Free The Overseer by Jonathan Rabb Page A

waters. That’s what a first trial is. Why would they refer to Washington as a—”
    “Because they wanted to convince me to forget about Eisenreich.”
    “ They mentioned Eisenreich?” Xander could do little to mask his surprise. “How could they have known about Eisenreich? Even I didn’t make the connection until …” Fear crossed his face. “Oh my God . Of course.” He looked back at the screen. “They a re Eisenreich.”
     
    Xander paced along the aisle created by bed and heater, a half-filled glass of scotch wedged firmly in his hands. Two steps, turn, two steps, turn. He seemed entranced, stopping every so often to lift his head and stare directly at Sarah, who was on the bed, trying to sort through some of the papers he had brought. After a rather uncomfortable five minutes, he slumped into the chair by the window and drained the alcohol in his glass. Aware that the strange routine had come to an end, she looked up.
    “I can’t make heads or tails of these. Half of them aren’t in English.”
    “German and Italian,” Xander answered, his tone distant.
    “Right. Look, Professor—Xander,” she said, trying to reassure, “I realize this isn’t exactly the sort of thing you deal with every day—”
    “That’s putting it mildly.” He placed his glass on the bureau. “If you recall, I do theory, Ms. Trent.”
    “Yes, I—”
    “I sit in my nice little office, read lots of books and articles, and then I write about it. That’s it. I don’t do anything that might warrant an attack, professional or not. I suppose I expect someone else to see how the theories pan out.” He stopped. “Which raises a very interesting question. Who exactly are you?”
    “What?”
    “I don’t mean to be rude, but the little I know about State, especially its research branch, has nothing to do with dark alleys or professional assailants. You’re like … academics. You don’t get involved.”
    “I’m aware of that.” She paused and looked over at him.
    “Meaning …”
    “I’m involved. So are you.”
    “That’s not an answer.”
    “I might be able to figure out why if I knew what Eisenreich meant.”
    “I see.” He waited for more; when none came, he continued. “Look, I’m happy to talk about Eisenreich. That’s why I came. But I’d prefer to know if I’m dealing with the CIA or the FBI or whatever acronym is the most popular these days—”
    “You’re dealing with me,” she said.
    “That’s cryptic.”
    “No, it’s safer.” She stared at him. “Eisenreich, Professor. How does it tie in to Washington?”
    He returned the stare, trying to maintain his edge. After half a minute without success, he let out a long breath, then shook his head. “All right.” He sat back. “Eisenreich. Not an it. A he . Swiss monk. Died about four hundred and fifty years ago under some rather unpleasant circumstances—”
    “A monk ? How does a monk—”
    “Because of a treatise he wrote on political power.”
    Now Sarah shook her head. “A book is supposed to explain what happened today? Forgive me, Professor, but how dangerous—”
    “Could a manuscript be?” He leaned toward her. “It’s never the document itself, Ms. Trent. It’s how people use it. Remember Machiavelli? As long as they trust its message, a piece of theory can create all sorts of trouble. If you need further proof, you can always flip to another station.”
    “You’re telling me a manuscript did that ?” she said, pointing to the screen. “That’s sabotage on a very sophisticated level, Professor. We’re talking about computer manipulation, high-tech explosives, acts of terrorism no sixteenth-century theorist could possibly have understood.”
    “He didn’t have to understand—”
    “A major U.S. city is on the verge of declaring a state of emergency. I find it hard to believe that a manuscript could be responsible.”
    “Don’t. Peter the Great kept a copy of a book by a man named Pufendorf by his bedside.