining momentum, “Carlo won’t be very accommodating. He might—and I emphasize might—let you take a quick look at a few pages while he peers over your shoulder, but tha
t’s it. He’s easily the most protective academic I’ve ever met. Not to mention a little paranoid. He might even think I’ve sent you to steal his ideas. No. He’ll be courteous, self-congratulatory, and more than a bit condescending. What he won’t be is helpful. Moreover, he won’t even be there.” His directness had quickly turned to irritation, perhaps even a hint of comeuppance.

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Because, like two hundred other scholars in the field, he’ll be at a conference in Milan for the next three days.” Xander paused for effect. “I’m on the six-thirty flight tomorrow night. I’m already taking a few days off.”

  Sarah allowed herself a smile as she squeezed the book back in place. “I see.” She sat down next to him on the ledge, clasping her hands on her lap in a show of mock surrender. “So what do you propose I do, given the fact that you’re obviously three steps ahead of me?”

  “Since you won’t tell me who you are … let me talk to him.”

  “You were going to do that anyway.”

  “True.” Xander smiled.

  “What about the people who might not want you to find it? Their message tonight was pretty clear. On all fronts.” She paused. “This isn’t a game.”

  “It’s a little late to be explaining the rules.” Xander turned to her, greater confidence in his voice. “Look, you came to me. I understand you think I might be in some sort of danger now, but wouldn’t it look odd to anyone interested in my recent activities if I didn’t go to the conference? I’ve been planning it for months. So I decide to take a jaunt to Florence afterward—see an old friend. How uncommon is that?” He waited for a response. “You want to know how the manuscript ties in. Then you need someone who can decipher it, and who has access to Carlo. That would be me. I’ve done him some favors in the past; he’ll put the paranoia aside for a few days. All I’m saying is that, on some fundamental level, you need me.”