The Overseer

by Jonathan Rabb

  “Don’t worry, Dr. Jaspers. It’s only what the Fabrizzis would do.” Xander nodded, though she could sense a slight hesitation in his response as they continued on in the direction of the cathedral. His discomfort with her as a woman—evidently something he had only realized last night—struck her, for some odd reason, as charming. Thinking about it now, she couldn’t help but recall with delight the episode with the shirt. She squeezed his arm a bit tighter, only to feel a tension rise in his shoulder. Knowing full well she wasn’t, she asked, “Am I hurting you? Is that the one from last night?”

  “No. No, it’s fine. It was the other shoulder,” he replied. “Which … seems to have recovered entirely.” He swung the small case out in pendulum style to illustrate the arm’s mobility. “See.”

  “Good.” She began to propel them along at a brisk pace. “So tell me what we’re looking at.”

  His immediate sense of relief was painfully apparent. It was only fair, she thought, to consent to an impromptu lecture on Renaissance history and architecture. After all, he had been through quite a lot in the last day or so, and she knew a brief jaunt into his little world would relax him. It might also make the burden of a rather attractive woman on his arm less taxing. Listening with only one ear—on occasion nodding or offering an “I see”—Sarah tried to extend her focus to the area around them, ever wary of any sudden movements within the growing crowds. As they reached the Piazza San Giovanni, the buildings dropped away and the tourists, until now only a trickle, burst forth in a torrent.

  The Duomo loomed with fitting grandeur over the open expanse, its stained-glass and marbled facade reflecting a brilliant sun. Few seemed deterred by the glare, cameras clicking in syncopated rhythm to the growing echo of footsteps. Perhaps out of instinct, Sarah asked if there were a less-traveled route to the university. Xander stopped and nodded to his left toward a small street just off the main square.

  “It’s the shortest way, but we’ll miss the Medici Palace and a number of other lovely—”

  “I think we can pass on the sights for now.” Sarah smiled up at the young scholar, seeing her point register in his eyes.

  “Right.” He nodded. “The less-traveled route.”

  Unwilling to bypass the Baptistry entirely—the large nipplelike structure in front of the cathedral—he led them around several of its sides before pausing at its easternmost door. Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise stared down at them, scenes from the Bible rising from the bronze in rich undulating lines: the Expulsion from the Garden, the Sacrifice of Isaac, Moses on Sinai. Xander looked on entranced. Somehow, the sculptor had captured the anguish, the elation, the immediacy in these scenes. Sarah, too, found it difficult not to stare, to give in to the door’s seductive lure. But an inner voice told her that they should keep moving. Too many people cluttered around them. She pulled at his arm and led Xander toward the smaller road and its comparative stillness. At once, she felt more in control within the confines of the nearly deserted street. Even the sun seemed less inclined to venture in with them, cut off by the high walls rising above the narrow lane.

  Within a few minutes, they began to see the telltale signs of academia, students sauntering along, several clutching the uniform leather satchel prematurely aged through years of abuse. As the road opened to the Piazza San Marco—a large square serving as the foreground for a delightful church and its rather imposing monastery—Xander pointed to a placard on the side of a windowless archway indicating an entrance to the university. A few students brushed by them at a furious pace.

  “It must be time for lecture,” he smiled. “They never move that fast.”

  Venturing through a series of long arched redbrick passageways, they arrived in an open courtyard cluttered by a smattering of leafless trees and wooden benches, all surrounded by perhaps seven or eight fat little buildings, each an amalgam of late medieval austerity and seven centuries of alterations. Xander tried to remember which one of the buildings held Pescatore’s office. “I think it’s that one,” he pointed. “Yes, definitely that one. With the funny slanted tree in front. He’s on the first floor somewhere.” Together, they followed one of the myriad crisscrossing paths that cut through the open court, stringlike pavements connecting each of the buildings.

  Without breaking stride, Xander managed the uneven stone steps at the foot of Pescatore’s building and pushed through a thickly grained oaken door, distractedly holding it for Sarah. She could tell he was now intent on the manuscript, with little time for Lundsdorfian pleasantries. Not waiting to see if she was through, he straddled another short set of stairs, and strode down an empty corridor to his left. Sarah remained a few paces behind, deeper in darkness as the door behind clicked shut, the few strips of sunlight slipping to shadow. To her eye, the long cavernous hall, streaked by several shoddy overhead lights, seemed to disappear in a wall of haze, swallowing Xander in its ebbing glow. Only the sound of his eager footsteps filled the hall. Falling in with his rhythm, she lengthened her stride, drawing up to him just as his eyes lit up at the discovery of Pescatore’s office.

  Raising his eyebrows in anticipation, Xander knocked gently on the wooden frame and waited, leaning into the door as if expecting to hear the muffled footsteps beyond. After a few seconds without response, he knocked again, this time pressing his ear to the thick wood. Nothing. He turned to Sarah, a look of concern in his eyes.

  “This isn’t like him,” he whispered. “This isn’t like him at all.” Just as he was about to pound firmly for a third try, Sarah pulled him away. She knew there was no reason to draw unnecessary attention, especially as they didn’t know who might be inside the other offices. Removing two thin metal strips from her bag, she glanced down the hall and delicately slid them into the door’s lock. Xander looked on, utterly bewildered. With a short snap, the bolt released, and Sarah gently pushed the door open. Placing her other hand in the small of his back, she directed the reluctant scholar into the office.

  The room was in a state of complete disarray, books and papers everywhere. Drawers from filing cabinets rested precariously on the tips of metal railings, ready to pull the five-foot-high units crashing to the floor. A few inches from the ceiling, an entire length of wooden shelving had been dislodged from its brace and now swung dangerously out into the room. Directly in front of the door, several chairs had been shoved to the center of the room, conjoined in a bizarre sculpture with legs jutting out in all directions. What little light there was streamed in from the hastily drawn curtains, a few slits here and there to scatter the sun and add to the chaos. Moving slowly, Xander approached the desk, lifting his case up toward the one area free from clutter.

  “Don’t touch anything,” whispered Sarah, her tone direct, enough to stop him in midmovement.

  The case swung back to his side as he turned. “Look at this,” he said. “What happened here?” He needed an answer, some way to explain away the mayhem they had discovered. Sarah could tell he was not, as yet, willing to admit the obvious.

  “You were right to be concerned.” She turned and closed the door, shutting out the paltry light from the corridor.

  “Damn it!” Xander continued to look around the office. “This wouldn’t have happened if—”

  “If you hadn’t come to Florence?” Sarah shook her head as she moved beyond him to the window, angling her head so as to peer through a thin strand of light. From the little she could make out, there looked to be a second courtyard behind the building. It was empty. Still, given the state of the office, she knew they would have to be careful. And quick. She turned to him. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. They knew he had the manuscript and they wanted it. Most likely because it could explain what they have in mind after the dry run in Washington. As you said, that would make it a very powerful document.” She began to look around the room. “The question is, Did they find it?”

  “I don’t know.” He sounded somewhat dazed. “I … can’t imagine it would have been that hard, if they knew what they were lo
oking for.” Xander watched as Sarah dropped to a crouching position behind the desk. He then glanced about the room, still trying to piece things together. “According to Carlo’s article, it’s about seven inches long,” he added, “and about an inch wide, bound in old leather, with the Medici seal—six balls on a shield.”

  “It obviously wasn’t that easy to find. Otherwise, why the mess?”

  “I suppose.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Carlo’s stubborn, but he’s not stupid. If someone wanted something that desperately—”

  “He would have given it to them.” Her voice rose from behind the desk.

  “Exactly,” he nodded. “What are you doing down there?”

  A long silence passed before she answered. “He might not have had the chance.” She stood and brushed the dust from her knees.

  “And what exactly does that mean?”

  “There are streaks of blood on the floor and on the leg of the desk. The carpet’s ripped.” She stared directly into his eyes. “There was a struggle.”

  “Wait a minute.” He began to shake his head, his words uncertain. “What are you saying? That’s impossible. Why would anyone—”

  “Because they needed to get the manuscript.”

  They stared at each other for a moment. “That’s not possible,” he said, struggling to find something to convince her, himself, that the suggestion was ludicrous. “It would be like Eisenreich’s story replaying itself four hundred years later. They kill him before he has a chance to explain?” The impact of the single word seemed to strike at Xander. For nearly half a minute, he said nothing. Then, in a near whisper, he said, “He’s dead, isn’t he?” The words seemed to roll out, almost of their own will. “Isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He looked at the books scattered about the floor. “Because of a few pages of theory.” Standing quietly, Xander suddenly felt shaken. There was a fragile quality to his voice. “He wouldn’t have done anything, said anything. At least I don’t think …” A hollowness rose through his body. Choosing to ignore Sarah’s warning, he sat on the lip of the desk and placed the small case by his feet, his arms folded about his chest as he began to sway back and forth. Sarah watched him drift farther and farther away, lulled by the gentle movement of his own body. Stepping through the papers, she drew up to him and placed her hands on his arms, tightening her grip until his eyes met hers.

  “But you don’t know them.” She could see he was beginning to question his own motives, his own culpability. She’d seen it too many times not to recognize the expression on his face—an indulgence she could not permit. Him or herself.

  “You know, I don’t get you. I don’t get you at all.” No rebuke, merely a statement of fact. “You’re able to look at all of this with … I don’t know … such detachment.” He shook his head. “I wish I could do that.”

  Sarah peered into his eyes. Another innocent. Another choice. “I don’t think you mean that.” She held his gaze for a moment, then added, “The manuscript. Is there anywhere Carlo would have put it?”

  “Just like that.”

  “Like what?” she answered.

  “Back to the hunt.” She said nothing and released his arms. In an attempt to get his mind working again, he rubbed his hands down his face. “Right.” He began to look around the room. The simple movement seemed to rouse him from the moments of self-recrimination. “The manuscript.” He nodded. Brushing by her, he moved to the center of the room.

  “Put on your gloves,” she insisted.

  Without stopping, he did as he was told, already focused on a large pile of books at the base of the shelving. “Now think,” he began. “If he’s as clever as you know he is, where’s he going to put it?” Kneeling, Xander slid his fingers across a number of spines, the titles eliciting only shakes of his head, until, with a sudden burst of insight, he shot up. “Of course. In another book.” Sarah watched as he looked up to the remaining bookshelves and then to the floor, all signs of panic and whatever else momentarily forgotten. “So where did you keep it, Carlo?” His eyes darted about. “And where would they have tossed it?” Sarah could do little but wait. The researcher had returned.

  Impatient, she prodded. “Kept what?”

  For the first time in the last minute, he seemed to remember she was in the room. “This might sound strange, but my guess is that somewhere in this mess is a rather old volume of Saint Augustine’s Confessions.”

  “Saint Augustine?”

  “Book twelve, section twenty-four, I think.” He was back, and at full throttle. “It’s the chapter where he explains the vitality of interpretation. It’s actually a very eloquent, and quite forward-thinking bit of writing on the freedom of thought.” As he spoke, he continued to look about the room. “It’s all about Moses, and how no one really knows the word of God, and how we’re not allowed to insist on one reading because of our ignorance, and so forth.” Sarah watched him pace the length of the wall, his head tilted to one side so as to read each binding. “Rather ironic for the man who set down all those strict rules of Catholic dogma.” Xander might have been giving a lesson in theological history, but his eyes and fingers were now lost in the shelves by the door. “Basically, it’s a diatribe against dogmatism. ‘Don’t tell me what to believe’—that sort of thing. Carlo always thought it was one of the more important statements Augustine made. Talked about it all the time. It’s exactly the sort of thing he felt he confronted every day of his life—the struggle against narrowmindedness. Everyone dismissing what he was doing with Eisenreich.” Looking up to Sarah, he added, “Well, evidently they were wrong.” He turned his focus again to the books and added, “my guess is that he would have put the manuscript in his copy of Confessions. Where his interpretation would get the respect it deserved.” Finishing with the books by the door, Xander moved out into the middle of the office. “Look for something big, and dense. A good fourteen or fifteen inches long, maybe two and a half inches thick, with the word Confessiones in Latin on the spine.” He knelt down.

  Joining him on the floor, Sarah began to sort through the stacks in her corner. Within a half minute, her eyes caught the faded gold inlay on the spine, the large C almost entirely lost. She picked up the book.

  “Is this it?”

  Xander looked over his shoulder and immediately sprang to his feet; he took the book from her as he moved back to the desk. “Bingo. Now, let’s see if I know him as well as I think I do.”

  Clearing a wide-enough space on the desktop, Xander laid the tome down and slowly opened its cover. A long dedication by someone named Teggermann was scrawled in almost unintelligible handwriting. Xander lifted the thick yellowed page, expecting to find the small manuscript staring back at him. All he saw was the table of contents.

  “Dead end?” asked Sarah as she watched from the side of the desk.

  Not bothering to acknowledge her, Xander flipped to about three-quarters the way through the book. Scanning the tops of each page, he flipped farther and farther back. About forty pages from the end, he stopped.

  Sarah looked down and saw the small leather-bound volume placed neatly in the center of the page.

  “Book twelve, section twenty-five. I was off by one.” He did little to hide his pleasure. As he picked up the manuscript, however, his expression of triumph quickly turned to one of utter disbelief; the front and back covers came together in his fingers. There seemed to be nothing in between. Tearing open the small volume, he could do nothing but stare at the centimeterwide edges still clinging to the spine, the only remnants of pages razored out. The discovery was too much. “Jesus Christ! It’s not as if they haven’t done enough. They have to destroy this as well?”

  “I doubt they destroyed it,” said Sarah, her own disappointment less apparent. “They probably didn’t want some customs official asking questions about a book with that crest on it. That’s why they left it here.”

  “Then why put the binding back in the Augustine?”

  “So
as not to draw attention. I don’t know.”

  Xander tossed the leather casing onto the desk. “So now what do we do?” She saw the determination begin to fade from his eyes, the recollection of Pescatore’s death slowly return.

  “What about files? Anything that might give us something on the contents of the book.” She was trying to draw him back in.

  “Files … right.” Another task. Another distraction. “Knowing Carlo, he would have been very careful. They wouldn’t just be lying around.” Again, Xander glanced around the room, lighting on a section of the floor directly behind the desk. “They’d be in there,” he said, pointing to the large computer wedged into the corner of the room, a thick link chain locking it to a steel hasp extending from the wall. “The problem is,” he added as he knelt by the keyboard, “how do we get inside it?” Sarah reached over his shoulder and flicked on a switch at the back of the console. The screen lit up, casting a pulsating glow about the room.

  “How about that?”

  Xander didn’t bother to look around. “Yes, thank you. You know that’s not what I meant. He’s going to have some sort of code to get in.” A small flashing key appeared in the top-left-hand corner of the screen.

  “If it’s like the ones at State, it’s probably nothing more than a simple software block,” suggested Sarah. “You get three shots at the password before the entire system shuts down.”

  “Or worse, before it sends out a signal to the main frame and calls in the local security. I have that feature on mine as well.”

  “And your friend Pescatore didn’t happen to mention the password to you at any point, did he?”

  “Carlo? You’ve got to be kidding. To be honest, I’m amazed that the Augustine panned out. That was blind luck. Not that it got us anywhere.” The two of them stared at the screen for a minute.