The Sinai Secret

by Gregg Loomis

  "I hope, Mr. Reilly," Pierson began in accented but understandable English, "I hope you will accept a great apology for what happened tonight. This is not a normal, er, thing to happen in Amsterdam."

  "I'm sure," Lang said.

  "Amsterdam is a peaceful city..."

  It should be. Everyone was either stoned, just laid, or both.

  "... and we at the university greatly appreciate the donations of your foundation."

  Now Lang understood the professor's consternation. A chemistry professor was replaceable, but a generous contributor...

  The Dutch were a practical people.

  An older man Lang had not seen before interrupted. "Forgive me. I am Police Inspector Van Decker."

  Rotund but not obese, pug nose, dark eyes peering out from under bushy eyebrows like those of a small animal hesitant to leave its burrow. Other than contemporary dress, the man could have stepped out of Rembrandt's Night Watch, one of those burghers who paid the artist to be depicted with others of the city's volunteer police force.

  He handed Lang a card. "You are Lang Reilly?"

  Lang studied the card before putting it in his wallet. "I am."

  "You knew Dr. Yadish?"

  Lang shook his head. "Actually I never met the man. He was recommended by a friend."

  Eyebrows arched like bushy caterpillars. "You hire people you do not know?"

  Lang thought a moment, composing his answer. "Inspector, I am president of the Janice and Jeff Holt Foundation, a multinational charity. We support largely medical care and research for children in third-world countries, but occasionally other scientific causes such as the one Dr. Yadish was working on. I doubt I personally know a dozen of the people actually involved with our projects worldwide. We're fortunate to have people on site like Louis deVille here to keep an eye on things."

  Van Decker turned his attention to Louis. "How long was Dr. Yadish employed by you before he died in Bruges?"

  Louis thought a moment. "Not quite two years. But he really was not working for the foundation. He was a professor of chemistry here. We gave him a grant, money to do the research."

  Van Decker's expression indicated that he was unsure of the distinction. The universal policeman's notebook appeared. "He was working on some sort of fuel?"

  "A replacement for fossil fuels."

  There was no doubt the inspector didn't understand.

  "Gasoline, petrol," Lang volunteered. "He was looking for a substitute."

  The policeman made a note. "That would be good?"

  Louis nodded. "If such a fuel could be replenished like, say, hydrogen, yes."

  "He was working on hydrogen?"

  Louis shook his head. "No. There's already a lot of study going on in that area."

  Van Decker looked up from his pad. "Then what?"

  "I... I don't get involved in the actual research. I do ask for reports. All I know is that he was experimenting with platinum group metals."

  That was the first Lang had heard of the subject of Yadish's work. But then, he could not have been specific about any of the foundation's projects.

  "What are platinum group metals?" the inspector asked.

  Louis shrugged. "I am not a scientist, but I understand the group has extraordinary strength, and is used in surgical and dental instruments."

  Van Decker carefully wrote that down for reasons beyond Lang's imagination before he rolled a wrist over and checked his watch. "It is late and you must be tired. Other questions can wait until we finish with our examination of the room. Perhaps you would be so kind as to join me at my office in the morning?"

  Surprised by the sudden concern, Lang readily agreed.

  Walking back to the hotel rooms Louis had reserved, Lang asked, "What are platinum group metals, and what do they have to do with any kind of fuel?"

  Louis, looking nervously over his shoulder every few minutes, admitted that he didn't know.

  "Call whatever scientific guru you need to and find out."

  "Guru?" Louis sounded as if it might be some sort of animal.

  "Professor, doctor, somebody."

  Louis was looking around again. "What happened to the man who ran away, the other man you shot?"

  "Had a boating accident." Lang pulled out his wallet and extracted a card. "Which reminds me ..." He scribbled a series of numbers and handed it to Louis. "This is the registration number—was the registration number— of a canal boat named Manna. Call whomever you need to, but I want to know to whom that boat belonged."

  "Belonged?"

  "It was the one involved in the accident."

  Louis stopped under a streetlight. "You did this yourself?"

  "OnStar service wasn't available."

  "OnStar?"

  Louis looked at his employer in a manner Lang had never seen in the Belgian before. Not only was there the usual respect but something else. Lang couldn't tell if it was awe or fear.

  Perhaps both.

  NINETEEN

  Police Headquarters

  Elandsgracht 117

  Amsterdam

  The Next Morning

  Before arriving at the address on Van Decker's card, Lang had insisted on stopping at the same business store where Louis had made copies the day before, leaving the Belgian to wait on the street. Minutes later he emerged, and the two proceeded to the policeman's office.

  "The store back there," Louis asked as Lang emerged. "What...?"

  "Unfinished business, Louis," Lang said in a tone that encouraged no more questions. "Now, let's see what the good inspector wants."

  Located on the outskirts of the Central Canal Ring, the four-story building's only distinction was the red, white, and blue stripes of the Dutch flag hanging limply over the door. Inside, the place could have been a police station anywhere. People, in and out of uniform, hurriedly swirled past to the accompaniment of ringing phones and the hum of electronics, Just across the threshold a metal detector blocked entry. Emptying his pockets, Louis asked for directions to the office of Inspector Van Decker.

  They were directed to the third floor, which in the

  United States would have been the fourth. Europeans did not count the ground level, a custom going back to a time when homeowners were taxed by the number of stories. Lang always wondered how American cities, always cash- strapped, had missed that source of revenue.

  The elevator could have been timed with a calendar. When it finally delivered them to the top floor, someone had alerted the Dutch detective. He was waiting as the doors creaked open. He greeted them with what could have been a "good morning," turned, and led them to the end of the hall.

  His office was sparse even by government standards: two uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs, multiple filing cabinets, and a plank floor that had seen a lot more foot traffic than polish. A computer terminal and keyboard shared a desktop with a single file folder and a telephone. An unmistakably government-issued swivel chair squeaked a greeting as Van Decker lowered himself into it while motioning them toward the two remaining seats.

  The chairs were every bit as hard as they looked.

  Van Decker produced a pair of eyeglasses from a coat pocket and opened the file, a blunt signal that the inspector intended to get right down to business.

  The spectacles were more for show than sight. They rested at the end of the man's nose as he continued to scan the file before lifting his gaze. "You said you shot both men with one of their own weapons?"

  Lang was unsure at whom the question was directed, so he kept quiet, certain he had made no such statement.

  Louis wriggled in his chair in a doomed effort to get settled against the unforgiving wood. "I said Monsieur Reilly did."

  Van Decker's gaze shifted to Lang like a hawk watching its prey. "You attacked two men with weapons and disarmed them?"

  "I got the gun away from one of them. It went off while he was trying to wrestle it back. The other man was attempting to get a shot. I got lucky."

  Van Decker's eyes were hoo
ded by the heavy brows as he lifted his head slightly. "I would agree, Mr Reilly, very lucky. Particularly since the dead man was not shot with either pistol we found. The only bullets from those weapons, we dug out of the walls and tables. And there was no indication the fatal shot was fired from the close range you suggest, no powder burns."

  Now Lang understood why the policeman had been solicitous about calling it a night: He'd wanted test results before a full interview. Van Decker was sly indeed.

  Lang feigned surprise. "I... I'm not sure what you're saying, Inspector."

  Van Decker clasped his hands together, the fingers intertwined, as he leaned forward. "I'm saying, Mr. Reilly, that I know there was another gun involved, and I want to know where it is. We here in the Netherlands do not allow our citizens—or visitors—to carry firearms like American cowboys. Possession of a gun without a permit is a very serious crime. And we grant very few permits. What I want to know, Mr. Reilly, is where is the weapon that killed the man last night? If you produce it, we may overlook the crime of having such a thing on your person. If not..."

  Lang stared back in what he hoped passed for surprised innocence. "I have no gun, Inspector. The metal detector downstairs would have discovered it."

  Van Decker sighed, the sound of a man faced with a simple task made difficult. "Very well, Mr. Reilly. I think it only fair to warn you your hotel room is being thoroughly searched. If the gun that killed the man last night is found..."

  His voice trailed off, the consequences evidently too dire to describe.

  Lang slouched as much as the confines of his chair would allow, a man totally at ease. "I understand, Inspector, but I have no reason to worry."

  Louis was less successful in ignoring what he thought was surely about to happen. Lang glared at him, and the Belgian turned his head so the inspector would have difficulty seeing his concern.

  "An odd thing happened last night," Van Decker continued. "As I said, we do not allow unrestricted ownership of handguns here. Yet less than three kilometers from the university there was a boating accident. The victim had been shot with a bullet that matched the one we took from the dead man at the laboratory. I have been in this job nearly fifteen years, Mr. Reilly, and I can count few evenings where unrelated shootings have taken place. Quite a coincidence, would you not agree?"

  Lang nodded. "Just goes to show that gun control isn't all it's supposed to be. As we say in the States, 'When guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns'"

  Van Decker gave him a sour look, certain he was being made fun of, as indeed he was.

  Lang stood. "If there's nothing else, Inspector..."

  The policeman didn't bother to get up. "Not at the moment, Mr. Reilly, not at the moment. Please go about your business. For the peace of this city, I hope that business is elsewhere."

  Outside, Louis had to hurry to match Lang's quick steps. "There was no... no point in his having us come to his office," he said petulantly. "All he did was make accusions he cannot prove."

  Lang smiled. "The point, Louis, is that the wily old fox simply wanted to flush out the weapon that fired the bullets they took from the dead man and the guy on the boat."

  "Flush?" Louis was clearly thinking of some sort of plumbing mechanism.

  "Flush. Obviously I wouldn't be so stupid as to try to sneak a pistol past the metal detectors at the cop shop; so, if I had such a thing, I'd hide it in my hotel room. Or ask the concierge for a safety-deposit box."

  Louis stopped in his tracks, a grin dividing his face. "A safety-deposit box or a mailbox, one like they rent at the business center where we stopped."

  "At the business center where we are going just before we catch the train back to Brussels. I only hope I don't get any mail that would cause them to look in the box I rented between now and then."

  TWENTY

  At the Same Time

  Van Decker put down the phone as he stood in front of the office's single window and watched the two men cross the nearby canal bridge. He was not surprised his men had found nothing remarkable in Mr. Reilly's hotel room. The American was too smart to make things that easy.

  There was no doubt in the mind of the Dutch policeman that Reilly knew more about the connection between Dr. Yadish's murder and last night's shootings than he was telling. The DNA from the man in the boating accident would likely match that in the bloody trail that began outside the university, just as the slugs from both men would surely match any weapon that could be traced to the American.

  The question was not Reilly's involvement; it was, in what?

  Van Decker did not like unanswered questions, and he intended to find the solution to this one. That was why he had dispatched a number of plainclothes officers. Not to follow Reilly. If the man was as sharp as Van Decker thought, the tails would be spotted. Instead, each man or woman was simply to note Reilly's passing on his way back to his hotel. If he had hidden the gun somewhere, he would likely retrieve it before leaving the Netherlands.

  Once Reilly was arrested in possession of a firearm, he might be more cooperative.

  The policeman sat back down behind his desk. All he had to do was wait.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Intercontinental Amstel Hotel

  Prof Tulpplen 1

  Amsterdam

  Thirty Minutes Later

  Lang ignored the two tiers of pillars, the arches, and the gilded ceiling of the lobby as he and Louis headed for the elevators. The elegance of the suite they shared drew less attention than its condition. Drawers to period reproductions hung open, oil paintings hung askew on fabric- covered walls, and the hand-carved canopied bed in Lang's room was unmade, spilling its linen onto the rich carpeting.

  Van Decker's crew had made no attempt at subtlety.

  Intentionally, Lang guessed. The evidence of their search was designed to intimidate.

  He was in the process of returning items to the single small bag he had brought when a cough drew his attention to the open door. A smallish man in the hotel's livery stood in the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Reilly," he said once he was certain Lang saw him. "I am Luyken, the hotel's manager. I trust you enjoyed your stay?"

  The mart spoke impeccably, as Lang would have expected in the city's finest hotel. He even had an English accent.

  Lang nodded. "We did."

  He waited, certain the manager had not come to check on the accommodations.

  "This is awkward for me," Luyken finally managed. "But I must ask you to terminate your stay. The police... the cars, the uniforms, they upset our other guests. I'm sure you understand."

  Lang closed his bag just as Louis came from his bedroom. "Of course. We'll check out as soon as you have the bill ready."

  The hotel manager glanced away, embarrassed. "It is at the desk right now." He turned to go, then spun around. "And thank you for your understanding."

  Louis's eyes followed the man into the hall. "What... ?"

  "We're leaving at the request of management."

  Louis eyebrows arched in a question. "The police?"

  Lang picked up his bag. "We were leaving anyway." He gave the room a final inspection. "Nicest place I've ever been thrown out of."

  Outside, Lang took the taxi summoned by the doorman, ordering it to the train station.

  At the station he paid the cab as Louis took a bag in each hand and headed inside.

  Lang grasped his arm, watching the car in which they had arrived. Instead of joining the queue of taxis outside the station, it drove off—perhaps returning to a designated area, perhaps having complied with instructions from the police.

  Lang gently tugged Louis toward the line of waiting cabs. "I've never really seen the city." He signaled to the hack first in line. "And there's no time like now."

  After ten minutes of aimless cruising, Lang was certain the cab was not being followed. He directed it to the copy shop, where he retrieved his weapon before returning to the station and making the next train
to Brussels.

  In their first-class compartment, Louis finally relaxed. "You have avoided the police now, yes?"

  Lang leaned back in the seat. "For the moment, anyway."

  The monotony of the steel wheels against iron rails was hypnotic. Lang was about to doze off when his BlackBerry beeped. Only Sara had that number, and it was unlikely she was calling just to see if he was enjoying himself.

  "Yes, Sara?"

  "A couple of matters, Lang," she began without preamble. "That detective, Morse, calls here daily. Won't tell me what he wants other than to see you as soon as you get back."

  "I'm not sure when that might be."

  "I am. You forgot you agreed to take part in the bar's CLE on criminal defense this Friday."

  Lang groaned. "Surely—"

  "Surely you'll do it. If you want to continue to practice, that is. As usual, you're behind."

  Lang nodded his defeat. "Okay, okay. I'll be there."

  CLE.

  Continuing legal education, the Bar Association's greatest boon since Georgia had required all lawyers to become members upon passing the bar forty years ago. The association, like all bureaucracies, had taken on a life of its own not necessarily dedicated to the well-being of its members.

  The bar made about four hundred dollars per lawyer a year for twelve hours of mind-numbing tedium. Most lectures were a cure for chronic insomnia. Any educational value would be—and was—equaled by simply reading current court decisions and statutes. Besides, no lawyer was likely to reveal tricks and tactics he had learned the hard way: that Judge Biddle down in Macon, Georgia, never granted attorney's fees on discovery motions, or

  that any questionable bit of evidence was best presented while Judge Whipple in Augusta was dozing after his lunchtime nip at the bottle.

  Since the big firms largely controlled the association, they had quickly obtained the right to conduct CLE on their own, thereby avoiding an inconvenient loss of billable hours. In all his years of practice Lang had never heard an opponent from one of these legal behemoths beg off of a deposition because he was taking CLE that day.