Feric removed an envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table. “There are four people who have had access to the notes. Your friend in New York, who, as you say, would not have received them in time to orchestrate the run-in at the Institute. You and Ms. Trent, who are clearly not at issue. Which leaves only Pescatore.”
“That’s impossible. Carlo’s …”
Feric slid the envelope across to Xander. “I found that on our bald friend at the Institute. Evidently, the professor was not as reticent as you think. It’s a note that details the location of the Danzhoeffer Collection. No doubt you recognize the writing, the signature.”
Xander stared at the scrawl. Pescatore. He couldn’t take his eyes from the page; it was clearly Carlo’s hand.
“One wonders,” added Feric, “if Signore Pescatore is as familiar with the whereabouts of your friend Ganz?”
NEW ORLEANS, MARCH 4, 3:31 P.M. His legs burned; his arms tore at his shoulders. Several times in the past four hours, he had let himself sink, his body drift into the current for as long as his lungs would allow—moments of release—before propelling himself up to the pier. Only once had he let himself go too far, the sudden realization of consciousness ebbing, the frantic struggle to find the surface again. In all the jostling, he had nearly knocked the radio detonator from his belt. Failing to plant four of the explosives had been bad enough. Losing the detonator would have been unthinkable.
He had been ready to go half an hour ago. The arrival of a small tanker and its subsequent unloading, however, had made escape impossible. Now, as the sound of the last trucks faded to a distant part of the wharf, the soldier of Eisenreich slowly drifted out from his lair. He clung to the edge of the pier and made his way out into the Mississippi. Reaching the end of the cement wall, he dove deep, using his flippers to send him farther and farther from the light overhead. A minute later, he emerged to the surface, a good hundred yards from the pier.
The swell was overwhelming. He floated for perhaps half a minute, trying to find the strength to dive again, when he heard the sound of an engine no more than twenty yards from his head. A routine Coast Guard patrol. Fate was not being kind.
He dove, his legs and arms thrashing through the current, the pier his only chance once again. But his strength had left him, limbs cramping at the sudden exertion. He felt himself drift to the surface, the sunlight slicing across his face seconds later.
He knew what they would expect to pull from the water—a frightened, grateful survivor. The scuba suit and detonator, however, would quickly alter that picture. And raise questions—questions he could not afford to answer.
There must always be a place for sacrifice.
The words ran through his head as he slowly let himself sink. Pulling the detonator from his belt, he entered the code.
He felt nothing as the water around him erupted in flame.
A smattering of stars winked through the cloud cover, intermittent flashes of light speckling the rutted lane of German countryside. Sounds of late-night drinking spilled onto the street as Xander and Feric plodded on. Just ahead of them, the Schlossplatz, Wolfenbüttel’s onetime home to Saxon nobility, edged its way through the mist, dwarfing the no less impressive Zeughaus, a three-story block of stone and wood that cast an ominous shadow and seemed ill-suited as home to one of the great libraries of Europe. Its counterpart, the more elegant Herzog-August-Bibliothek, stood across a short cobbled lane and offered a far more majestic profile. But it was in the Zeughaus, Xander recalled, that the real books were to be found and where he had spent much of that summer six years ago.
It was there, in the Lesungzimmer—the rare-books room on the third floor—that he had first met Ganz, a tall, scaly man with barely enough skin to cover his endless arms and legs. Xander had never forgotten that first glance, a pair of ice blue eyes peering over his shoulder as he had flipped through a manuscript, the smile that had crept across the older man’s face as he had lured Xander to the small cantina on the lower floor, all the while describing his colleague—long dead—who had been the last to restore the book now again in need of repair. Xander had listened for hours, several cups of strong coffee in hand, as Ganz had relived in painstaking detail some of the more extraordinary finds of his long career. The exhilaration that had reverberated in the man’s voice had reminded Xander of someone he knew only too well. It had been a perfect match from the start.
After that, the two had continued to meet, mostly in the evenings, for no other reason than to add a necessary splash to their rather patterned lives, beer or pastry, and once, on a whim, for a long weekend in Berlin—Ganz’s first since the war. Like many, he had stayed away, unwilling to tarnish his childhood image. A week of incessant prodding from Xander, and a reminder that the city was once again whole, had finally broken Ganz’s resolve. Three glorious days in Berlin. The gift of an early German edition of Machiavelli’s Prince had been his way of saying thanks.
Back in Wolfenbüttel, the two had continued their friendship, only once, Xander recalled, ever straying from the topic of books. On occasion, Xander would invite Ganz to his room at Pension Heinrich Tübing, where the proprietor would manage to provide a king’s feast for his esteemed guests. “Two such men of learning,” Tübing would say. “It is an honor to be of service.”
And now, years later, Herr Tübing was proving himself the consummate hotelier again. His recognition of Xander’s voice—even given the dreadful phone connection from Göttingen—placed the innkeeper in a class by himself. No, there would be no trouble at all setting up Herr Doktor Professor’s room. And his guest, as well? No difficulty at all. The man’s enthusiasm had been hard to miss. Would he be staying for an extended period? A few shouts back and forth to Frau Tübing (a woman Xander had never actually seen during that initial three-month stay), and all was put in order.
Now, bags in hand, they made their way alongside a lovely covered bridge, past a darkened row of shops. Turning right, they entered Jürgenstrasse, home to the Pension Heinrich Tübing—two floors, with perhaps ten rooms for guests upstairs, breakfast area and sitting room downstairs—all shrouded in darkness. Xander checked his watch. Ten to eleven, late by Wolfenbüttel standards, but Herr Tübing had insisted that he would be up to welcome his guests. And, good to his word, a light from above flicked on before Xander could knock, the front door pulled back a moment later, revealing the upright figure of Herr Tübing. He was in bathrobe and slippers, his eyes trying to adjust to the light.
“We’ve kept you up,” apologized Xander. “We had no idea the train would take so long.”
The older man shook his head once rapidly. “Pah, these trains are always the same. Viertel vor elf. Prompt. I keep the lights off for the electricity. Please.” He indicated for his guests to enter the foyer. “I have given you your previous room. There was a young woman from Bremen staying. She has been kind enough to move.”
“There was no need—”
“For the Doktor Professor, there is always need. She is merely a Privatdozent.” He flicked on the hall lamp.
Xander smiled and followed his host up the narrow staircase, Feric directly behind. He had forgotten how strictly the Germans regarded the distinctions within the academic hierarchy. Doktor Professor, the grandest of the grand, and she merely a Privatdozent. For all Xander knew, the woman was fifty, far more distinguished than he, and had probably insisted on the move herself. It was a culture he would never fully understand. Turning left at the top of the stairs, the three moved along to the corner room; Herr Tübing unlocked the door and handed Xander the key. He then reached into his pocket for the spare for Feric, pausing before transferring the key.
“Ah,” Xander quickly said, “this is—”
“Signor Caprini.” Feric smiled the smile from the car-rental counter, his head in a gentle nod, cocked slightly to the right as he extended his hand. Again, the strained German stunted from his mouth. “I am assisting Doktor Jaspers in investigations for your magnificent libraries. I hop
e it is no convenience.” He paused. “Ah, Entschuldigung. Inconvenience.”
The German bowed his head and placed the key in Feric’s hand. “There is never inconvenience where the Doktor Professor is concerned. I trust the room will be satisfactory.”
“Belissima,” answered Feric, and moved through the door. He returned a moment later to carry Xander’s bag through. Tübing bowed again, announced breakfast—“Halb-sieben prompt”—and turned toward his own bedroom, his back straight as an arrow as he disappeared around the corner. Xander smiled and stepped through, closing the door behind him.
The room was exactly as he remembered it. The same blue towels, the same thick white comforter and pillows on each bed, even the same brand of soap in the tiny dish at the basin. Xander recalled having placed the small desk by the window all those years ago—he preferred natural light—returning it to its original location before vacating the room. To his surprise, the desk was again by the window, another nod to Tübing’s precision. Meanwhile, Feric had perched himself by the sill and was peering through a gap in the curtain at a small yard, a few shrubs, the beginning of a wood. The orb of a streetlamp glared down on the graveled dead-end street, where two cars sat quietly for the night. Feric let the curtain fall back, its thin material no match for the light outside.
“If I remember,” said Xander, “the light goes out just after three.”
Feric nodded and placed his bag on one of the two beds. Save for the short exchange with Tübing, he had been virtually silent since the changeover in Göttingen, his look far more concentrated than Xander could recall. He had felt compelled to make a few comments about German railway inefficiency, but had offered little more in the way of explanation for some of his directives: that Xander make the reservation at the pension, that he offer up the exact time of their arrival, that he mention the “colleague” who would be accompanying him, and that he not ask Herr Tübing if there had been any recent inquiries concerning the young Doktor Professor. If the men of Eisenreich had found their way to Wolfenbüttel—a possibility that seemed less and less remote—their first stop would no doubt have been his old haunt, number twelve Jürgenstrasse. Or perhaps their second stop. Ganz lived a five-minute walk from the central market. They could easily have rummaged through Ganz’s material, found the manuscript, and simply been waiting at the station to dispense with a few more “loose ends.” The fact that Feric and he had arrived without incident had eased Xander’s mind only slightly.
Settling onto his bed, Xander watched the operative remove a pair of dark trousers, a sweater, and a black cap from his bag. Xander adjusted his pillow. “I have to admit, I’m somewhat relieved, given the way we rolled into town.”
“Do not be,” Feric answered. “Eisenreich would not have done anything to this point for the very reason that we did make our arrival clear to anyone who might be interested.” He placed his shoes neatly by the bedpost. “They are the unknown quantity here, not you. They must be cautious.” He pulled a second pair of pants, a turtleneck, and another cap from his bag and tossed them across to Xander. “Put those on.” Feric stood and placed the wallet and passports in his pockets. Then, sitting down at the desk, he pulled a piece of stationery from the wooden drawer and began to write.
“What are you doing?” Xander was following orders, his shirt off, his fingers busy with his shoelaces.
“A note for Herr Tübing. Your apologies at being unable to stay. Sudden emergency. We will rest for a few hours, then go. Should something happen later tonight, the word emergency will have the proper effect, more so if the note is in my handwriting as your assistant. I will leave a hundred marks.”
“That’s twice what the room costs.”
“You are a generous man, Herr Doktor Professor.”
Sarah had the pilot fly her to Tempsten, Alison now too valuable to leave in the open; after all, she could tie the men of Eisenreich together, whether she realized it or not. And, of course, Votapek would want answers about the tape. Sarah knew she had to move quickly. To that end, she found Alison a place to stay and stocked it with food for a week. She also gave her a gun—a precaution. Alison took it without a word.
Staring at the weapon in Alison’s hand, Sarah felt strangely detached, aware that she had lived the very same moment before, once again no choice but to follow through. “You will come back.” “Yes.” “You will come for me.” “Yes.” Alison had to be kept from Tieg and Sedgewick; Sarah had to confront them, undermine their resolve as she had undermined Votapek’s. Find a way to the heart of Eisenreich and destroy it. She knew it was the only way to keep Alison safe.
The only way to save Xander.
Now, six hours later, Sarah was in San Francisco’s Ghirardelli Square, her thoughts, though, six thousand miles away. She phoned into the relay point for Feric’s message. They were in Germany, with only part of the manuscript. He did not elaborate. More encouraging, though, was his synopsis of the part they had found. It confirmed everything she had put together on her own—the isolation, the taboo on contact. And the fourth man. But it was his final words that brought the smile to her face.
“The Doctor is doing well. I am actually growing quite fond of him.”
An uncharacteristic admission, but one she understood only too well.
As she replaced the receiver and stepped out into the flow of bodies, Sarah became acutely aware of the man following her. Her first thought was Justice, but he didn’t fit the profile.
Needing an answer, she began to drift into the crowds, slowing so as to pull in her prey. The sound of his steps drew closer, almost on her, until, with a lunge, Sarah bent over, an instant later her torso colliding with his, legs and arms lost in a wild jumble. Before he could respond, her hand was buried in the small of his back, her grip viselike around the base of his spine. He winced as she prodded him to keep walking.
“You seem to have taken an interest in me,” she said quietly. “Not a very subtle one, I might add.”
“It wasn’t meant to be subtle,” he answered, his gait more clipped as she dug her fingers deeper into his flesh. “I’m with the Committee.”
Five minutes later, they sat in a coffee bar, two cups of caffè latte on the table.
“Would the Committee man have a name?” she asked.
“Stein. Bob Stein.” He smiled uncomfortably, his thick fingers around the tiny spoon. “I wasn’t quite sure how to approach you.”
“Well, here we are.”
“Yes.” He removed the spoon from the cup, licked at the foam, and cleared his throat. “I’m with the Committee—”
“You’ve said that.”
“Yes. Well, it has to do with your … investigation.”
“Take your time, Bob.”
“I’ve brought some files with me.”
Sarah stared at him as he sipped his coffee. “That isn’t Committee policy.” Stein didn’t answer. “Then why did Pritchard send you? A sudden pang of conscience?”
“No one at COS knows I’m here.”
Sarah watched as he stared into his cup. “That’s rather bold, isn’t it, Bob? A bit outside the parameters of acceptable behavior.”
He looked up, his unease momentarily forgotten. “It’s a bit outside the parameters of acceptable behavior to send out retired operatives. But we’ve moved way beyond that, haven’t we?”
Sarah smiled. “Yes, we have.”
“Look,” Stein continued, his voice now a whisper, “we lost both of you in Florence. I won’t ask you where the good doctor is, because that’s not why I’m here. You appear a day later on your own passport, which I took to be an invitation: Here I am; come find me. If it wasn’t, tell me and I’ll be happy to fly back to my desk, forget about all of this, and hope I haven’t made some sort of horrible mistake. Otherwise, I think I’m here to offer help.”
Sarah had not lost her smile. “Well then, I guess I should be willing to take it, shouldn’t I, Bob?”
A deep black sky had turned to slate when the two em
erged onto Jürgenstrasse. They had been careful on the stairs, more so with the front door, and were now maintaining the same posture on the lane leading toward the center of town. A stoic traffic light guarded the only large intersection, its amber beam flashing at a road that drove on for countless empty miles. The stillness of the night, ideal for their purposes, only compounded Xander’s concern. They were alone, scampering through a town locked deep in sleep. Xander held his shoulder bag tightly against his side, the premium on quiet in strict contrast to the easy gait of their first hike to Pension Heinrich Tübing. Beads of sweat began to formunder Xander’s turtleneck as Feric quickened the pace.
Passing the palace and libraries, the two arrived at the market center—as in most German towns, a pedestrian area walled in by shops and stores, too many of them overwrought boxes of cement and glass staring menacingly down at the roofs of the older timber buildings. Xander led the way along the wide cobblestone court, a few arteries crisscrossing the main thoroughfare in an endless maze of small-town life. Only the sound of rubber-soled shoes landing in contrapuntal pit-a-pat broke through the heavy silence. At the end of the promenade, the sustained green of a traffic light cast a welcome glow on the street. Ganz’s house, another twenty yards beyond, lay in deep shadow.
Xander stopped and nodded toward the small two-story home. From where they stood, the two men could make out the vague outlines of bushes dotting the lawn. As they drew closer, more of the house came into detail, including the sudden appearance of a car—from the profile, an ancient Saab—a monster with a hunched back, standing guard at the lip of the curb. They cut across the lawn, the grass brittle underfoot, each step prompting a hushed crunch, impossible to muffle against the sterility of the open yard. Within a minute, both stood on the second step of the front porch, the drip under Xander’s turtleneck having grown to a mild trickle, his breath short and choppy, less from exertion than nerves. Xander gently rapped his fingers against the thick wood of the door, quickly pulling his hand back to listen for movement inside. Nothing. He tried again, more conviction this time, his heart jumping with each touch of wood. Feric was already by one of the windows, his gloved hand feeling its way round the wooden frame, his eyes lost in concentration. After a minute, he looked over at Xander and mouthed the word alarm. Then, pulling a small metal strip from his coat, he swept it along the gap between the window and frame, found the catch, and returned the strip to his pocket. He pushed the window up and listened; satisfied, he lifted the window higher and nodded for Xander to join him. The episode had taken less than two minutes.
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