The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  He poured himself a second and picked up the phone. “Irene, my love, I need to see Bob as soon as possible…. Yes, I know it’s all rather hectic, but he’s going to have to start earning his money…. No, you get home safe. Have one of the boys drive you.” He sipped from the glass. “I want the meeting off-line…. No, not even Arthur’s log. Strictly off-line.” He paused. “And erase this conversation…. Right…. Tell him I’ll be waiting.” O’Connell put down the receiver and brought his feet up to the couch. The rain had turned to snow, blanketing the window in a white veneer. He remained still, caught by the rapid descent of chalky crystal as it devoured the panes of glass.

  She had found something, something to draw her back in. And this time, she was keeping the Committee at arm’s length. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised.

  O’Connell gulped down his drink and waited for the phone to ring.

  Xander downshifted the Fiat into second gear, its engine growling at the sudden change to accommodate a quick turn at the bottom of yet another winding hill. The sharp drop from the side of the road to the houses perhaps a hundred yards below gave the view the classic features of the landscape in any number of Italian Renaissance paintings. Even the somber colors of a winter sky, draped coolly over the rigid crags of the Apennines, couldn’t diminish the luster of the earth and orchards below. Several times during the past hour, he had found himself dangerously close to plummeting over the side, caught for a moment too long in the splendor of the rolling Tuscan country. Now, with dusk creeping up ever more eagerly, he had no choice but to direct all his attention to the road that twisted mercilessly in front of him.

  He had left Milan four hours ago, had made Bologna in good time—enough to stop and indulge a craving for afternoon coffee and sweet—and was now about half an hour from Florence. Somewhere over the next group of peaks he knew he would see the distant outline of the Duomo—the white ribbed crown of Santa Maria del Fiore—symbol of the Florentines’ bravura, Brunelleschi’s genius, and their faith in both God and artistry. Which they held in greater esteem was hard to know. Somehow, Xander thought, they had managed to sustain both commitments in a world that did its best to cultivate less impassioned interests, a coldness driven by the love of computers and mass communications and soulless art. Not that Florence had detached itself from the twentieth century completely, but its signal character had remained delightfully embedded in a consciousness, a fervor for the grandeur of its past.

  He had chosen a rural route, forgoing the faster, if somewhat antiseptic, highways. There had really been no reason to monitor his time, since Sarah wasn’t due until much later that evening. She had cabled from somewhere in Switzerland two days ago and had left instructions on which hotel he should check into once in Florence. And under which name he should register. That had seemed a bit odd, but the instructions had been very clear. Instructions. It was the kindest way he could describe the marching orders he had received. No questions about the conference, the weather—anything that might have lent the message some personality. So be it, he had thought. And, of course, she had told him to stay away from Pescatore. That, Xander now mused, had not been all that difficult, considering his old friend hadn’t actually been there. No doubt he was digging ever deeper into the mysteries of Eisenreich, unwilling to tear himself away in order to take part in what had ultimately been a social gathering masquerading as an academic colloquium.

  The sudden appearance of headlights in his rearview mirror brought Xander back to the road. Realizing he could barely see thirty feet in front of him, he flicked on his own high beams just in time to avoid a collection of rocks strewn across the pavement. With a quick jolt to the left, the car momentarily drove up onto the grassy slope of the hill with sufficient force to bounce Xander a good two inches above his seat. Another rapid swing to his right and the car was back on the road. He had to laugh. He had deserved the slight bump to his head, he thought. His overreaction to a few pebbles on the road had no doubt caused the driver behind him no small amount of anxiety. Checking his mirror again, Xander watched as the headlights—now creeping along—cautiously maneuvered the rocky spot. Within a few minutes, the car was once again only about forty yards behind him.

  Forcing himself to concentrate for the last leg of the trip, Xander began to look in the mirror every ten to twenty seconds. He noticed that the car behind was drawing closer and closer, shooting along the road at near breakneck speed. It seemed rather odd, he thought, considering the care the driver had taken only moments ago. And yet, the car was looming ever larger in his mirror. Within a few seconds, the sound of its engine rose above the din of his own, the glare of its lights momentarily obscuring his vision. Luckily, the advent of a long, straight descent offered Xander the opportunity to slow down so as to let the car pass.

  But the driver had no intention of passing. Instead, he closed within only a few inches of the Fiat and began to nudge the smaller car, jerking Xander forward with each tap. What the … Xander looked over his shoulder only to be met by the sudden shock of high beams cascading through his rear window. Trying to blink away the spots now dancing in his eyes, he hit the accelerator, shifting the car back down into third as the road began to climb. The churning of the fiery little engine, however, was no match for that of the car behind. The beams streamed in, reflecting off the windshield as Xander rocked from another jolt. He felt encased in light, almost unable to see the road in front of him, the small guardrail racing alongside his only guide. Jesus Christ! What is this? One word entered his mind.

  Eisenreich.

  Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the thin sheet of metal, Xander eased the pedal closer to the floor, the small car screaming at the exertion. The car behind matched the Fiat’s surge of power, careening again into the rear fender and thrusting Xander even more quickly up the incline. At the crest, the Fiat shot above the pavement, crashing down to the sound of crunching metal as it found the road again. Xander glanced at the mirror during a momentary respite from the blinding light, just long enough to see the car dart into the left-hand lane and disappear from sight as the road curved violently to the left. Crashing his palm into the gearshift, he thrust his foot onto the clutch and again listened as the engine nearly buckled at the strain. As the road straightened, the light from behind again invaded his car, making him wince and, for an instant, lose sight of the rail. Out of instinct, he pressed hard on the brake and began to feel the back of the car slide to the right and scrape against the metal protector that stood between him and a quick plunge to the orchards below. At that moment, the larger car raced past him on the left, unprepared for the Fiat’s sudden change in speed. Xander immediately released the brake—his car readjusting itself to the road—and focused all of his attention on the taillights of the car now in front of him. It, too, began to slow, as if taunting him to pass so that the game of cat and mouse could continue.

  As his own lights probed its rear window, he could make out the shadow of two figures, one—his head the egg shape of a fully bald man—clearly looking back from the front seat in order to keep an eye on the car they had inadvertently sped past. Xander wondered how long they would wait before making another move. He had no idea what to do.

  Eisenreich had tracked him, had been with him in Milan, no doubt in Bologna, waiting. He had been foolish to think otherwise. But waiting for what? Whatever the answer, they seemed to be placing a great deal of stock in his ability to decipher the theoretical.

  Theories, he thought. Always theories. The deceptively alluring panaceas that promised solution but that invariably disappointed. He had put his career in jeopardy too many times in the name of one of his pet projects, one of those theories that seemed so right at the time. And yet, he had made a name for himself in no small measure because of his imagination, a capacity to distill the crumbs worth saving when the theory began to fall apart. From those crumbs, he had managed to create some of the more insightful approaches to what ultimately proved to be unanswerable questions. It was always a
game of knowing what had value, what was smoke screen. Lundsdorf had seen the talent, drawn it out of him, forced him to recognize his own passion for the bits and pieces that always lay at arm’s length. Beyond the haze.

  And he had run with it, all too often surprising even his mentor. The practical implications of a theory—the ways in which it could be implemented to good effect—remained somehow intoxicating. He had tried to convince Sarah otherwise with Machiavelli, but Xander knew himself too well. He was too good at lending the theories clarity to dismiss them as mere ideas. And now Eisenreich was stepping off the page. Frightening, given the reality of the men who had tracked him. Exhilarating, given his own passion.

  The car in front of him broke left, turning into what looked to be a sea of black. Unable to react quickly enough, Xander found himself gliding by the red taillights of the car—the sound of its gears shifting into reverse forcing him to refocus his energy. He pressed down on the accelerator and downshifted in an attempt to create as much distance as he could between the two cars. Once again, the lights bore down on him, sending his eyes to the rail for guidance, the rapid, sloping curves of the road coming with even greater frequency than before. Much to his relief, the change in terrain seemed to be preoccupying his assailants as well, allowing him to avoid more of the hammering from behind; even so, they were gaining with each new bend in the road. Any contact, he thought, and he wouldn’t be able to keep the Fiat from careening out of control. The guardrail continued to whisk by, a token gesture against the imminent impact from the speeding car behind.

  As if from nowhere, the distinct shape of the Duomo rose up on the horizon, an elongated orb floating atop a sea of lights—Florence. Houses began to fly by, less precarious on the hills, whose slopes now receded to a level plain. And the road accommodated the change, forgoing the snaking twists and turns for a straight and narrower path toward the lights. Xander shifted again, taking the car to the utmost limits its engine would allow. Through his mirror, he watched as the car behind responded equally well, cutting through the distance with voracious speed, and bearing down on him in anticipation of the kill. There was little Xander could do but will the yelping car to ignite a hidden burst of energy, a sudden swell of power to tear it from the oncoming assault. Clusters of houses shot by, forming a strangely amorphous wall through which the cars tunneled. Realizing that he was drawing closer and closer to the city, Xander became all too aware that the road would soon dissolve into the myriad streets and alleys of central Florence—a maze in which to get lost, or cornered. Or worse.

  At the moment of certain impact, the road miraculously began to curve gently to the right, merging with what Xander guessed was the central highway from Bologna. Not slowing, he fired the little car onto the four-lane road, barely missing an ancient bus that swerved at the last moment so as to avoid the collision. The sound of its bellowing horn slipped quickly into the distance as Xander whipped through the light traffic heading into the city. Daring a glance in the mirror, he watched the large car try to make its way through, its bulk now a hindrance. With each passing car, Xander was drawing farther and farther away; within a minute, he had placed a hundred yards between them as the city began to appear all about him.

  Its immediacy, the sudden rise of central Florence, had always struck him as overwhelming. Five minutes ago, he had been bulleting through the Tuscan countryside. Now he was doing his best to avoid the first hints of rush hour. Bringing the car down to a reasonable speed, he settled into the flow of traffic as he swung around the Piazza della Libertà and the old Porta San Gallo, a relic from the city’s medieval past. The old stone figure glided by on his left, lit from below and bathed in a wafting glow. Xander had no time for its serenity. Turning into the wide avenue of the Viale S. Lavagnini, he again picked up the pace, darting through whatever gaps the cars around him would allow, slowing only at the Viale F. Strozzi and the circuitous approach to the railway station. It would be his best bet—a place to drop off the rented car and to lose himself in the crowds.

  Directions to the rental returns began to appear as soon as he turned into the long drive of the Piazza della Stazione. Slowing, he noticed a gap in the parked cars and slipped the Fiat into an empty spot. He then pulled his overnight bag and attaché case from the backseat, opened the door, and made his way as quickly as possible toward the station’s main entryway. Looking back at the small car, he was glad to find no apparent marks from the confrontation in the hills. More than that, though, he was relieved not to see a large car hurtling toward the station. He quickened his pace, striding through one of the entryway doors.

  As the door swung closed behind him, the black Mercedes that had provided the recent entertainment turned into the station’s drive.

  3

  Laws are no more trustworthy than the men who create them, and stability can never rest on human caprice.

  —ON SUPREMACY, CHAPTER XVIII

  XANDER MET A SEA of bodies as he pushed his way through the main station. The early-evening trains stood on distant tracks, waiting to whisk commuters from the city, conductors yelling out any number of obscure village names, muted by the sound of hissing locomotives. To his left, he spotted the Hertz counter, a woman dressed in the appropriate gold scarf manning a computer. Fighting his way through the throng, he reached the counter and handed her the bright yellow envelope that held all the rental information. She began to shuffle through the papers; Xander casually scanned the station, every so often turning his attention back to the woman in order to answer another question.

  “Your Italian is excellent, Signore Jaspers,” she said as she typed.

  Xander had enough sense to smile. “You’re very kind. Is there a phone somewhere?”

  She handed him his receipt. “You may use the one here at the counter if it is a local call. Otherwise”—she pointed—“directly across the plaza.”

  Xander had no intention of staying by the counter. He wanted a good vantage point in case his friends were still following; a phone booth seemed the ideal choice. He nodded and pocketed the receipt, then made his way to the bank of phones, all the time keeping an eye on the entry doors. Slipping into an open booth, he fished out the hotel’s number and dialed. Sarah had booked him under the name Fabrizzi. Waiting on the primitive pulses, Xander noticed a young man dart into the open atrium of the station, evidently searching for something. He wasn’t difficult to miss, at least six-foot-five, a good 250 pounds, and completely bald. Xander stepped closer into the booth. The man from the car. He watched as the titan made his way to the Hertz counter and began to ask questions. Once again, Xander began to inch himself farther into the booth as he watched the exchange. The sound of a voice in the receiver startled him.

  “Pronto—Hotel Donato.” Xander gently replaced the receiver and continued to watch the man at the counter. The woman was of no help; he moved to a more central point in the station, where he stood for perhaps two minutes, slowly turning his body in full circle. Finding nothing, he moved off toward an exit, his hands tucked firmly into the pockets of his overcoat. For some unknown reason, Xander began to follow. As soon as the man pushed through the exit door, Xander hurried himself through the station, jostling one or two impatient commuters before cautiously making his way out into the cold.

  Remaining within shadow, he scanned the parking area, headlights now darting all about. There, above the mayhem, he spotted a bald head making its way toward a large black car at the exit. Xander watched as the man opened the door and bent in, evidently to relate the futility of his search. A heavily bearded man sat in the driver’s seat; his reaction, however, was not what Xander expected. He nodded. No burst of anger, no blame meted out on a subordinate. Only a nod. And then, even more inexplicably, he turned and peered through the rear window. For an instant, Xander thought the man was looking directly at him, a smile beneath the beard. It was enough to force him to take a step back as the car started down the drive.

  “Taxi, signore?” Xander tried to focus his t
houghts—He was looking directly at me—his eyes now drawn to the grizzled figure at his side. “Signore?” the man repeated.

  Still dazed, Xander started toward the curb. “Donato,” he said, more rote reaction than command. He stepped into the cab and sat as the small man placed his bags in the trunk. Half a minute later, the man squeezed in behind the wheel, smiled back at Xander and said, “Hotel Donato. Sì.”

  A plastic chair served as Sarah’s final waiting spot. Lodged within a gaggle of similarly uncomfortable seats, it held the perfect vantage point for anyone interested in a view of the long concourse back to the main airport terminal. Over the last six hours, she had done her best to minimize her audience—the train from Bern to Zurich, the plane from Zurich to Milan, and now the express train to Florence. She had decided to make the trip in small installments for two reasons: First, there would be only one flight manifest, thus limiting her name to as few records as possible; second, she had wanted to bring Eisenreich out into the open. The somewhat convoluted itinerary had managed both. A small, nervous man had been at the Bern station, on the Alitalia flight, and was no doubt at this very moment somewhere in the terminal, frantically looking for Sarah Trent—the woman in plaid shirt, jeans, and boots whom he had seen exit the plane.

  Now, sitting alone, she was a different person entirely, hair pulled back, its reddish tint an attempt to convey the vanity of an Italian sophisticate with a yen for things northern European. Along with the dark glasses, her face had a far more angular quality. Her clothes were also less obvious, muted colors of skirt and blouse beneath a heavy black coat. Subtle differences, to be sure, yet each effected with a trained hand; she was having little trouble blending into the surroundings.