Still lost in his thoughts, Xander found himself standing in front of a small building, its central wall a single sheet of glass. It took a moment for him to recognize the building for what it was—a small café, packed with locals and tourists taking a morning cappuccino. A bell jangled as they pushed through the door, Sarah leading the way to a table nestled in an ideally cozy corner—far enough from others for discretion’s sake, close enough to warrant no special attention.
“I seem to go in circles with you,” she smiled, a casual lilt to her expression, which Xander found impossible to mirror. She seemed entirely at ease. He sat amazed.
“Really?” He nodded, then stopped. “I don’t understand.”
“Hotel rooms, cafés. It’s become a pattern.” She adjusted her coat and added, “And try to look a little more comfortable. We are in Italy.”
He brought the case to his lap as a waiter approached. “Whatever that’s supposed to mean.” Countering with something that barely resembled a smile, Xander asked her, “Cappuccino?”
A grin accompanied her reply. “Sì.”
“Due, prego.” The waiter nodded and moved off to another table. “Your Italian is improving.”
“Grazie, bello. Your mood isn’t.”
“Funny that, but I’m expecting two large men—”
“They won’t come in here.” She leaned across the table, as if explaining something rudimentary. “It’s too obvious. They’ll have expected us to keep running. That’s why we didn’t.” A knowing smile creased her lips. “So enjoy the coffee when it comes.”
Xander accepted the rebuke. Of course she knew what she was doing. It was foolish for him to think otherwise. It was simply a bit unnerving the way she managed every situation with such ease, such composure. Perhaps that was why the episode in the tunnel remained so vivid. “What happened back there?”
“We got away.” She pulled the scarf from her neck and laid it across the back of her chair.
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean in the tunnels. You seemed—”
An almost imperceptible tension rose in her shoulders to cut him off. “I seemed gone?” She turned back to him and stared into his eyes. “Is that what you were going to say?”
He waited before answering. “I … suppose. Yes.”
“No need to suppose. It’s a very good way to describe it.”
Xander could tell it was not a point to press. “Yes. It is.” His fingers began to play with the edge of his napkin. “I felt a little … gone there myself. I guess one never gets used to any of this. Whatever this is.”
“For now, this is the manuscript and the files. And three men in the States who are just getting started.” She saw her words register. “Isn’t that what you said differentiates this from Machiavelli—one city wasn’t enough?” The cappuccino arrived. Sarah waited until they were alone before continuing. “Whatever happened in those tunnels, whatever you might have felt in that office, you have to remember that those men and those files are the priority. The focus. I’m sorry if that frightens or upsets you, but there really isn’t any other alternative.”
He let the words sink in. “You’re right—I … shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s not about right or wrong. I appreciate your concern—I do—but neither of us has the time for it.” She waited, then smiled. “So, there are three versions. That’s helpful.”
“Yes … it is.” It took Xander a moment to gather his thoughts; he sipped at the piping hot coffee. “According to the files, he found the German one about three months ago in a small archive in Belgrade. The whole thing was misfiled and mistitled; no one had ever …”
His words faded to the background as she continued to stare at him. His concern had been so genuine. So gentle.
What had happened in the tunnel? It was too easy to explain it away as a flash of memory—the bulbs, the swaying body, the life she had not been able to save. The sacrifice.
“I can take General Safad’s men out now! End this here. If I don’t, we risk losing the girl.” Static filled the receiver as a message appeared on the computer screen.
DELAY. MAINTAIN POSITION.
Another delay! There was no reason. She could kill them all and end the threat. But delay … she’d never be able to get through. And she’d told her, promised Jessica she would be there, but now … What choice would she have? What choice could she make?
“… the interesting part is that, in its preface, it mentions that it’s the final version of the manuscript, and then makes reference to the two earlier copies. Ergo, three in total.” Xander stopped, noticing Sarah’s eyes on his. “Are … you okay?”
For a moment, she said nothing. “Yes.” She offered a smile. “Three copies.”
Still unsure, Xander returned the smile. “You know you said something back there … in the tunnel … a girl’s name. Jessica.”
The reference momentarily caught Sarah off guard. “Really?” She looked at Xander. “Jessica Conlon. The ambassador’s daughter.” Xander remained silent. “It was a long time ago.” For several seconds, neither said a word.
Finally, he nodded awkwardly. He knew it had been a mistake to mention the episode again. Still, she had seemed so lost. “Right…. Anyway, Carlo’s convinced that the Italian one is still somewhere out there. From the little I read, it sounds as if he’d recently started looking for it.”
She took a sip of her cappuccino. “Any luck?”
“I haven’t read enough to know. We have to assume that the Italian was the first because it would have been the one Eisenreich sent to Clement. And there would have been no way for it to have made a reference to any other versions because, at the time, there wouldn’t have been any other versions. The Latin—the one I’m assuming our favorite threesome have had for quite some time—must have been the second version and would have made references only to the first. It follows, then, that whoever found that translation believed for years that there were only two versions—the Latin and the Italian.”
“And now, because of the razored-out copy—the one in German—they’ll know there are three.”
“Right. The only difference is that I have Carlo’s notes. They don’t.”
“And you think the notes will lead you to the Italian version.” He nodded. “That raises the stakes considerably.”
It took him a moment to answer. “I guess that’s true.”
“Don’t guess.”
“All right … so what am I supposed to do now?”
“Exactly what you would have done if none of this had happened.” She pushed her cup to the side and leaned across the table, her hand cupping his as she spoke. “They won’t do anything to you. In fact, they’ll want you to find the manuscript.”
“And when I do, they’ll want to kill me. Even I can figure that out.”
“I’m not going to let that happen.”
Sarah stared at him, aware of how much she needed to believe her own words, how much more they meant than mere reassurance. In some strange way, Eisenreich was offering her a chance at redemption, a way to put Amman behind her. Perhaps more. Nothing expendable. Nothing sacrificed. But only by diving back in. She continued to stare at him. Was there really any other choice?
“For some reason,” Xander said, “I actually believe you.” Her hand felt very solid in his. “So I just get on a plane for London.”
“If that’s where Pescatore’s notes tell you to go.” London. That would complicate things. She needed to get back to the States, to the men of Eisenreich. Whatever Pritchard had set in motion, the game was now hers. Alone. COS had betrayed her once. Not again.
It was time for her to find out how unified Eisenreich really was, create a little chaos of her own. Do what she did best—rattle the foundation and make those men question their own commitment to one another.
But to let Xander go—even if she knew he had to go—she would have to find a way to keep him safe, to protect him. She squeezed his hand.
“Stay at the Lown
des. Knightsbridge.” She saw the question in his eyes. “Trust me.” She began to gather her scarf. “We should be going.”
He nodded and stood. “What about you?”
“Me?” She slipped the scarf over her shoulder and looked up at him, a smile. “Don’t worry about me.”
Before she could turn for the door, he reached out and pulled her close to him. It seemed to catch them both by surprise. So sudden, his arms cradling her back, her hands and head gently pressed to his chest. Only a moment. When he stepped back, his arms fell awkwardly to his sides.
“I, uh … sorry.” He tried to find his gloves in his pockets. “I guess it must be all the excitement. I … I just don’t think I’m going to have much of a choice—not worrying about you, I mean.”
Again their eyes locked. For a reason she could not explain, she wanted to reach out to him. Don’t do that, Xander Jaspers. Don’t take that kind of risk. But she knew it was too late. She could see it in his eyes. Sense it in her own.
What she couldn’t see was how much he would be willing to sacrifice, how much of himself.
And that, above all else, frightened her.
PART TWO
4
Hatred, if directed properly, is a powerful tool. … [It] makes the people docile and unimaginative.
—ON SUPREMACY, CHAPTER XV
SENATOR SCHENTEN WATCHED as the tea bag spun gently above his cup, drops of liquid splashing to the creamy brown surface below. He had never been one to tie the string around the helpless bag, strangling the leaves for what little tea remained. Nor was he terribly good with bare fingers on the boiling pouch, having always suffered from a certain sensitivity. No, he simply let it drip, his eyes caught in the endless twists, the rapid butterfly flutter that would reach near standstill before reversing on itself for the winding flight back. With each series, the bag seemed to gain added weight, the turning less and less animated, until, with a final release, the little sac swung limp and cold at the end of its string. Schenten tossed the lifeless bag into the wastebasket at the side of his desk and lifted the cup to his lips. The tea had already passed from unbearable to piping hot.
Outside, a near-perfect winter morning stung the Washington skyline, raw and fine. A brilliant sun cascaded in all directions, promising warmth but providing little more than hollow protection against the chill that rolled off the water. The open expanse seemed timeless, frozen in a postcardlike sterility under a thin blanket of distilled air. Schenten could almost feel the cold on his neck as he lifted the cup for another sip of the searing liquid. At that moment, he could concentrate only on its pulsating heat. For that single moment, his mind was free.
The freedom he enjoyed, though, was not the simple release from the grind of weekly demands. Over the last forty years, he had become inured to the patterns that defined his hours on the Hill. His affiliations, express or tacit, created a neat sort of web that demanded a highly structured approach to daily activity. And, if pressed to admit it, he enjoyed the regularity, the opportunities his breakfast meetings or midmorning conferences afforded him to preach more of the gospel, to confirm his place as the “iron-willed senator,” a reporter’s onetime reference to Bismarck that had caused not the least bit of resentment in the feisty politician.
Given his rather public persona, the German terrier (often misprinted terror) knew only too well what his constituents had come to expect. A bulldog approach to government that ensured a strict adherence to free-market economy and strong national security, all in the name of “progressive stability”—a phrase he himself had coined, unaware or unconcerned with its apparent inconsistency. An inconsistency that had brought Reagan to the fore and had launched a grassroots conservative thrust sustained for eight glorious years. Heady days indeed, when everything had come together with a sense of urgency, promise, only to be lost in the mismanagement of skeptics and incompetents. Those who did not understand, had never understood, who had faltered under the preposterous challenge for change. To be so close and to have it all dashed away infuriated the old man. Such fumbling had clearly called for new tactics, new approaches—strategies to bypass the usual channels. No, it was not the accustomed requirements of his official duties that transformed a simple cup of tea into so powerful an elixir. More was at stake.
“I have no appointments until eleven, is that right, Amanda?”
“A Mr. Davis from SEC at ten, lunch with Senator—”
“That’s fine, dear, thank you. See that I’m not disturbed until then.” He released the button, unconcerned with the reply from the outer office. He had given himself an hour to scan through the little book hidden within the safe behind his desk. It was all he could afford this morning.
He had shown little imagination when they had installed the safe nearly thirty years ago, directly behind his desk and covered by an oil painting of the Montana home that had become the focus of some rather intriguing meetings of late. Swinging his chair round, Schenten pulled the frame back and set to work on the lock. That he had replaced. Several times. No longer the spinning dial and click, click, click of a tumbler; now a digital input and voice command opened the safe. It was better that way, given what was inside.
He pushed aside various legal papers, some cash, and a small box before finding the little book. He paused for a moment, his eyes glued to the box, a happy but painful reminder of a time gone by. He often asked himself why he hadn’t destroyed them—a few letters, a young passion. An affair. He had kept them all, never rereading them. Margaret had never known. Or if she had, she had never let on. He knew it had been foolish to keep them. But even iron-willed old terrors had their weaknesses. Jean had been his.
Safe and painting back in place, Schenten settled into the leather chair and began to read. As always, he took notes. He would burn them before ten.
The reception at the Lowndes had been anything but warm. So unlike the Italians, thought Xander. So like the English. He had spent the better part of two years in London for his postgraduate work, always the perfect American—not one to assume the idiosyncrasies of his hosts, embarrassing both them and himself in the process. He recalled with a smile an old friend from high school who had spent a semester at one of those snottier public schools and who had returned to the States with the air of a royal, an affectation only slightly less ridiculous than his accompanying accent. Xander had vowed never to fall prey to any of that. Even so, a little something had rubbed off. At least enough not to raise any questions from a typically decorous concierge, a man who had been more than happy to print out two copies of Carlo’s files. Xander recalled the twenty minutes he had spent convincing Sarah that the first copy should be sent to Mrs. Huber in New York—a nod to academic superstition. Reluctantly, Sarah had agreed.
Now, after an early lunch, he found himself tightly packed within a thick clutch of bodies all bound for the Russell Square station. It was a familiar route, one he had taken almost every day during the years of unencumbered research. He had always referred to those months as such, that brief period free from the demands of a dissertation or the watchful eye of Lundsdorf. Free to choose his own course, to explore at will within the environs of a slightly crumbling academic setting. It was the only way he knew how to describe the Institute of Historical Research, a self-contained building tucked neatly into a large university complex at the edge of Russell Square, far enough from the British Library to keep the toughest rigors of academic life at arm’s length. Even within the cramped air of the tube, Xander couldn’t help but smile at the images of that past: the little alcove he had made his own on the third floor, the desk wedged into the single window overlooking a few barren trees and a silent walkway, the smell of ancient tomes hovering about him, his solitude disturbed only now and then by the shuffle of an equally ancient academic in search of a long-forgotten book. He could recall nothing but pleasure from those days. Nothing but the sheer joy of every morning, every evening, and the true contentment they had engendered.
But it had bee
n more than the work, more than the camaraderie, even more than the sense of purpose that now colored the memories with such fondness. As much as he tried, Xander couldn’t convince himself that all those distant comforts had been anything more than mere reflections, echoes of a deeper sense of peace that he had found with Fiona. At first so dangerously assertive, so much more enticing than coy, so slender-framed and fine-boned, she had made everything lovely and real. Lulled by the familiar beat of wheel on track, Xander began to slip back. Memories impossible to keep at bay. Impossible to deny. Why England? Why did the notes have to lead here? A faint wisp of lilac filled his breath, his eyes closing to the clawing tightness of a longing caught between self-pity and delight.
They had met at one of those parties, where everyone seems to know one another except for the strange American—always a novelty—who gets dragged along by a recent acquaintance who insists that everyone will simply love hearing about whatever he’s doing at the Institute, rapid-fire conversations with the young absentminded academic, cheese and wine, and men with ponytails, and on and on. And so he had gone, well aware that he wouldn’t fit in—everyone a bit too trendy—with “smashing” drinks and “beautiful” food and “darling” hors d’oeuvres. And he had found a domestic beer instead of wine and had been happy enough to play the wide-eyed American for the record executives and literary agents who swarmed about the party, ever eager to foist their opinions of “the grand old US of A” upon him.
And she had saved him. Thoroughly out of his element, unable to fend off the cutting probes, he had turned to her, a moment’s break from the jabs masquerading as questions. Against the backdrop of contrivance—the noise of young culture—she had appeared real, genuine, and somehow approachable.
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