“You answer your own question, Herr Feric.” The first hint of a smile graced Ganz’s face. “Most assuredly, there is something in the manuscript that gives the detail you seek. Otherwise, as you say, there would be no reason to take such interest in the two of you, nor in our dear friend Pescatore, now would there?” Ganz swiveled in his chair, looked momentarily at Xander, and then opened a thin drawer at the bottom of the desk. He pulled out a small book, its color and binding difficult to discern in the light.
Xander sprang from his chair and took the book from the collector’s hand, flipping open the cover in anticipation. His heart sank as he saw the words on the page—thick umlauted script of typewritten German. For a moment, he could only stare. German? It should be Italian. And where’s the notation of a second volume? Xander looked at the cover again. No sign of the Medici seal. “Read the author’s name,” advised Ganz. “Not quite what you expected.”
WOLF POINT, MONTANA, MARCH 4, 8:45 P.M. The call had come in from New Orleans an hour ago, but it had clarified nothing; CNN had been airing pictures of the devastation since six o’clock. The old man had not moved from the television, both entranced and exasperated by the images filling the screen.
Too soon, he thought. All of it too soon. Fate, once again, was testing his resolve. The explosion had been designated as part of the final stage, not the first trial, its effects mitigated by its singularity. The events it had been coordinated with would not begin for another three days, the destruction of the port now little more than an arbitrary act of terrorism.
Still, it was proving instructive. Via satellite, Bernard Shaw was interviewing the trade commissioners from Argentina and Chile, two men as yet unwilling to speculate on the impact of the recent disaster.
“As I understand it,” Shaw continued, “close to one-third of all trade in and out of South America finds its way through New Orleans.” Both men nodded. “And with the port inaccessible to commercial shipping for at least ten days—according to earliest estimates—that raises some rather interesting questions, gentlemen. Coupled with the recent crash of the grain market. …”
The old man listened with only half an ear, wondering what the reactions would have been had a number of key Midwestern railway and trucking arteries also succumbed within a few hours of the port’s demolition. What kind of questions might that have raised? What sort of economic panic?
But it was not to be; the timing had gone wrong. The final stage would now need reassessing, perhaps even a shift in the schedule.
An acceleration.
“Confirmation? What the hell does that mean?” Stein was the second person in the last ten hours to press Sarah with the question.
“I need some people to know what happened to me after Amman.”
“You need—”
“They’re going to get their hands on my file anyway. Trust me.”
Stein shook his head. “You’re telling me there’s a leak? At most, ten people have access—”
“Trust me,” she broke in. “The problem is, my recovery assessments are included in those reports, and they contain more information than I want our friends to have. They’re psychological accounts—”
“I know what they are.”
“Good. Then you won’t have any trouble finding mine.” She stood and moved to the bed and her overnight bag.
“No problem at all. Yours have been in my office for the last week.”
Sarah’s face registered a moment of surprise. “That’s convenient. Should I ask why?”
“I like to know whom I’m dealing with.”
Busy with one of the zippered compartments, she asked, “How many copies are in circulation?”
“None.”
“Even more convenient.”
“Convenient for what?” he asked, an impatience to his tone.
Sarah turned casually. “There’s a list of four passages, date and hour installments that I need you to … get rid of. Lose them.”
“What?”
“In their place, write whatever you want. ‘Patient incapacitated,’ or ‘Needed to sedate. Session canceled.’ Whatever they did write down during the days they thought it best to restrain me.” Sarah paused momentarily, her eyes locked on an unseen point. Voices from a past broke through, images of a bed, tethered wrists, syringes filled with … “Anything you want just as long as it looks like there aren’t any holes. Then slip them back in and return the file.” She pulled out a piece of paper. “These are the dates—”
“Hold on.” Stein had twisted round, his eyes following Sarah. “Not only do you want me to tamper with something I’m not even supposed to have seen, but you also want me to put it back so that someone else can get their hands on it?” He shook his head as he reached for the pitcher of coffee. “You’re going to have to do more than smile to get me to do either one. I need answers.”
“No, you don’t.” She zipped up the case and started back to the sofa. “There’s information in those assessments that will make everything I’ve set up meaningless. These men have to believe I’m part of them; Votapek’s already convinced. My files, as they stand now, would compromise that position.”
“I see. And do I get some idea of what I’m looking for?”
Sarah placed the paper in front of him. “This is the list.”
Stein shook his head, easing himself into the cushion of the sofa. “I’m sure it’s fine, but that’s not what I asked. Remember, I’ve seen the files.”
Sarah stared at the analyst, her face devoid of the charm of only moments ago. “Just follow the list.”
“Seven years is a long time to remember the exact dates you want removed.”
“Trust me, Bob,” she said, her tone cold, precise, “I won’t have forgotten.”
“Oh, I have no doubt that the dates are accurate. I’m just wondering if something might have slipped out during a different session. As I said, I’ve read those reports. I think I know what you want me to take out—”
“Then why all the questions?”
“Because I need to know why. You don’t want to tell me what Jaspers is up to, what this manuscript has to do with anything, why Schenten is so important—fine. I can almost accept all of that because for some unknown reason, I actually believe you know what you’re doing. But I won’t be an errand boy, and I won’t be a part of this if you don’t trust me enough to give me something to work with. All I want to know is what makes the rantings of a drugged-up, half-dead, slightly psychotic operative from seven years ago cause any consternation to men like Tieg? What’s in those files that I’m not seeing?”
Sarah waited, watching his eyes before responding. “Because they give the complete picture, and I can’t have Eisenreich seeing that.”
“Why?”
Again she waited. “All right, Bob. … I want them to know that I was angry, that I felt betrayed, that I was looking for … something to make sense of everything that had fallen apart for me. But I can’t have them knowing why. I can’t have them reading how much I hated the chaos and the structures it had led to. Pages of endless rantings. If they find that, they’ll know I consider them—the Tiegs, Sedgewicks, Votapeks, and Schentens—no better than the Safads, men who think they have a right to destroy in order to make their vision of an ordered world come alive. You read the file, Bob. In those passages, I’m everything they hate and fear. I’m the voice of reason.”
Stein sat silently, then spoke. “And these men are capable of creating that kind of mayhem?”
She remained by the windows. “How’s Washington these days, Bob?”
“What?”
“Last week. Washington. That was their dry run. Any other questions?”
Stein stared at her for a moment, uncertain, until his eyes went wide. Sarah said nothing; he reached for the list she had left on the coffee table, scanning the numbers on the page as he spoke. “There’s a Department jet flying at nine-twenty. I can be back in Washington in three and a half hours.”
“That’s quick.”
“It flies real high and real fast.”
“Thank you.” The words were honest, an admission of genuine need Sarah had not allowed herself in a very long time. Maybe O’Connell wasn’t the only man at COS she could trust.
Stein folded the paper and wedged it into his pocket. “I’ll leave the rest with you.” Sarah moved to join him as he began to shuffle the pages into neat stacks. Halfway to the sofa, she heard the muted knocking at the door. No more than a tap, the sound froze them both, heads turning as one.
Sarah lifted a finger quickly to quiet Stein. “Yes?” she answered, a calm, if impatient, response.
Two more raps.
Sarah looked down at her newfound confidant, his face having grown ashen, his hands tight around the files. Motioning him to take them out to the terrace, Sarah walked slowly toward the door. “Who’s there?”
No response as she peered through the peephole, her view the empty corridor. She stepped back, waited a moment, and then quickly opened the door. Standing off to the side was a tall, strikingly handsome man, a shock of white hair combed back, revealing a high forehead, clothes impeccably well tailored, wide shoulders above a trimly built body. The gambit with the door had worked to little effect, his composure intact, Sarah only now aware of a second man farther down the hall. The man at the door glanced at her, then beyond and into the room—a look of caution masked by a practiced smile.
“Ms. Trent, I’m Laurence Sedgewick. I believe you’re in town to see a friend of mine.”
Xander stared at the name. Rosenberg. Alfred Rosenberg. Trying to place it, he turned to the next page, saw the date of publication, and instantly recalled the face. Images of the close-cropped hair at Nuremberg, the man slightly slumped in the back row of the dock flashed in Xander’s mind. Of course. Rosenberg, self-proclaimed philosopher of the Third Reich. But why? Xander stared at Ganz, his own expression sufficient to prompt response.
“I have had this little book for nearly thirty years,” said the restorer. “It was not, I should say, something I ever really took much notice of, except that I am virtually positive it is the only copy.” He sat forward, indicating with a nod. “You will see that it is still in typewritten form, making it a pre-published manuscript that never quite made it to press. Evidently, Hitler did not think it worthy of printing, ironic given it is the only thing his dim-witted ideologue ever wrote that showed even the slightest coherence. I had not read it in its entirety until yesterday”—Ganz paused, pulling a second, much larger book from the drawer—“when I remembered this.” He pointed to the book in Xander’s hands and said, “Turn to the third page, where Rosenberg reveals the source of his Nazi wisdom. You, too, will be quite surprised.”
Xander obliged, flipping through the thin pamphlet until, staring up at him, he saw the all-too-familiar name. Eisenreich. He looked back at Ganz.
“Yes,” said the older man, “who knows how, but the manuscript must have fallen into Nazi hands. If you were to read Rosenberg’s piffle, you would notice that the book is written as a sort of schedule, a detailed process whereby the Nazis, not yet in control, could create the mayhem necessary to position themselves as the only reasonable alternative. Hitler might not have published it, but he certainly took to heart a number of its suggestions. One of the last pieces of advice is the burning of the Reichstag. Hitler obliged in February of 1933, his final act before assuming full dictatorial power.”
“A schedule,” said Xander almost to himself.
“Pardon?” asked Ganz.
“Something I always thought it would have. A way to set the whole thing in motion.” He turned to Feric. “It’s what I told Sarah in New York. Then it was hypothesis. Now”—he looked at Ganz—“you’re telling me that Rosenberg used the manuscript to create a how-to book for the Nazi rise to power.”
“One possible version of that rise to power,” Ganz corrected. “I do not say that the book details the precise movements between 1919 and 1933. But it is interesting how the first ten pages of a twenty-page pamphlet are devoted to the first thirteen and a half years of that association, whereas the entire second half discusses a period of less than three months. Not exactly equal space for equal time. The first half of the book is little more than a glorified history of a thoroughly deranged group of men up to the point they take control. The second half, on the other hand—it is those sections that are the schedule to which you refer, and it is those sections that Rosenberg believed he had taken from Eisenreich.”
“And this other book?” asked Xander, nodding to the volume in Ganz’s hand.
“Ah, yes, this other one.” Ganz took a moment to smooth its cloth cover. “This one, as well as the one you are holding, were gifts from Pescatore. Years ago.” He placed the book on the desk. “You should know that he was an excellent scholar, but not one to indulge the sentimentality of the books themselves. Whenever he finished with a volume, he would send it on to me. By his generosity, I amassed quite a collection”—he looked at Xander—“all of which cite Eisenreich as their source. This one is a tract written by Ireton, Cromwell’s co-conspirator at the Putney debates. He, too, writes a short book on the best methods to secure the realm, and also sets out a schedule whereby Cromwell may assume full authority. Do you begin to see the connection?”
Xander nodded to himself, the idea gaining momentum as Ganz continued.
“Though far more lucid than Rosenberg’s feeble attempt, it was, as you can imagine, also never implemented. Which brings us to this.” Ganz reached into the drawer for a third time and pulled out a small leather-bound volume, the Medici crest unmistakable in the light. “I only reread the others after receiving this two days ago. I believe you have a phrase for what happened—‘something clicked.’ It was in the middle of the final chapter”—Ganz opened the book, flipped to the end, and read with strained eyes—“‘an exhortation to action.’ At first, I did not understand why the chapter held such fascination for me. Then I recalled the two books on the desk. In that last chapter”—he looked at Feric—“Eisenreich does give the detail that so interests you. In no more than a page and a half, with several examples drawn from his own period, he outlines the methods best employed during the crucial final stage, before the chaos is to erupt. A period, I might add, that is meant to last no longer than two to three months. It is incomplete, but it makes its point.” He glanced at one or two passages. “Rosenberg, of course, muddled the theory. Ireton was somewhat better. Yesterday morning, I saw the connection as quite exciting. Today”—he put the book down—“it is far more unsettling.” Again, he looked at the operative. “That, Herr Feric, is why it should matter to those men if you were to find any copy of this book. Given what you have told me, it would seem that they, who are eager to put the theory into practice, have written their own schedule as the manuscript instructs, one that they believe Dr. Jaspers would understand if he were to find the last chapters of the Eisenreich. You would have your how and your when.”
“I imagine that is true, Herr Ganz,” answered Feric, “but there seems a far more likely reason why they would be concerned.”
“And that would be?” asked the man at the desk.
“Not whether the doctor can piece together the schedule, but whether he is aware of it at all.”
Ganz paused. “And why would that be so?”
“Because if Dr. Jaspers can draw the connection between their schedule and that of the Nazis, surely it is then easy enough, with what he has of the manuscript, to expose these men as nothing more than latter-day fascists.”
The room was silent until, with eyes widening, Xander turned to the operative. “Of course.” The point began to come clear. “It wouldn’t matter if it were true, just so long as people believed there was a link. Get hold of their schedule, expose it as the great-grandson of Rosenberg’s schedule, and the men of Eisenreich become nothing more than another neo-Nazi fringe element.” The idea was picking up steam. “There’d be no need to explain the subtler p
arts of the theory—the autonomy, the deception, the spheres. Just connect them to something people are terrified of.” Again something struck him. “That’s why they’ve gone to all the trouble to find the extra copies—they know the link is out there. They know we could set them up.”
“Exactly,” replied Feric.
“I am still somewhat unclear,” said Ganz.
Xander looked at the older man and continued. “All we need do is produce these few books and link them to the men who have the manuscript, and the press will do the rest. The media. Exposure—even half-baked exposure—is a dangerous thing. These men thrive on secrecy. By connecting them to these books—no matter how tenuous that connection might be—they’ll have lost the two things vital to their success: deception and credibility. We find their schedule, place it side by side with the Eisenreich and Rosenberg documents, and the entire structure comes tumbling down.”
Ganz picked up the two books on the desk and said, “If you are right, it means their version of these tracts is their own Achilles’ heel.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when the sound of a squeaking hinge tore through the darkened house. It had come from below, a reminder of the kitchen door. Feric immediately pulled the gun from his pocket and pointed for Xander and Ganz to turn out the lights. Feric sprang up, grabbed the long-backed wooden chair he had been sitting in, and pushed by Xander toward the door. Just as the footsteps reached the landing, Feric slammed the door shut and jammed the chair under the knob. The pwit-pwit of a silencer erupted instantly in the hallway, the immediate burst of lead on wood sending Feric back, a sharp wincing in his left arm as he fired back, his own silencer muffling the shot that seared through the now-splintered wooden door. He looked to his left, to see Xander moving to the window, the three books safely deposited in the computer satchel as the scholar stepped halfway out to the eaved roof. Ganz remained immobile in his chair, a strangely serene look on his face as the second wave of bullets pelted the door. Feric quickly covered the old man with his own body, the tiny explosions bursting all around, tearing through books and plaster. Turning again, Feric let go with another volley, the sound of a muted cry from without indication that his shot had somehow found a target. Feric stepped back, Ganz unharmed underneath. The old man rifled through the top drawer of his desk, pulling out his gun and a set of well-worn keys. He handed the chain to Feric and mouthed the word car, a knobby finger pointing to the window as he nodded for Feric to go. The exchange took only a second, but it was clear that the old man was not going to leave, the blue eyes now fixed firmly on the door, waiting for the bodies to crash through, his gun leveled, both hands grasping at the handle. Such men must be stopped, no matter what the sacrifice. A final act—fifty years in the waiting—a final moment of true purpose. Feric understood.
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