The Overseer (18 page)

 

Twenty minutes later, Xander followed her out onto the Via dei Panzani, a broad avenue by Florentine standards. Thick rustic stones of brown and gray furnished a textured armor for some of the more overbearing buildings, crude second cousins to the smooth-polished stucco shops narrowly wedged in between. The most ancient of them seemed unable to hold themselves upright, resting ever so slightly on the buildings to either side. Their familiarity lent the tightly packed row a strange sort of camaraderie—wood, cement, and stone banding together against time and the elements. Xander drew up to her side, and she slid her arm through his; he did little to mask his surprise.

“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 looking 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
.”