“Now enter.”
Samantha watched as the original codes appeared again on the screen; it was as if nothing had been changed. “The routing is back,” she replied.
“Excellent,” said the voice. And with that, the line disengaged.
It was time to lend the story greater reality. “There isn’t a great deal to expect after endless months of recovery. You don’t simply ask to be reassigned. Not that I wanted a new station. To be honest, I didn’t know what I wanted.” Sarah let her eyes drift to Votapek, a hint of a smile on her lips. “There’s the cliché you’ve been looking for. Another? I was angry, confused—not, I’m told, unusual for someone in my situation. After everything we’d done, Hussein was as powerful as ever, and Jordan was a nightmare ready to explode. You can imagine how that might have made me feel. Everyone said it was natural to be angry, that I’d work through it. Their idea of work was rather vague. The man who approached me gave that work direction. How he knew to approach me, I don’t know—or why, for that matter. I’m no zealot, Mr. Votapek—and I don’t care to know who is—but things in that manuscript made sense.”
“You’ve seen the manuscript?” He could do little to hide his surprise.
“Bits and pieces. Enough to spark an interest. Remember, chaos is my expertise.” The reaction, though slight, was there, in his eyes, and Sarah saw it. “Not to mention that he knew a great deal about me.”
Votapek nodded, placed his glass on the table, and moved back to the wall.
“The first meetings were casual, harmless—”
“All right,” he said, turning to her, “let’s assume that you are who you say you are. You still haven’t told me what you were sent to do.”
“Confirmation.”
“Whatever that might mean.” He did little to mask his resentment. “So you did expect this meeting. You were planning on it.”
“In so many words, yes.”
He nodded, his eyes scanning the horizon. After nearly half a minute, he asked, “What exactly happened in New York and Florence?”
“The first, as I said, was some kind of warning. The second … is a bit more complicated.”
“Explain.”
She knew he would find out eventually. “Have you ever heard of a Professor Alexander Jaspers?” Votapek shook his head. “He was in Florence looking for the manuscript.”
“The manuscript was in Florence?”
“Not the original. The German translation. It’s been recovered.”
“The German?”
“I assumed you had that information.”
Ignoring the barb, he asked, “What happened to this … Jaspers?”
Facts coupled with instincts. Sarah spoke. “Two men arrived to make it very clear they didn’t want Jaspers to get near the manuscript.”
“I don’t see the problem.”
“I had been sent to monitor Jaspers, and I had no idea who they were.”
Votapek looked confused. “You’re telling me that these two—”
“Appeared out of nowhere. We have no idea who sent them.”
Votapek took a moment. “You’re sure this had to do with the manuscript?”
“No question. A day and a half later, a man named Bruno Feric contacted Jaspers, and the two of them disappeared.”
“And you say you have no idea who these two men were.”
“None whatsoever.”
Another pause. “This Feric—why is he of any concern?”
“Bruno Feric was a lieutenant in the East German Stasi—a highly skilled assassin with links to several political groups in Europe and the Middle East. After the Soviet collapse, he began to hire out his services.”
“You’re certain it was this Feric who contacted Jaspers?”
“I know the man.” Now she paused. “I was the one who got him out of East Germany in 1989.”
Votapek’s jaw again tightened. “The question remains—why should any of this concern me?”
“Clearly, someone is very eager to keep me from doing my job.”
“Your job, Ms. Trent, remains somewhat unclear.”
“Does it really, Mr. Votapek?”
The momentary look of puzzlement on his face quickly gave way to an icy stare. “You thought that someone was me?”
“It still might be.”
“Please, Ms. Trent. Are you implying that someone within—”
“I’m not implying anything.” She now paused for effect. “But it would seem that someone, or some group, is making up their own rules.”
“Explain.”
Sarah spoke deliberately, measuring each word. “The first trial. Maybe someone’s getting a little overanxious. Maybe someone wants to accelerate the process.” She let the words settle before adding, “Or maybe that’s been the idea from the start. It’s one of the things I was sent to find out.”
“One moment,” said Votapek, his eyes fixed, controlled. “You’re saying that someone, someone like Jonas or Laurence—”
“Your names, not mine.”
“Is attempting to move ahead of schedule?” He shook his head, the idea gaining clarity. “That’s impossible, given the need for coordination. Ludicrous. I know these men, Ms. Trent.”
“Twice, Mr. Votapek. Twice someone has tried to stop me. In New York and in Florence. So I must be getting in someone’s way. The fact that I’m here tells you that I’m not the only one concerned.” She waited. “Eisenreich wants to make sure we’re all on the same page.” Again, she paused. “That’s what I’m here to confirm.”
Votapek remained silent as he sat on the low wall. He stared out at the lapping water below. He then turned to her. “I know these men, Ms. Trent.”
Sarah could see him losing focus; she knew the conversation had run its course, the seeds planted, Votapek having taken the bait. “I hope you do.” She stood. “Which, as I see it, leaves very little else for us to discuss. I will, of course, pass on the information.”
He did not bother to answer. The gull flapped its wings in a flurry of motion, disappearing below the cliff almost instantaneously. “You will, of course, keep me apprised of your … analysis.”
His request caught her off guard. It was nothing less than an admission of concern, a hint of suspicion of his fellow players. “I don’t know if we’ll be in touch again.” Sarah smoothed out her skirt and reached for her bag. “This meeting is to be kept strictly private. No external confirmation.” She smiled. “That’s what I was told. He said you would understand.”
“Of course,” nodded Votapek. He stood. “My pilot will fly you back.” Sarah started toward the gravel path. “Ms. Trent,” Votapek interrupted; she stopped and turned. “You still remain something of a mystery.”
Sarah looked directly into his eyes. “As it should be, Mr. Votapek. As it should be.”
“My friend and I are taking a few days to visit some family, and then on to the south and the Zugspitze. Maybe some climbing.” Feric’s German showed no traces of the usual accent and instead lilted along with the thicker sing-song quality of Austrian Hochdeutch.
The official continued to examine their passports. “And you were in England for …”
“Business.” Feric continued to crane over the high desk in the assumed pose of a harmless, if anxious, traveler.
“Yes,” answered the guard, flipping through the weathered books, only once looking up to match pictures with faces, “and you return to Austria in …”
“A week. Ten days at the most.”
A few moments of well-practiced silence, a quick burst of mechanical stamping, and the two holidaymakers were on their way. Xander had been to Frankfurt only twice and had forgotten the impressive layout of the self-contained monolith. He continued to stare up at the vaulted dome as they headed down the central escalator. Car-rental booths lined the walls below, each staffed by a garishly togged attendant, the glaring yellows, blues, and reds of the international competitors vying for attention. Feric moved to one of the indistinguishable carr
els and placed his case on the counter.
“A car, please.” Feric’s German had now become stained with a northern Italian accent. Xander couldn’t help but stare at him, the stance, the head cocked to one side, even the easy posture of the hands a far cry from the nervous Austrian of only minutes before. He watched as Feric dug through his pockets for a half-crushed pack of cigarettes—from Milan. Xander had to smile at the precision, no less so at the simple gesture with which the little man brought the cigarette to his mouth, only to be reprimanded by the rental agent, a finger pointing to the large NO SMOKING sign on a nearby wall.
“Ah, sì.” A casual shrug, the cigarette remaining unlit between his fingers as he smiled up at Xander, pouring forth in impeccable Italian, “What can you do?” A knowing smile. “At least the Spanish let you have a good smoke while you wait for them to bang away at their computers.” He turned back to the agent, and again in labored German added, “We have now just been within Spain, and in there they have smoking allowed.”
The German continued to scan the screen. “This is not Spain, sir.” Feric nodded affably. “Your passports, please.”
Without a blink, Feric looked up at Xander and nodded for him to give the man the documents. Xander stood frozen until Feric, in a sign of apology, placed the cigarette in his mouth and fumbled in his jacket. A moment later, with a short laugh, he pulled two new passports from a pocket, handed them to the agent, and said, “No, me, I am having them.”
Xander continued to watch the performance; the agent, cool against the backdrop of Italian noise, typed away. Within a minute, he placed an envelope and a set of keys on the counter, Feric nodding and shrugging, penning indecipherable initials at all the appropriate marks.
“Sind wir fertig?” Feric’s extended roll of the r and the aspiration on the final g forced a pained smile from the agent.
“Yes, all is complete.”
Pulling his case to his side, Feric placed the documents in his pocket, nodded again to the agent, and said, “First, some food.” Then, hooking his arm under Xander’s, he led them off into the underground maze. Five minutes later, they were in front of an Italian restaurant, the sign above in deep red curves, the name lost to letters in the shape of the seven hills of Rome.
“I always make it a point to eat here if I have the time. Excellent manicotti. You will not find another like it outside Rome.” The old Feric had returned, the precision of the English the telltale sign, but somehow softened by a surprising remnant of the buoyant Italian alter ego. With jaunty step, he moved through the glass door and into the empty dining room. Forgoing three perfectly acceptable tables, he settled on a fourth along the near wall, dropping his bag to the floor as he sat. Xander joined him as the maître d’ placed the menus on the table before ambling back to his perch by the door. Ceiling-high mirrors lent the thin strip a well-contrived girth, the clever placement of lamps and candles adding to the illusion. Feric watched himself tear off a thousand pieces of bread.
“That was quite a performance.” Xander placed his elbows on the table, his back uncomfortable against the straight edge of the chair.
“You are too kind.” There was a hint of self-satisfaction in the way Feric gnawed away, betraying an unexpected delight in his own bravura. “A boisterous Italian. He sees far too many every week to remember us.”
“You enjoyed it nonetheless.”
“Naturally. That is why I can be so convincing.” A waiter arrived, took the order for two manicottis and a bottle of the house red, and vanished as quickly as he had appeared. “That expression on your face, Doctor, when I asked for the passports—now that I truly enjoyed.”
The waiter returned with a carafe, Feric maintaining his uncharacteristic playfulness, eyebrows raised in anticipation of an Italian wine served by a German restaurateur. Both he and Xander were pleasantly surprised by the rich flavor that washed down the stray pieces of bread.
“I’m impressed,” nodded Xander. “An excellent choice.”
“Yes. It is at that.”
“‘In the midst of the hunt,’” piped in the academic, “‘find a place to refuel—a good meal, some wine.’ Lesson—what are we up to?”
“If that is the way you want to see it, yes. All of that can be very useful.” Feric took a long sip of the wine. “However, at this particular time, it is much simpler than that. We have twenty-six minutes before we must leave, and I am hungry. They prepare the food here in record time.”
The precision in the answer was a bit much, even by Feric’s standards. “Twenty-six?” asked Xander. “What difference does it make?”
“The train to Göttingen leaves at seven twenty-seven, twenty-two minutes.” Good to its billing, the food arrived, Feric quick to sprinkle heaps of cheese on the already-hidden tubes of pasta; he stopped when he noticed Xander’s expression. “You did not think we were actually going to use the car, did you? It is the easiest thing to trace.” When Xander did not answer, Feric continued. “If they are not that clever, then we have merely wasted fifteen minutes. On the other hand, if they are better at this than you think, they will eventually discover who rented the little Fiat. They found you at the library in London; why should they not be as successful here?” Feric dared a large forkfull of the manicotti. He continued, teeth splattered with marinara sauce. “Which brings up a question that has been troubling me since this afternoon.” He wiped the sauce from his chin. “How did they know where you were going?”
The question caught Xander off guard. How Eisenreich had found him in London seemed slightly less important than the fact that they had found him. And the manuscript. “I have no idea. I assumed—”
“There are only two possibilities. Either Eisenreich has vast resources with which to trace a man—highly unlikely, given their obvious inability to keep track of you—or”—he reached for his glass—“you have not been as careful as you might think.” He looked up to measure Xander’s reaction.
The young scholar sat motionless, pasta frozen between plate and mouth. Not sure whether he had just been accused of stupidity or something worse, Xander momentarily was at a loss for words.
Feric saw no reason to press the point. “I do not think you have been aware of how it might have happened, but you might do well to consider the days since Florence. Perhaps Milan.”
“Milan?” Images from the last week raced through his mind. “I didn’t know about London until I’d read Carlo’s notes. And I didn’t get those until Florence. Nothing about the Danzhoeffer Collection—”
“Fine,” Feric interrupted, seeing the mounting concern on his companion’s face, “then you can dismiss Milan.”
“And until I met you, I was flying under my own passport. It’s not that difficult to trace someone.”
“Granted. But why did they appear at the library? Certainly that was not in your passport. Why not the British Museum, or Cambridge, or any number of other places? Why London, and why that library?”
“Well … it wouldn’t be that difficult to find out that I’d done most of my work at the Institute four years ago.”
“Where is the logic in that?” Feric shook his head and again embarked on a slab of pasta. “Pure coincidence. Working at the library four years ago has no relation to the manuscript being there now.”
“Couldn’t they have had someone waiting at the Institute?”
“For what purpose? And even so, you yourself said the bald man looked utterly surprised to run into you. Am I mistaken?”
Xander had to think. “He did seem … shocked. Then again, I could be wrong. I was running from you; I’d just found the manuscript—”
“All of that is true. Does it change your impression of the man?”
Xander slowly shook his head. “No. He was genuinely surprised.”
“Exactly. And from the description Ms. Trent gave me, I spotted him before your encounter. It seems quite clear that he was there for the manuscript, not for you.” Feric nodded and ripped off a piece of bread. “No. There
must be something else—or someone else who knew where the manuscript would be. Someone who had access to Pescatore’s notes and who could send our bald friend to London, regardless of your presence there—past or present.”
“Someone else?” The words made no sense. “There were only two people who knew what those notes said—myself and Sarah.”
“And”—Feric paused, his eyes fixed on Xander’s—“the person to whom you sent the copy in New York.”
A sudden tightness crept up through his neck. “That’s different,” he answered, recalling how long it had taken him to convince Sarah to let him send the notes to Mrs. Huber. “The copy went to New York the day I left for London. There’s no way it could have reached there the next day. Even if it had, I can assure you that the person on the other end is completely trustworthy.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes,” an edge to his tone. “No question.”
“Let me determine whether—”
“I said no.”
A set of eyes Feric had not seen before peered at him from across the table, no warmth, no self-doubt, none of the trappings he had come to expect from the scholar. Only conviction, perhaps a tinge of anger. He had to admit his new companion was showing real promise.
“I ask only because it is a possibility.”
“I answer because I know it isn’t.”
Feric nodded, pleased with the response. “Good.” He took a sip of wine. “That leaves only one possibility. Pescatore.”
“What?” The suggestion was ludicrous. “Carlo?”
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