The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  Almost of its own will, the manuscript moved on to the next page, the title straightforward, the name in large bold print, the year 1531 below it, and, for some strange reason, the letters v.i. in the lower-right-hand corner. It took Xander a moment to tear himself from the joy of discovery and try to decode the odd inscription: v.i. Undaunted, he thumbed through to the next page and found the table of contents, an ordered outline in twenty chapters. Machiavelli had needed twenty-six. How like the Swiss, he thought, to pick a nice round number. But no explanation. v.i. It continued to nag at him as he fingered through the pages, more so as he neared the middle of the book and had reached only chapter five. A distinct sense of unease began to displace the rush of only moments ago. v.i. Volume one? Three pages from the end, his fears were confirmed. Chapter IX—The Roads to Chaos. Then nothing. Xander immediately looked back in the case. No luck. Two volumes—why? The answer dawned on him as he eyed the little book. Clement. The Italian version, the one for the Pope, had been the first version. Eisenreich had been clever to send only an excerpt, one that included only the first nine chapters. The other eleven, volume two. A safety precaution. So where were they?

  Xander slumped back against the wall, his mind racing to find an answer. It made no sense. Why would the library have only the first volume? And why were the crucial chapters missing? Up through nine, the headings were daring but not earth-shattering. Xander glanced back at the contents page: III. How to Achieve Stability; VI. Those Components Which Make Up a State; VIII. How a State May Be Made Ready for True Supremacy. Eisenreich would have his own personal prescriptions, but the titles themselves were only slightly brazen. Ten through twenty, on the other hand, were extraordinary: X. The Road to Political Chaos; XI. The Road to Economic Chaos; XII. The Road to Social Chaos; and most extraordinary, XV. Why It Is Important to Cultivate Hatred. The shift at chapter ten was clear. Eisenreich had kept the best for last.

  And yet nowhere in Carlo’s notes had there been any mention of two separate volumes. Hope was telling Xander that the two had found each other at some point in the sixteenth century. So why the separation now? He closed his eyes and began to rock. Think, damn it. Two minutes into the strange ritual, his eyes suddenly bolted open. From his pocket, he fished out the now-crumpled listing he had ripped from the printer downstairs. The asterisks. Quickly, he began to rummage through the filing cases, glancing every so often at the list so as to find another name. Fifteen minutes later, he had his answer. None of the ten marked titles was in any of the cases. Which meant that someone at the information desk would know why those volumes were missing. And that someone would be able to tell him where to find volume two of the Eisenreich manuscript.

  Only then did Xander notice the figure standing at the end of the row, face and body obscured in dim light. Xander froze, his hand tightening around the manuscript. For what seemed an eternity, the two men stared at each other, neither moving. His knees seemed to lock in their crouching position as he gazed up at the man with slicked-back hair. Slicked-back hair? Xander’s memory flashed on an image of the small figure, the thin, sunken smile, the hard stare of lifeless eyes. The alcove. My alcove.

  With a sense of raw panic, Xander grabbed his briefcase and thrust it full force into the shadows. The movement took but an instant, but, to Xander’s eyes, the slow-motion heaving and thrashing lent the chaos a certain clarity, a precision he had never before experienced. He could see everything, feel it all as the case drove up into the man’s midsection. Xander pushed his way out into the long alley, his feet slipping along the waxed tile. He careened against several of the shelves, desperate to find his footing. No sounds from behind, no scream of surprise, no patter of feet in quick pursuit as he propelled himself toward the bright light at the stairs.

  Time began to accelerate again as he reached the stairwell, his body now in control, turning, eager to fly down the steps.

  Instead, he lurched to a stop. There, stepping up to the landing, came another familiar profile. Completely bald, large shoulders—the man from Florence. A quick intake of breath was all Xander needed to draw the man’s attention, the glance immediate, the reaction, however, completely unexpected. The man stared blankly—no recognition, no anticipated discovery. In that instant of stunned disbelief, Xander leapt to his right, racing up the steps toward the fifth floor.

  A delayed clatter of feet behind him filled the air as he reached the next landing. Knowing he had only the sixth and seventh above him, Xander spun away from the stairs and began to move down another darkened corridor. Away from the light! Get away from the light! Ducking down the nearest alley, he stumbled his way deeper into the maze of shelves, trying to remember the layout of the floors; but his mind was a blank, straining to hear any sounds of his distant stalkers. A minute later, the shelves took a sharp turn to the right, forcing him to scrape along various books, one or two crashing to the floor as he whisked by. The first sounds of emphatic pursuit rang in his ears. Finding the central corridor again, he darted across and into another web of shelved alleys, the light growing fainter and fainter as he ran farther into the pitch-black of the labyrinth. With each step, his sense of direction grew more and more remote, until the stairs were but a distant memory, an unknown port lost within an uncharted sea of metal and books.

  And then, with his heart racing, his breath searing to escape, he stopped. He had to take stock, regain control. He was deep within the morass of paths, somehow secure under the blanket of books above him. A fleeting sense of calm swept over him, enough to grant a moment’s lucidness. He crouched and concentrated all of his energy on the faint sound of darting feet coming from his left. It was not a single, even beat, but the synchopated rhythm of two sets—pat-a-pa-tat, pat-a-pa-tat—jostling their way from shelf to shelf, drawing ever nearer to the tiny segment of floor Xander had staked as his own. Relentlessly, the pattern rose, its echo stronger as the seconds flew by. He snapped his head over his shoulder as if expecting to find eyes peering at him, through him. But only the staccato menace of feet, the deafening whisp of panting breath, nearer and nearer.

  And suddenly silence. An eerie quiet descended all about him, soundless and cold, propelling a surge of nervous energy within, the books no longer a barrier against what he could not hear, could not see. Oppressive silence. He sat like a cornered animal, waiting for the thrust of claws deep within his flesh, the stealthy gouging he could almost feel, prostrate and alone on the icy floor. Again, he spun his head round, certain that eyes were upon him, only to discover the black outline of shelf, the near-distant fade to nothingness that seemed to isolate him all the more. The silence began to suffocate, its emptiness draining, leaving only hopeless terror in its wake. He wanted desperately to find himself, to break out of the torment his assailants had so masterfully contrived, but his will was giving in, his hands able only to clasp the pages to his chest. He began to rock back and forth, slipping more and more into a numbing stillness.

  A momentary shift in the shadow above broke the trance. Xander peered up into the lifeless eyes.

  “You have the manuscript, Dr. Jaspers?” the voice whispered.

  Xander could only stare at the man.

  5

  The demands of each realm are so severe that, for those who lead, there is no time to attend to anything but their own tasks.

  —ON SUPREMACY, CHAPTER VI

  AGAIN, THE MAN PROBED. “You have the manuscript, Dr. Jaspers?”

  Xander’s eyes fixed on the face above, a narrow oval atop a thin neck. Had he been standing, Xander would have towered over the slouching figure. But he was trapped, knees drawn tight to his chest, a child caught, certain of unspeakable punishment. There was, of course, the alley of shelves behind him, the long expanse of shadow with its promise of escape, but what was the use? No doubt, the bald giant stood somewhere in the dark recesses, happy to let his more diminutive counterpart take the first crack at interrogation. The man seemed content to let his prey make the first move. Xander could offer little mor
e than a nod to the man’s question.

  “Good.” Again, the cold precision of the northern European accent.

  Xander slowly raised the small leather book toward his captor, the weight of the tiny volume somehow too much for him.

  “Oh, no, you hold on to it, Doctor. I would not know what to do with it.”

  Xander’s hand stopped in midair. “What?” he whispered, more reflex than response. The little calm he had managed now gave way under the impact of the words, his mind racing to find a rationale, anger replacing fear as one image began to crystallize. Of course. They were playing with him, biding their time so that the assassin could hand-deliver his prize to Votapek, or Tieg, or whoever else had concocted this nightmare. And yet, there was something strangely serene, nonthreatening in the man’s candor. Keep it? Where was the sense in that?

  “There is no need for alarm, Dr. Jaspers.”

  “No need for—”

  “Ms. Trent sent me.”

  “You’ve got—” The name ripped through him, his mind overwhelmed by words he could not comprehend. “Ms. Trent?” A momentary flash of coherence. “Sarah? Sarah sent you—”

  “Yes. I am Feric. Ms. Trent asked me to … watch over you.”

  Xander locked eyes with the man, the calm, icy demeanor somehow unreal, impenetrable. “Watch over me?” he echoed. It took a minute for the words to sink in. And with the first hints of understanding, the shock gave way to a mounting sense of resentment, the realization that he was being coddled. “What the hell does that mean?” Xander hoisted himself up, Feric mindful not to interfere, no hand extended. He had been told such gestures would only exacerbate the young professor.

  “It means—”

  “And that was you back at the Institute.” Pictures began to fall into place. “All that browsing through the books. ‘Wrong room.’ Why didn’t you say something?” He had regained enough composure to keep his questions to a loud whisper, his hands busy brushing off his pants. Suddenly, his head snapped toward Feric. “The other man. The bald—”

  “As I said, no need for alarm. He has been taken care of.”

  “‘Taken care’—what is it with you people?”

  “There was no reason—”

  “Look, I’m grateful—I think. But … Feric? She never mentioned—”

  “She would not have done that. I can explain all of this later.” Words chosen to pacify now gave way to orders. “You have everything you need?”

  Another calm voice to penetrate his confusion. So much like Sarah’s, and in that, Xander recognized he was once again caught up in their game, playing by their rules. Such questions were meaningless, answers an indulgence. Concern … neither of us has the time for it. Sarah’s words from the café. It took him a moment to respond. “No. I need to speak with a librarian.”

  For the first time, doubt crossed Feric’s face. “Fine. I will leave first. You will follow. There is a pub, the Wayward Lamb, no more than—”

  “I know where it is. I’ll need half an hour.”

  Twenty minutes later, they were well into their first pint of beer. “The library sent out a total of ten documents for restoration,” said Xander, seated across from Feric two-thirds the way down a cushioned bench that stretched the length of the side wall. The Lamb had that homey feel rarely found in London pubs, one of the few to have escaped the onslaught of Anglified American bars and French bistros. Deeply grained oak walls, heavy under a dull shine, stood firm but easy on all sides, cluttered by endless drawings of horses with jockeys, each enclosed in its own slightly decrepit gilt frame. The world moved more slowly here, a hospitality extended to those willing to give in to the easy pace of the surroundings.

  “To Germany?” asked Feric, the waitress arriving with cheese and a basket of bread. He reached out and pulled off a healthy chunk.

  “Yes,” Xander responded, his eyes on the man directly across from him. Up to this point, he had accepted his new friend at face value. Now …

  “You are hesitant.” Feric nodded.

  Xander watched as the man’s strong fingers ripped mercilessly into the bread, the hunched figure sniffing at his food before popping a small piece of fondled dough into his mouth. There was something animal-like about him, the sharp nose, high forehead only accentuating the cheekbones that gnawed away in rapid, tight bursts. Disconcerting as the appearance might be, Xander had to admit that this little man gave off an aura of self-control, a quiet confidence. Straightforward, with no hint of pretension. “What do you expect?” he answered. “I don’t know who you are, and you don’t seem that eager to fill me in. All you tell me is that Sarah sent—”

  “Monica,” Feric said, continuing to chew, his eyes on the bread.

  “What?”

  “Monica.” Feric looked up and placed the bread on the table, picking at his back teeth as he continued. “Ms. Trent suggested I mention it.”

  Ms. Trent suggested … The word suddenly registered. Of course. Monica. Carlo’s office. Only Sarah would have known. Only she would have picked so perfect a signal to put him at ease.

  “I see she was right.” Feric removed a large wad of chewed bread, examined it, replaced it, and swallowed. “This book—this second part—it is in Germany?” he repeated.

  It took Xander a moment to respond. “Yes. We’ve just been unlucky.” Somewhat more at ease, he continued. “The good news is that they’re obviously unimpressed with the manuscript. Keeping one volume and sending out the other—they clearly have no idea what they’ve got. According to the woman at the desk, library policy is to split up multivolumes so that—”

  “Only what I need to know, Doctor.”

  Xander stopped, nodded. “Problem is, they won’t get the last eleven chapters back for another month.”

  “And that is too long to wait.”

  “If Washington and Chicago are any indication, yes. I’d say that would be too long to wait.”

  “And you know of this place in Germany?”

  “It’s a small town called Wolfenbüttel, about half an hour from the old East German line.”

  “Why there?”

  “It’s got one of the great libraries of Europe. It’s also famous for an absolutely first-rate book collector and restorer, Emil Ganz. He’s about a hundred and—” Xander cut himself off. Trivial details.

  “You are familiar with this place, then?”

  “I’ve spent some time there. A conference about six years ago. It’s not the sort of place to have changed. My guess is that the book is already there.”

  “I see. We should fly tonight, then.”

  Xander paused, then nodded. “Right. I … could probably use a few hours to read through it … maybe find something helpful for Sarah.”

  Feric understood. It was all moving a bit too fast for the academic. “That is true.” He nodded. “All right. A few hours.”

  “And you know how to reach her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Xander was hoping for a little more, even if he knew it was in his own best interest to be kept in the dark. “I’ve been answering all the questions, haven’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’ll learn how not to do that.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Xander took a sip of his beer and began to gather his things. “Then I should probably get back to the library.”

  “For what purpose?” This time, the question was not for clarity’s sake.

  “The manuscript? Remember? I need to spend time—”

  “You did not take it with you?”

  “Of course not,” answered Xander. “You can’t simply walk out of a library with—”

  “You—” Feric’s tone remained controlled, only his eyes showing utter disbelief. “Dr. Jaspers, I do not think you quite understand what this is all about. That bald man would have been happy to do a great many things one is not supposed to do in a library in order to get that little book.”

  “I put it in a safe place.”

 
; “I am sure that is what your friend Pescatore thought, as well.” The words had the desired effect. “Now, so there is no more confusion, you and I are going to return to the library and take the book with us. You will then have your few hours with it, after which time I will get in touch with Ms. Trent; we will then find our way to Wolfenbüttel, find the second part of the manuscript, and remove it to a safe place. Have I made everything clear?”

  The first lesson. Xander nodded. “Perfectly.”

  Feric rose, leaving a few coins on the table. “Beer is always overpriced in this country.” Xander had no choice but to follow.

  Pockets of grass and fence slipped by, the New York countryside blurring against the backdrop of a saffron sky. The limousine shot along, maneuvering the two-lane road with surprising ease, only once or twice encroaching the thin line in its quest for greater speed. The driver seemed unconcerned with his three silent passengers, each content to stare aimlessly at the vanishing horizon, to play their assigned roles with quiet resolve.

  Sarah’s was simply to wait. She knew there was little she could learn from the two men with her. They were nothing more than envoys, men sent to retrieve, unaware and uninterested in the deeper significance of their quarry. There was no reason to upset the stilted calm with unnecessary chatter. She would take the time to plan. A bit more information from Jaspers would have been nice, but she would have to make do with what she had.

  The thought of him brought a smile to her face. It had been difficult to let him go to London by himself. Choices. Always choices. And even though she knew Feric would be there to protect him, she couldn’t forget the concern in his eyes as they had left the café. And the embrace. A surprise to be sure, yet one more inviting than perhaps she was willing to admit.