The Overseer (5 page)

The attic office—or offices—were a good deal larger than Sarah had expected. Although constrained by the sharp angle of the ceiling, there was enough room for a sizable desk—a small wooden plaque with Mrs. Huber’s name positioned on its front lip—two chairs for those with appointments, and a midsection wall that divided the entire top floor into two separate areas. At the far end of the wall, a door—with Jaspers’s name on it—stood slightly ajar. At the opposite end, a small copy machine was in full hum, at the moment operated by a tall young man in jeans, tweed jacket, and running shoes who looked the typical graduate student, no doubt making some extra money—and some helpful connections. Sarah checked her watch, realized she was still a few minutes early, and took a seat in one of the chairs to await Mrs. Huber, whose desk was unoccupied. The view from the small
porthole-like
window caught her eye as she settled back into the leather—Morningside Park at the first hint of dusk. For a moment, it seemed rather inviting.

“Waiting for Jaspers?” asked the young man while he tried to stack the papers he had just finished copying.

“Yes,” Sarah answered, and placed the briefcase on the floor by her side. “I have a three-thirty appointment. Do you know if he’s in?”

“Most definitely.” The young man smiled, setting the papers on Mrs. Huber’s desk and scribbling some instructions on the top page. He dropped the pencil on the desk and extended his right hand. “Alexander Jaspers. You must be Ms. Trent.”

Sarah’s eyes opened wide, an embarrassed smile forming on her lips. “
You’re
Dr. Jaspers?” she said as she quickly stood to take his hand. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I expected someone … older.”

“I know,” he laughed, sitting on the edge of the desk and motioning for Sarah to retake her seat. “It’s all that ‘Herr Doktor Yaspers’ stuff that Clara insists on. Everybody gets it wrong.” Sarah couldn’t help but smile. He folded his arms across his chest and asked, “Would you like something to drink? We have coffee, tea, water, smelling salts.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “No thanks. Sorry if I’m a bit early.”

“No problem.” He rose from the desk just as Mrs. Huber popped her head up from the stairs.

The tight bun of black hair seemed to pull mercilessly at her forehead, accenting the look of surprise on her face. “Oh my dear!” Her thick legs tried vainly to take the last few steps. “Oh dear! You are here already.” The German accent was even more pronounced in person, thought Sarah. “I was only in the kitchen with some cookies for you, but, you see, they have disappeared, and I was expecting you at half past three. I am so sorry. I was to be here at the time of your arrival to make introductions.” She was back by the desk, straightening with a frenzied neatness. “This is so dreadful of me.”

“Clara,” Jaspers interrupted with a little laugh, “it’s all right. We managed to work through the introductions without any major disasters. Ms. Trent, Clara Huber.” Mrs. Huber stood silently, bowing somewhat sheepishly as Sarah said hello.

“It’s Sarah. And I’d like to thank you for being so nice on the phone. It was a welcome surprise.”

“Oh?” A wide smile replaced the hint of anguish on Mrs. Huber’s face. “That is most kind of you. You see, Herr Doktor Yaspers is an expert—”

“Clara is invaluable,” Jaspers interrupted, somewhat embarrassed, “and I know Ms. Trent—Sarah—would like to get started. But since we’re out of cookies”—he winked at Mrs. Huber—“and because I happen to have an awful sweet tooth, I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if we do this at a little pastry shop not too far from here. Every day at four—it’s a … family thing. Can I convince you to—”

“Yes.” Sarah smiled back. “I’d love to have tea.”

“Great. Let me get my coat.” Jaspers disappeared into his office and a moment later returned in an old gray wool coat that had clearly seen better days. He thrust his hands into the pockets and stopped. “Right. The Domberg stuff should be sent to Bill Shane in Chicago and, if you could, try to get hold of Lundsdorf and see if I can steal some of his time tomorrow. Before I have to take off. Anytime before three.” Clara nodded as Jaspers turned back to Sarah. “Sorry.”

“Not a problem.”

“Good. Tea it is.”

Jaspers pulled his hand from his coat and gestured for Sarah to lead the way. Mrs. Huber was already busy at the desk as Sarah said good-bye and trotted down the stairs, Jaspers behind her, grabbing a scarf that hung on the banister. The two walked in silence until they reached the first floor, where the debate by the fire was in full flame. “Anything from One-twelve?” Jaspers poked his head through the archway to the sitting room. “We’re out of cookies.” The three faces turned, the youngest answering, “Some of those little crunchy ones with the green bits. That would be nice. If you could.” Jaspers nodded. “Don’t put yourself out for us,” one of the older men said. “Only if its no inconvenience. But yes, the crunchy ones. Good choice.” Jaspers pushed off from the archway and smiled.

“No inconvenience.” He pulled the door open and followed Sarah through the vestibule and out into the cold air. “That rather imposing triumvirate,” he said as they walked across the overpass, “all happen to be brilliant. If you want to know anything about the Middle East, those are the boys to go to.” Sarah nodded and pulled the collar of her coat tight around her neck as they took the steps down to the open quadrangle of the campus.

“And they’re all cookie enthusiasts.” She needed to shift the topic. “They were digging into a fresh batch when I arrived.”

“Didn’t you know that about academics?” Jaspers asked. “If Entenmann’s or Nabisco went out of business, the wheels of education in this country would come to a grinding halt.” He was about to continue when he noticed a familiar figure moving slowly not too far off in the distance. “Professor Lundsdorf,” he shouted, a slight quickening in his pace. He turned to Sarah as she tried to keep up. “I’m sorry. That’s the man I need to see tomorrow, and I could save myself some time if I set it up now. If it’s all right, this’ll just take a minute.” He continued to hurry them along.

“Why don’t you run ahead,” she said, slowing. “This pace is a little tough in heels.” Jaspers looked down at her shoes, back to her, and smiled in apology. “Don’t worry,” she added, “I’ll catch up.”

He raced off, his coat billowing behind in the wind before he reached the side of the older man. Sarah watched the two in conversation as she passed a small fountain on her way down to the central walkway. Nearing them, she saw the older man place a hand on Jaspers’s arm, the two a moment later lost in laughter. Sarah arrived to hear Jaspers say, “—without Parliament. Otherwise, there would have been legitimate claims of tyranny.”

“I am sure that is right. Yes, quite sure. So you will see what comes of it.” Sarah stood at Jaspers’s side.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jaspers said. “Professor Lundsdorf, this is Sarah Trent, from the State Department. For some reason, she thinks I’ll be able to help her unpack the New Right.” Here, at last, Sarah thought, was the old wizened character she had expected in Jaspers’s office. But once again, all fears were quickly allayed when the five-foot-five Lundsdorf, slender and somewhat frail from age, and tucked deep within several layers of clothing, took her hand and offered a little bow.

“Enchanted.” The twinkle in his light green eyes betrayed the spirit of a man who had once fancied himself something of a ladies’ man. Even now, Sarah was unsure whether the venerable professor was flirting with her.

“The pleasure is mine,” she said as he released her hand.

“How kind.
Herman
Lundsdorf,” he corrected Jaspers. “I have known this young man for fifteen years, seven—no, eight—as a colleague, and still he insists on calling me ‘Professor.’” He winked at Jaspers, who fidgeted under the scrutiny. “One day perhaps. One day, he will not see me as so frightening an old man, my dear. Be that as it may, you have certainly come to the right man, and I, unfortunately, must take my leave of your company and get out of this cold weather.” He nodded again to her and looked at Jaspers. “Tomorrow at two will be fine.” A short bow and Lundsdorf started to walk away, piping back over his shoulder, “And your coat—button it up if you want to live as long as I have.” With that, he tossed his hand into the air and waved good-bye. Jaspers started to laugh to himself.

“There goes my mentor. And mother. The combination is sometimes a little unsettling.” The two walked through the iron gates and crossed over to the west side of Broadway. “One minute he’s explaining German parliamentary procedure; the next, he’s telling me to button up.” He shook his head. “I hope your shoes are okay on the ice.”

“I’m fine. He seemed very sweet.”

“Very sweet and very rigorous. He forced me to finish my degree in three years. I never worked so hard in my life.”

“That’s a little quick, isn’t it?” asked Sarah.

“Lundsdorf wouldn’t have it any other way.” Jaspers dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. “He’s had it all planned out, ever since I got here. On average, it’s eight years. So yes, it was quick.”

“I’m impressed. That would make you—”

Jaspers smiled. “Thirty-three. And don’t be. I wrote an incredibly mediocre dissertation, which the grand old man and I spent a year and a half reworking into a book. He kept on saying, ‘Just get the degree, get the degree.’ He was right. I got it, got a job, finished the book….” He paused, his eyes distant for a moment. The smile returned. “Then I started doing stuff that was interesting.” He stopped. “It’s right here.” Jaspers opened the door to a small café that smelled of thick black coffee; he waited for her to step through the doorway with her overnight bag and briefcase.

“You don’t have to hold the door for me,” she said.

“You’re right. I don’t,” he replied without moving. “It’s another bit of Lundsdorf. German propriety. I’ve been trained too well.”

Sarah smiled. “In that case, all I can say is thank you.” She walked into the dimly lit room and spotted a table against the back wall. She led the way through the legs and elbows at the packed little tables and began to disentangle herself from her coat as Jaspers slipped his off and draped it over the back of his chair. He waited until she was seated to take his chair.

“More Lundsdorf?” she asked.

“Of course.” They sat. “I’d recommend a nice cup of tea and a piece of the raspberry chocolate cake, but not everybody’s a chocolate nut.”

“No, that sounds nice.” Everything was nice, she thought—the idea of tea, the funny little café that wanted so desperately to evoke images of Paris or Berlin—and the company. There was something very relaxing about young Dr. Jaspers. Something that seemed so … unacademic. It was the only way she knew how to describe it. Jaspers lifted his hand, raised two fingers in the direction of the waiter, and turned back to her. “I … always get the same thing,” he said almost apologetically. “They know me here.”

“Must be nice.”

“I guess it is.” He smiled and shifted gears. “So, Clara mentioned the State Department and my articles. I can only guess we’re here to talk about ‘The New Right and the rise of conservativism.’” The self-mocking tone in his voice prompted another smile from Sarah. “The title of a very dull article I wrote.”

“Not so dull.”

Jaspers’s eyes widened. “You’ve actually
read
it?”

“My job, Professor Jaspers—”

“Xander,” he interrupted. “Everyone calls me Xander.”

Again, she smiled. “One of the many I read …
Xander
. All very informative. And all quite different from the other articles on the subject. Your approach is … how shall I put this—”

“Unique? Probably the source.”

“Lundsdorf?” A waiter arrived with water.

Jaspers grinned and pulled a thin well-worn book from his jacket pocket, several rubber bands holding it together. He placed it on the table. “Even older.” The cover read
The Prince
. “Never leave home without it.”

“Machiavelli?” she asked.

“Don’t be so surprised. They were pretty bright in the sixteenth century. He was probably the brightest. Go ahead. Take a look.”

Sarah picked up the book and gently unloosed its bands. The front cover came away in her hand, an inscription filling the page: “I’ll always be with you, Fiona.” She looked up to see Jaspers’s eyes lost in the words. All traces of the smile were gone. She let the moment pass. “I’m … sure he was.” She placed the book on the table, delicately slipping the cover on top. “The brightest, I mean.”

He looked up, nodded. “Yes.” He reached over and took the book. “He was.”

“And now he’s a man for all centuries,” she said, watching as Jaspers stretched the rubber bands around the flaking pages, his smile returning.

“The nice thing about theory, Ms. Trent, is that it can apply to any number of situations.” He put the book in his pocket. “It’s the way you apply it that makes the difference.”

“And your friend Machiavelli just happens to fit in with the New Right?”

“And the junk-bond market, and several LBOs, even a separatist group in Idaho—I’m not the only one whose seen a connection. I just keep it theoretical. It’s everyone else who tries to put it into practice.”

“Tell me, Professor—Xander—for those of us not quite so well versed, how exactly does someone use a book like that—”

“Oh ye of little faith,” he cut in. “You’d be surprised. There’s a group of young guns right now who are convinced that Machiavelli tells them how to play the market. One of them’s just written a book—
The Machiavellian Manager.
Catchy, if a bit humorous.”

“And you’re not convinced?”

Jaspers shrugged. “Let’s put it this way—it’s not the Machiavelli I know. Theories are … susceptible to
broad
interpretation. That’s what makes them so seductive. Look, I understand—probably better than most—what it is to ponder the practical implications. Sometimes, they’re hard to dismiss. But at a certain point, you have to recognize their limitations. Wall Street hasn’t seen that yet. They think it’s about brute force, deception—”

“‘Better to be feared than loved,’” she interrupted.