Free The Overseer by Jonathan Rabb Page B

Wrote in his diary that it was the key to every political decision he made. Charles the Fifth had Marcus Aurelius. Cromwell, Hobbes. And Luther’s ninety-five theses have kept Rome on edge for the last four hundred years. Remember, these people didn’t have television or radio; Oprah didn’t tell them which books to read. So they had to find their own guideposts. Those who couldn’t read found theirs in the church; those who could found theirs in books; and those who sought power found theirs in a specific type of manuscript, a few of which have provoked some of the darker moments in history.” He placed the remote on the set. “Can you tell me who invented television, Ms. Trent?” Sarah shook her head. “Exactly. But we all remember Guttenburg and his printing press.”
    “Then why this book?”
    “Because it was supposed to make the Medici masters of Europe. Machiavelli had offered them only Florence.” He seemed suddenly struck by something. Almost to himself, he said, “One city wasn’t enough.”
    She watched as his eyes continued to wander. “Why ‘supposed’?”
    It took him a moment to regain focus. “What? Oh. Because … we’re not sure it exists.”
    “ What ?” Her head snapped forward. “He never wrote it?”
    “We don’t know. There’s a lot of … speculation.”
    “Then speculate.”
     
    W OLF P OINT, M ONTANA, F EBRUARY 26, 8:42 P.M. Laurence Sedgewick stood on the veranda, his hands resting on the rail, the night hovering just below zero. He enjoyed the cold, his eyes tightening at the sudden gusts from across the open field. A shock of white hair—somewhat premature for a man only in his mid-fifties—lent an added distinction to a face that tended to draw stares for its extraordinary good looks: the high cheekbones, the supple lips, the gentle smile that seemed always to grace them.
    Sedgewick checked his watch. The last car had been due ten minutes ago.
    The sight of headlights bouncing through the woods allayed his concerns. Within a minute, the car appeared at the gate, its exhaust swirling in a gray cloud along the dirt path. As it pulled up, Sedgewick moved to the steps.
    “Why the delay, Ms. Grant?” No greeting. No words to acknowledge a job well done.
    “Turbulence” was her equally curt response. She waited for him to press further. When he merely nodded, she moved past him and into the house. The two young men followed. Inside, all three placed their bags and coats in a hall closet and stepped through the archway to the living room. A fire was at full blaze, the old man at its side, stoking in herky-jerky movements.
    “I trust you had an easy trip.” He thrust one last time at the wood, watched as the flame burst toward the flue, and then turned. “The car—what happened with Mr. Eggart’s car? Why was it not in place?”
    All three looked at one another, then at him. Janet Grant spoke. “It was on … Thirteenth. He never showed up.”
    “Yes, I understand that.” He moved to the chair nearest the fire and sat. “I am simply asking a question.”
    “Did you know he’d been compromised?” Sedgewick appeared at the arch.
    “Only … once we were in the air,” she replied.
    “But you were instructed to maintain radio silence.” The old man spoke with little emotion. “How, then, could you have heard?” The woman did not answer. “I suspect that you failed to do as you were told because you were aware of your earlier mistake on Twelfth Street. Am I not correct, Ms. Grant?”
    She kept her gaze straight ahead. “Yes.”
    “At last we have the truth.” He stared into the fire. “Such a mistake can be costly. And, of course, there is always the matter of rectifying it.”
    “I understand—”
    “You understand very little. Otherwise, this situation would never have arisen.” The cold directness of the old man’s response caught her off guard. He turned to her. “Your father has accepted the responsibility for your actions. He has always