Once inside, both men removed flashlights from coat pockets and began to examine the room. Ganz’s kitchen, seen only through narrow beams of light, proved in far worse condition than any book he might have been asked to repair—cigarette burns dotted the tabletop, paint chips hung from the cabinets, and the smell of cheese filled the place. Xander recalled Ganz had been a widower for some twenty years, evidently never having mastered the finer points of housekeeping. Feric quietly led them across the room to the swinging door, whose ancient hinges threatened a squeak but mercifully remained silent as the two men moved out into the narrow hall. Keeping the light on the floor, they slipped down the corridor toward the staircase; Xander tapped Feric and pointed to the second floor. The study. That much he had remembered. If Ganz had the book, it would be there, next to the bedroom.
Taking the steps two at a time, they arrived on the upper landing, the sound of a radiator hissing the only accompaniment to their near-silent strides. Several doors stood ajar; Xander could make out stacks of papers and books in the rooms, storage areas for a man who had always prided himself on an unwillingness to throw anything away. The two doors at the end of the corridor, however, remained shut, the hiss growing louder as they crept along. Feric pressed his ear close to the first door, raising a hand for Xander to step back. A moment later, he pushed the door open, no sound from knob or hinge. Surprising even himself, Xander stood quite calmly as the entrance widened, Feric’s head disappearing round the door before a streak of light momentarily caught the edge of a mirror. Even then, Xander remained composed.
Feric immediately retreated from the room. “He is not here.”
The voice was only half-whispered, but the sudden intrusion of sound was enough to jump-start Xander’s heart, his self-confidence evidently premature. Feric explained. “It is his bedroom. The bed is made, unused. We have been lucky. He is elsewhere tonight.”
Xander drew in a deep breath and stepped back as Feric turned to the last door on the hall. With no less precision, he managed the handle and pushed the door open, this time not quickly enough to avert a squeak rising from the hinge. Xander’s grip tightened on the flashlight. Following Feric through, he saw a lamp with fringed shade, the only image to have remained from his last visit. Somehow, it had a soothing effect. As Feric moved toward the desk, Xander turned to close the door.
Staring back at him, the metallic curve of a revolver barrel flickered in the thin beam of light, a pair of ice blue eyes above.
6
Education and aggression work hand in hand to assure stability.
—ON SUPREMACY, CHAPTER XV
SARAH SAT IN THE hotel room, scanning various pages, so caught up in the text that she flipped past the final sheet, expecting another. All she found was the back cover, the all-too-familiar government seal staring up at her. She turned again to the last page. “This is still very sketchy.”
“Nice to see you remembered I’m here.” Stein sat down next to her. “I didn’t say it was perfect. I said it would help.” He had spent the last hour watching her, every so often trying to offer an explanation over her shoulder, only to be rebuffed with a quick hand to the air. Her concentration had been unwavering, the intensity in her gaze almost hypnotic. It was a lesson in analysis, in the art of scrutiny from the woman he had known only as the assassin of Jordan.
“These sections were omitted from the copies I was given. Why?” The question was tinged with accusation.
“Pritchard thought they were too sensitive.”
“That was very kind of him.”
“His reasoning,” replied Bob, “was that if we gave you the complete dossiers, you’d have no reason to look beyond them. You’d be in the same position we were in. He wanted to leave the loose ends so that you’d have to start from the beginning—something, obviously, we couldn’t do anymore.”
“I don’t buy that. I can’t imagine O’Connell would have—”
“He didn’t,” Stein cut in, knowing full well what Sarah was going to say. “And neither did I. Why do you think I’m here?” Sarah said nothing. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust—”
“Any theory on why Mr. Pritchard wanted to play it this way?”
“No.”
“And you’re absolutely certain he’s shown you everything?”
“Absolutely certain?” Stein shrugged. “A week ago, I would have said yes. Now I don’t know. Absolutely certain is … pretty absolute.”
She turned to him, slightly less edge to her tone. “To be honest, I was expecting Gael. My invitation.”
“I understand—”
“No, you don’t.” She paused. “You’re right, I don’t trust you … for the simple reason you don’t understand this.”
“And O’Connell does?”
“Not specifically, no.” She stood and moved toward the French windows and the balcony. “But enough.”
“Look, I didn’t choose to send you—”
“Of course you didn’t.” She turned to him. “Let me paint the real picture. None of you had a clue as to what was going on or how any of this tied together, so you threw the unknown into the works. The unknown, Bob, doesn’t have to have perfect credentials. In fact, she doesn’t have to have any credentials. She just has to stir things up so that the big boys can see how the field is playing.” She stared directly at him. “Well, it’s playing a little rough, a little rougher than any of us expected.” She opened the doors and enjoyed the breeze on her face. “So you’re right—I wasn’t the best choice for the job, if choice was ever applicable.”
Bob was quiet for a moment. “No, I don’t suppose it’s Committee policy to give people choices.”
She turned to him. “Is that why you’re here, Bob? Is that what this is all about? They let you get in a little too deep, and now you’re feeling responsible? If that’s the reason you’re here, you won’t be very useful.”
“I’m here, Ms. Trent, because I thought I had something you needed and because I thought you asked for my help.” The words flew out, a stream fueled by pent-up tension. “Could be I’m wrong, but I don’t think it matters a rat’s ass whether I feel responsible or not. You don’t want me to join in in your game, play on your rough field? Hey, then I’m happy to hop the next plane to Washington. But I don’t think that’s the case. I think the information I gave you, coupled with whatever Jaspers has turned up, may just be the only way to derail whatever these people have in mind.”
The outburst caught her by surprise, genuine emotion from a man she had pegged as little more than an anxious analyst suddenly in water over his head. “It’s nice to see that blood can boil under a bureaucrat’s skin.”
“Bureaucrat? You’d be so lucky.”
“Don’t worry, no one’s got the time to blame you or anyone else.”
“I’m not worrying.” He lifted the pitcher of coffee, swirled around what was left, and poured out a stream of coal black liquid. The smell was enough to dissuade tasting. “So exactly how important is Schenten?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“That’s the problem,” answered Stein. “I’ve given you what I have. So I think we’ve come to the part where you reciprocate and bring me up-todate on what you and Jaspers have found.”
Sarah turned and looked at Stein on the sofa, his paunch at even length with the armrest. “I thought you were playing the Good Samaritan? I didn’t realize you expected anything in return.”
“Two heads are better than one, something like that.”
“Perhaps.” She sat next to him and produced a lovely, ingenuous smile. “I need a favor first. I assume you have access to my files.”
“Yes,” he replied, the answer more question than response.
“Good. Then you’re going to need to destroy a few pages of them.”
“What!” Stein nearly dropped the cup of rancid coffee in his lap. “You want me to destroy highly classified information that no one can get his hands on anyway? What the hell for?”
&n
bsp; “Confirmation, Bob. Confirmation.”
“Put the gun down, or I shall be forced to shoot Dr. Jaspers directly in the chest.” Ganz’s tone was hushed, no signs of his seventy-plus years in either voice or movement as he rose and remained by the door. Xander stood silently listening to the sound of Feric’s gun landing on carpet, the movement slow and deliberate. Ganz stepped to his right—eyes fixed on the two men—and reached across his body to turn on a standing lamp. Each man squinted momentarily, Ganz measuring Xander, the blue stare somehow gentle, even warm, though out of place given the circumstances.
“Who is he?” asked Ganz.
It took Xander a moment to realize that the question had been directed at himself, his natural instinct to turn and look at Feric so as to describe the operative. At the first sign of movement, Ganz interrupted.
“Do not move, please. I ask again, who is he, Doctor?”
Xander exhaled, barely able to swallow with the pounding that had reached his neck. His words were muffled, half-asperated bursts, as a stream of wet nausea rose from his stomach, the revolver fixed in his stare.
“I am Bruno Feric,” came the reply from behind. “We are here for the manuscript.”
“I have many manuscripts,” answered Ganz, his voice a monotone, his hand equally still around the gun. “Your name is not familiar to me, Herr Feric. How do you come in contact with Dr. Jaspers?”
“We are recently acquainted.”
“I was not aware that he acquaints himself with men who wield guns.”
“Then you might have to question your own familiarity with him.”
“Do not be clever.” Ganz showed no sign of emotion. “This revolver is purely defensive.”
The sound of two native German speakers conversing in English finally shook Xander from his stupor. “He’s helping me,” he broke in. “I wasn’t aware he’d pulled the gun.”
“Move away from my desk, Herr Feric,” continued Ganz, choosing to ignore Xander. “The two chairs by the fireplace—please, gentlemen.”
Slowly, Xander and Feric moved through the piles of books littering the floor, both careful to keep hands visible. At the same time, Ganz arced behind the desk, stepping gingerly in front of his own seat in order to turn on the small fringed lamp that stood atop the crepe blotter, his eyes ever trained on the smaller of the two men. All three sat at once, Ganz showing the first signs of strain as he let his arm rest momentarily on the edge of the desk. Feric shifted in his seat, prompting a sudden surge of energy from the old restorer, his gun again raised to chest level. Keeping his eyes focused on Feric’s hands, Ganz spoke, “You were saying, Dr. Jaspers?”
“Emil, this man was sent to protect me.”
“And why does a sixteenth-century scholar need such protection? Your work has always been interesting, but not, shall we say, dangerous.”
“It’s not my work that’s dangerous, and you know it.” A certain vigor had returned to his voice. “It’s the eleven chapters of Eisenreich that are somewhere in this mess; otherwise, you wouldn’t be pointing that gun at my friend’s chest.”
Ganz paused. “Two men break into my house in the middle of the night and I merely seek to defend myself.”
“And you decide to make your bed before dashing into the study?” Xander surprised himself with his own composure. “I hardly think so. When was the last time you slept?”
“So you are now a detective, as well?”
“Emil, do you have the Eisenreich?”
Ganz looked at Jaspers, the eyes gentle as before, their warmth oddly juxtaposed against the cold reality of the gun barrel stemming from his hand. After nearly a minute, Ganz slowly lowered the gun, his hand still firm around it, letting his back release into the cushion of his chair. “Of course I have it.” He rested his free hand on the desk as if to stand. Instead, he began to rub the wood, his eyes tracing the pattern of knobby fingers. Looking up from the strangely calming routine, he said, “And now I ask you the question I have been asking myself for the last two days: Why is it so important?”
Xander looked at Feric, then Ganz. “It’s a great find—”
“Don’t treat me like a child,” he broke in, standing as he spoke, the first explosion of emotion he had shown. His words were angry, the movement forceful, strong. “A first edition Dante is a find. No one, though, prowls through your house to find it. And no one does this.” He picked up a newspaper that had been resting on the desk and tossed it across to Xander, the sudden burst of activity making the catch somewhat awkward. Xander flipped to the front page and scanned the articles for an answer.
“No, the third page.” Ganz, too, could be impatient. “At the bottom. It is from yesterday’s Algemeiner.”
Xander opened to the page. There, staring back at him was the face of another old friend, Carlo Pescatore. The words below the picture were even more devastating. SCHOLAR FOUND IN ARNO—POLICE CONTINUE INVESTIGATION.
“It becomes even more interesting,” added Ganz. “The police say that his office was broken into, that there were signs of a struggle, his computer discs tampered with, and”—he paused for effect, resting the gun on the desk—“that two unknown people were seen leaving the university courtyard the day of the break-in, one a man with a beard. That seemed an odd detail to me.”
Xander started to answer, then stopped.
Ganz continued. “For how long have you had this beard, Doctor?”
Xander met his gaze, the eyes no longer the warm and gentle blue of moments ago. He had forgotten the hair on his face, now several days old, his immediate response to place his hand to his cheek.
“It is a recent addition,” said Feric, until now quiet in his chair.
“Ah, and I am to take the word of the man with the gun?” Ganz returned to his chair, choosing not to sit. “Perhaps now you understand why I wait with a revolver? I receive the Eisenreich—mind you, only the second half—and a day later, a man to whom I have written to tell of my discovery—because he is one of a handful who will truly appreciate it—is dead. But not dead that day. No, he is dead at least a week earlier, about the time that London sends me its books for restoration. Coincidence? Perhaps. I am deeply disturbed by the loss of a colleague—the strange circumstances no less upsetting—but I do not yet concern myself.
“Then, the next evening, I am informed by our mutual friend Herr Tübing that the second man to whom I have sent a letter about the Eisenreich is arriving in Wolfenbüttel—no letter to me to forewarn of the visit—and that he is traveling with a companion. A companion. Has he ever traveled with an assistant before? No, not that I can recall, and he has always said how much he enjoys the solitude of research. Moreover, he calls from the train station in Göttingen, a last-minute choice for a man I know to be a meticulous planner.” The interrogation continued, fatigue slowly beginning to show on the older man’s face. “And now, when you do arrive, you break into my house with a man who has a gun, and you sporting a beard. These things I cannot view as coincidence.” He picked up the revolver and raised it. “You are an old friend, but old friends do not act as you have. The Eisenreich is at the heart of this, natürlich. I must know why.”
Xander spoke before Feric could stop him. “Because there are some very powerful and capable men who are trying to put the theory into practice.”
Ganz’s eyes locked on Xander’s. For a long moment, he remained still; slowly, the hard stare slipped away, the blue neither gentle nor unkind as the words took hold; his gaze drifted to the desk. After nearly a minute, Ganz spoke, his voice controlled, direct, “Then it is far worse than I feared.” He looked at Xander. “Trying or succeeding?” When the young scholar did not answer, Ganz nodded, glancing at Feric. “That of course explains why you are here. No doubt, you would have killed me for the book.” Feric said nothing. “I understand. Such men must be stopped, no matter what the sacrifice. I trust you would agree, Doctor.” Xander sat silently as Ganz opened the top drawer and placed the gun inside. “Very few had the courage to
make those sacrifices fifty years ago. Do not think your friend ruthless because he accepts the burden with such easy detachment. I can assure you, those who use the manuscript will act with equal indifference.”
“They already have,” replied Xander.
Ganz closed the drawer. “I see. The … first trial.” He nodded to himself before looking up. “The manuscript makes it all quite clear.” He held Xander’s gaze for a moment, then turned to Feric. “You may retrieve your revolver. I do not like such things in the open.” As Feric leaned forward to pick up the gun, Xander found it impossible to tear his eyes from the older man, the piercing eyes somehow more focused, more determined, a sense of purpose radiating from within. Ganz continued, his words equally forceful. “You, naturally, have the first nine chapters?”
“Yes,” answered Xander.
“Which would mean there is another copy of the manuscript.”
“Two others,” corrected Xander. “One German, one Latin. The men I just mentioned have them both.”
“And they, of course, are eager to have the third.”
“That,” said Feric, depositing the gun in his front pocket, “is something that continues to trouble me. Why should they be so concerned with the other copies? From what the doctor has told me, the theory is filled with broad suggestions for a process years in the planning; it does not, however, offer any substantiating detail. Only general points: what they intend to do, what they have been doing, how many men are needed, the spheres where the chaos is to occur, and so forth. But if it does not tell us exactly how, and, more important, when they intend to initiate the scheme, the manuscript is of limited value. It gives an overview, but nothing tangible, nothing to specify the essential day-to-day process we must assume they are following. They know the manuscript is incapable of giving that detail, so why would it matter if we should find any of the other copies?”
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