The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

“What’s your password?” she asked.

  “Niccolò. Why?”

  “Why Niccolò?”

  “Machiavelli. Are we going someplace with this?”

  “Well, who was Pescatore’s favorite? Augustine.”

  Xander peered at her over his shoulder, a skeptical look in his eyes. “Isn’t that a little obvious?”

  “Do you have any better ideas?”

  He turned to the screen and typed the word Augustine into the keyboard. He pressed the enter button. A small x appeared on the next line, followed by another flashing key.

  “One down. Two to go. Any other suggestions?”

  Sarah thought for a moment. “What about his first name. What was Augustine’s first name?”

  “Saint.” Xander glared over his shoulder, an even more incredulous look in his eyes. “I don’t think he had a first name.”

  “You’re not being very helpful.”

  “Sorry. It’s just—” His eyes suddenly froze, an expression Sarah had seen before, an instant of recognition struggling to find expression. She watched as a grin began to creep up his cheeks.

  “What? What?”

  “No. That would be crazy.” He paused. “What the hell.” Turning to the computer, he typed in a few letters, pressed enter, and watched as the system engaged, the software beginning to boot itself up on the screen. A guttural laugh emerged from his throat, the grin now a broad smile.

  “Well, what was it?”

  Continuing to watch the system come on-line, Xander grinned. “Monica. Augustine’s mom. Freud would have had a heyday with that.”

  The screen transformed several times—meaningless instructions and patent warnings flying by in quick succession—before a small cursor appeared to initiate the word processing. Xander typed in a few more commands, and a long list of files began to race by. “The software’s familiar enough. I just hope my technical Italian is up to snuff.” Sarah looked on as her new partner typed furiously, every so often stopping to read the screen—list after list of files—before moving on. He tried to explain to her as he bolted along. “He’s evidently placed the files deep within the system, and I would very much doubt that he’s given them friendly names like Eisenreich One and Two. He might have been clever again.” Xander shifted his weight, the strain on his knees beginning to take its toll.

  Three minutes later, his eyes lit up as a new group of files slid by. A list of about twenty names stood in a neat line across the top of the screen, for some reason worthy of special attention. “The right size and the right time frame,” he said, and pulled his hands away from the keyboard. “The question is, Which are the important ones? Knowing Carlo, any number of these, if not all of them, could be meaningless. Or worse, he might have set a few of them up as booby traps, triggered to shut the system down and bring in security if they get called up. Carlo is famous for these things.”

  “Wonderful.” Sarah nodded, pondering the man who had gone to such lengths to safeguard a few files. Xander, hands resting in his lap, eyed the screen with caution; a moment later, his head tilted back and his eyes squinted closed. He began to clench his fingers in slow intervals. “What are you—”

  “Shhh.” The strange ritual continued for about half a minute before he slowly opened his eyes. Sarah had moved to the window, her gaze again on the courtyard; it remained empty. “My guess,” continued Xander, “would be these two.” His finger landed by the words Ternistato A and Ternistato B. Again, his mysterious thought process left Sarah at a complete loss. She knew that whatever raced through his mind at those crucial moments had to spring from some logical source. What that might be, though, was beyond her. Still, it was keeping him occupied. He in his element, she in hers. Each with its own rules of engagement. Hostile arena—know the surroundings. Anticipate the contingencies. “If you recall,” he explained, “the name Eisenreich translates to ‘iron state.’ If I’m right, Carlo was very much aware of that.” He pointed to the first part of one of the words on the screen, Sarah more interested in the figure emerging from the eastern archway to the courtyard. She nodded distractedly. “Terni is one of the few remaining centers of Italian iron production. And I think—now I could be wrong—that it was also one of the main targets of Allied bombing during World War Two for that very reason.” She had heard the last bit and wondered if all academics had access to such trivial information. “You know … Laurence Olivier on PBS … World at War? ‘The furnaces of Terni’?” He was off in his little own world. Again she nodded. “Stato simply means ‘state.’ Ternistato—‘iron state.’ Eisenreich.”

  She turned to him. “That’s incredibly far-fetched.”

  “I know, but that’s exactly the way Carlo’s mind works. Plus, I can’t for the life of me think what he would have been working on that would have had anything to do with the town of Terni. I mean, it really is obscure.”

  “And yet you seem to be familiar with it.”

  “True. But I happen to be as nutty as Carlo.”

  With that, Xander called up the first of the files. Sarah waited for the screen to go black, or for a siren to go off, or for some deadly gas to pour from the console. Instead, Italian filled the page, densely packed notes on what she assumed was the manuscript. The smile on Xander’s face, his eyes racing through each line, told her that his logic—based on a television show—had maneuvered expertly through Pescatore’s defenses. Evidently, this was the stuff of academic insight. Not terribly inspiring.

  As he continued to read, she again peered through the cracks in the drapery so as to get a better view of the courtyard behind the building. Her lone figure was now seated on one of several benches perhaps twenty yards away. The man, in a heavy dark overcoat, seemed well protected from the cold, his gloved hands peeling back the pages of his newspaper, cigarette smoke cascading through the air from under his wide-brimmed fedora. Sarah maintained her gaze, making sure to keep far enough from the curtains so as not to draw unwanted attention. From this distance, she found it difficult to make out any distinct features. Save for the beard. She inched closer. Xander had mentioned a beard.

  One minute later, a second man appeared. He was exceptionally tall, his broad shoulders and thick arms squeezed mercilessly into the sleeves of the straining coat. He wore no hat, the sun reflecting off of his shaven scalp, a pair of thick hands menacing at his sides as he strode toward the bench. Within half a minute, the first man was on his feet, making his way slowly, casually, toward one of the building’s side entrances. The second remained at the bench, and, for the first time, Sarah realized that his gaze was fixed on Pescatore’s office window. She stepped back.

  “Have you gotten everything?” she asked. At first, Xander did not reply.

  “This is absolutely incredible.” He was transfixed by the screen. “I mean incredible.”

  “We should get going.”

  “Why? We—”

  “We’ve been here long enough. No reason to press our luck.”

  He was too wrapped up in the notes to offer much of an argument. “All right, but I’m going to have to copy these. That might take a minute or two.”

  “Do it.” Sarah now moved to the door as Xander reached for his case and pulled out a disc. She watched him slide it into Pescatore’s computer and type in the appropriate commands; the computer began to hum and click while he sat back and waited. Leaning against the hard wood and listening for any noise in the hall, Sarah asked—more to keep him preoccupied than anything else—“so what’s so incredible?”

  “It’s really mind-boggling.” His eyes remained on the screen. “Remember I thought there were two original versions of the manuscript. One Eisenreich sent to Clement, and one for himself. Well, when we found the pages ripped out of the binding, I thought that was it.” He stopped and looked at Sarah. “According to Carlo’s notes, however, there are three versions. Three. One in Latin, one in Italian, and one in German. For various reasons—”He suddenly noticed her odd position at the door. “Is something the matter?�
��

  Sarah’s hand shot up in the air to silence him, the sound of footsteps in the hall prompting the reaction. Both waited the uncomfortable half minute until the pitter-pat moved beyond the office. Still holding his breath, Xander flinched at the sound of the computer clicking a final sequence of copying. Two seconds later, he retrieved the disc and placed it in his case.

  “Erase the files.” Another order from the operative.

  “That would definitely bring in security,” he said, getting to his feet.

  “Which might not be such a bad idea.” Again she moved to the curtains, motioning for him to join her. She pointed through a thin strand of light to the courtyard and asked, “Do you recognize him?” Xander’s eyes widened. He started to lean closer, Sarah quick to pull him back. “I’ll take that as a yes. That’s why we might want to call in security.”

  “That’s the man from the station.”

  “We can be out of here in less than a minute; no security works that fast. It might be enough, though, to get in the way of our two friends.”

  Five seconds later, Xander typed in the erase command and watched as a small red dot appeared at the top-right-hand corner of the screen. He switched off the console and grabbed his case. Sarah was already in the corridor.

  CHICAGO, MARCH 3, 2:14 A.M. Chapmann watched as the area beyond his glassed-in office continued to swirl with frenzied activity, the lights on his phone flashing in an equally manic rhythm. It had been like this for the past eleven hours—since yesterday at 3:07 P.M., when the computers had reached 2.5 billion, the gambit having drawn in three other investment houses during the run. By 3:14, hints that something was wrong had elicited the first calls from the other houses. “What the hell is going on! There’s no indication the market …” When Helpurn’s computers had crashed two minutes later, revealing the betting strategy as nothing more than an enormous software glitch, all hell had broken loose. Helpurn naturally was beyond salvation; having to sell two weeks’ worth of bad trading positions would finish them.

  That, however, was nothing compared to the grain market itself. Overinflated, it was now highly volatile. Prices would fluctuate, then dive. By tomorrow morning, farmers would begin to hoard the grain that they had held on to, the few reserves that had not fallen prey to their greed. And with hoarding would come the question of distribution. The supply lines out of the United States would be pulled back. Cargill and ConAgra would be sent reeling. The tremors would be felt at every level.

  Just as Sedgewick had predicted. A week when the world would have to reconsider the stability of a major American market.

  All in the cause of an experiment.

  Chapmann continued to stare. And wonder. Had he really understood?

  Sarah ushered Xander out into the hallway, pulled the door shut, and once again maneuvered the lock with the two strips of metal. As before, a dull glow hung about the empty expanse. The bolt engaged just as the echo of footsteps rose somewhere off to their left; the main entrance was no longer a possibility. Sarah led him down the corridor, Xander inclined to glance over his shoulder every few seconds, ready to find a large angry figure hurtling toward them. About fifty feet from Pescatore’s office, the hallway took a sharp right-hand turn, sending them farther away from the central courtyard from which they had entered the building. Behind them, shouts cascaded throughout the corridor, voices confounded by the locked door Sarah had left. A hand pounded against the door’s frame, its thumping in counterpoint to the rapid patter of their own feet racing silently along the stone floor. Another turn and they pushed through a thick swinging door, its metal hinges letting out an excruciatingly high-pitched shriek. For a long moment, all sound seemed to vanish. Then, with a sudden explosion of voices, the clatter of running feet erupted.

  Xander, visibly shaken, looked to Sarah, who was now scanning the small alcove in which they found themselves. To their left, a broad stairwell lead up, its wide oaken steps flanked by an ornate banister with elaborate carvings for support. The voices grew in volume as Sarah moved toward a large curtain hung curiously underneath the rising steps. She yanked it back and found a second set of stairs leading down, stark by comparison, narrow stone slabs, smooth and uneven from centuries of use, with only a thick piece of rope extending along the wall for support. The clamor nearly upon them, Sarah motioned for Xander to follow; she grabbed at the railing and started down. The heavy draped material swung back behind him, shrouding the stairway in near darkness.

  The last few steps were less hidden, leading to a series of underground tunnels. Together, they stood in an open area, eyes as yet unaccustomed to the series of bare bulbs, each one dangling on the end of a frayed cord.

  And then, for a frightening moment, Xander watched as Sarah’s eyes become transfixed by the glare of the light, her head twitch almost imperceptibly, her breath shorten. He thought she might pass out, her face suddenly ashen. He grabbed her. Their eyes locked, hers so distant.

  “Jessica?”

  The word was barely audible. He knew the bulbs had triggered something—something he wanted to understand, something he needed to tear her away from.

  But there was no time. The swinging door screamed again, the sound of angry voices pouring into the alcove not fifteen feet above them. Xander froze. Everything seemed to stop. His forehead felt as if it would burst, the blood thundering through, pounding with abandon. Every breath, each word from above rang in his ears as if spoken directly to him. And still Sarah stood motionless.

  With a sudden flurry, the voices began to fade, grow more distant. They had decided on the second floor. Not taking the time to consider their good fortune, Xander pulled Sarah toward one of the tunnels, its curved ceiling forcing him to slouch as they darted along. Dazed, she followed, but with each passing second, he saw her sense revive. After several snakelike turns, they arrived at another open area, another set of stairs, another thick piece of rope leading up.

  Now it was Sarah who took control. She grabbed his arm and flattened him against the wall. Before he could respond, her hand was over his mouth, her eyes screaming at him to keep silent. She listened intently, all memory of the recent episode clearly forgotten. Faint at first, then louder, the sound of a lone pair of feet shuffling along the tunnel floor began to rise in the distance. Urgent and controlled, the monotonous beat of the approaching steps provided an eerie backdrop to the sound of Xander’s stifled breath. They continued to stare at each other, fully aware of who was in pursuit. Whichever way he had managed it, the man with the beard had somehow slipped through the chaos on the floor above, discovered the curtained stairway, and chosen expertly which path to follow. With a quick jerk of her head, Sarah motioned for Xander to move up the stairs, bringing her finger to her lips to make certain he maintained absolute silence.

  Half a minute later, both stood within an alcove identical to the one in Pescatore’s building, the only difference a rectangular window that offered a welcome view of the front courtyard. Somehow, they had arrived only a few yards from the arched entryway that had originally brought them from the main street. Xander started for the swinging door, stopped in mid-movement by Sarah, who grabbed him by the coat. She would not tempt the squeal a second time. Instead, she held him motionless, both waiting to hear the sudden cessation of steps, the rapid ascent of the stairs.

  But none came. Nothing but the sound of footsteps racing by, tracking past the staircase and deeper into the maze of tunnels. There had been no shift in pace, no silence to indicate a change of direction, not even a momentary pause to consider options. Their would-be pursuer had plodded on without a thought for the stairs. Sarah knew they had little time to make their escape. Two minutes at most before the man below would recognize his mistake and double back. They could only hope he was not in radio contact with his comrade at the bench.

  With her hands still enmeshed in Xander’s coat, Sarah waited until the sound of the steps receded entirely. Then, positioning herself by the window, she unlatched the lock and slowl
y pushed the window out, this time no screaming hinge to bring unwanted visitors. The courtyard was empty. No signs of inner turmoil from the building directly across from them. No security men perched by the main entryway to apprehend the suspected thieves. And no sign of the bearded man’s companion. They had been lucky again. Hoisting herself up onto the ledge, she swung her legs out into the cold and let herself fall the five or six feet to the clump of frozen bushes nestled against the building’s facade. Turning back to Jaspers, she reached up to take the case from him and watched as he deftly maneuvered the ledge and leapt to her side. His agility surprised her.

  Adjusting clothes, brushing off dried leaves, they moved swiftly to the archway, back through the redbrick passageways. They said nothing. It had been ten minutes. Ten minutes of choked-back breath, of small pools of perspiration gathering under their heavy coats, of unspoken fear and exhilaration. Ten minutes running from shadows, allowing the game to play them, and all for the single disc that lay innocently within an unassuming leather attaché case. As they moved, the murmur of voices, the appearance of others no longer caused alarm. Still, Xander clutched at Sarah’s arm, aware that she was in control again, he happy to acquiesce, follow along, vest her with all responsibility. He had found the files. She would find them a safe place.

  Emerging to the street, they cut across the square and opted for the wide avenue of the Via Cavour, its crowds now a safe haven from the two men who they knew would not be far behind. Blending gracefully into the flow of bodies, the Fabrizzis walked arm in arm, his knuckles growing whiter by the second from the nervous strain of the case in his hand. His mind was focused anywhere but on the bustle all around them. Xander was shaken, but, for the first time, he felt neither confusion nor disbelief. Instead, he felt only outrage—outrage at the destruction, at the callous indifference to a colleague’s life, at the abuse rained down upon him and his work. And, perhaps most telling, outrage at the men who could transform the woman at his side into someone—something—so petrified within the world they had created. He would not soon forget the hollow terror of her eyes in the tunnels. He would not let himself.