by Gregg Loomis
Without thinking, Gratz grasped the Mauser in his pocket. "Let me worry about that, Herr Doktor."
Heim nodded before scurrying out of the door. "I will think upon it."
Heim left and Otto Dortmann entered, a small canvas grocery sack in one hand, cell phone in the other. "I have received a call from Willie."
It took a second for Gratz to recall who Willie was.
"The man in Cracow," Otto said, boosting Gratz's memory. "You remember: you paid Willie to go to Cracow and keep a watch for . . . what's his name?"
"Reilly, the lawyer who lives next to the child. Or the child's father. The father has been consulting with Reilly, our man in Atlanta tells us. Sooner or later I figured someone would make a connection between the dead Jew Mustawitz and the camp and that someone would come to look at the records. Now we will see if that is why Herr Reilly is in Cracow."
Otto was pulling off his gloves. "Friedrich, you best hope we find the art and jewelry and that there is a lot of it. You will need to pay their share to the man in Atlanta, to Willie, to Dr. Heim, and to me."
Again, Gratz's hand touched the Mauser. "I have taken that into consideration, believe me."
CHAPTER 56
The Vatican
The Same Time
CARDINAL PETRO DILUCCI, HEAD OF THE Office of the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith, adjusted his glasses and looked up after Father Steinmann had finished. "There is no written or electronic record of this?"
The Jesuit shook his head, answering in Italian. "Other than the newspaper account and whatever phone record exists of my call to the Atlanta bishop, no, Your Eminence."
The cardinal waved a dismissive hand. "We may consider whatever record the Vatican switchboard has will disappear as soon as this conversation terminates." He leaned forward in his chair, blue-veined hands gripping the armrests. "And you learned of the kidnapping attempt by electronically browsing the Atlanta paper?"
Steinmann bobbed his head again. "Yes, Your Eminence. I began doing so after I read of this so-called reincarnation."
The Cardinal scowled at the mention of the word. "And what do you make of that?"
"I understand America is frequently a lawless place."
"But you do not believe it was a random act by ordinary criminals who wished to ransom the child."
A statement, not a question.
"No, Your Eminence. I tend to doubt coincidences."
A frigid smile. "An interesting characteristic for one sworn to uphold the faith. But then, what do you think of it?"
"I am not sure. I immediately dispatched one of our, er, operatives, to Atlanta to watch whatever developments might take place. He saw the child being taken away to the mother's great distress by a woman brandishing some sort of credentials. So far he has been unable to ascertain exactly what sort. Hours later, the child's home was swarming with people who clearly represented some authority, the local police and perhaps the American FBI."
"And the child?"
"He has not been seen since."
The cardinal's fingers drummed a slow tattoo on the chair's arms as he stared at some point over Steinmann's head. "Your most likely scenario?"
"Since the authorities, police, FBI, whatever are still in the home of the boy's parents, they must be waiting for something, perhaps a ransom demand."
"That you do not believe will be forthcoming."
Again, a statement.
"No, not this late. I think the kidnappers have some other purpose in mind."
The cardinal leaned forward. "Such as?"
The Jesuit shrugged. "I can only make the wildest guesses. Perhaps they wish to learn more about this man the boy claims he was in another life."
"And what would make a Jew prisoner in a Nazi death camp so interesting?"
"I confess to being baffled, Your Eminence."
Cardinal diLucci shot a cuff from the sleeve of his scarlet robe and checked a jewel-encrusted Rolex. "We have but little time before I must meet with His Holiness on another matter. But tell me, have there been other events of which I should be aware?"
"One, the significance of which I am also unsure. The boy's parents have apparently sought the help of a neighbor, an attorney named Langford Reilly."
The cardinal massaged his chin. "Should I be familiar with the name?"
Steinmann shook his head again. "Not necessarily, but I took the liberty of running that name through the Church's most secret archives."
"And?"
"It is unconfirmed but believed that several years back this Reilly had a conflict with the Pegasus organization."
DiLucci momentarily forgot his appointment. "Conflict? And he still lives? How is this possible? Pegasus . . ."
"Is not known for resolving conflicts peacefully or in a manner unsatisfactory to them," the Jesuit completed the thought. "Not only is he still alive, but every year there is a huge transfer of funds believed to belong to Pegasus to the charitable foundation Reilly operates."
The other man was silent for a moment, taking in the improbability of what he had just heard. "This Reilly person is someone we must take very seriously. What is his involvement?"
"Again, Your Eminence, I fear I do not know, but he is at this very moment in Cracow, the closest international airport to Auschwitz, the place the dead Jew was incarcerated. He departed Atlanta yesterday and our man obtained the information from the international flight plan filed by his pilot which may be called up on the Internet."
"We have people in Cracow. Have them find out why he is there." The cardinal stood. "But warn them to be careful, very careful. Remember, my son, the Church has fought the heresy of reincarnation for eight hundred years or more. We can no longer take direct action against the heathens who worship multiarmed deities and against polytheistic pagans. But when an English-speaking child of good and normal parents claims to have experienced a previous life, it is more likely to be taken seriously by our parishioners." He paused, thinking. "And we both know that acceptance of reincarnation, that the soul finds another host rather than going to God, could lead our flock to wonder what other Eastern beliefs may also be valid. Fortunately, the Church has been quietly and successfully lobbying to strengthen the patient-psychiatrist privilege. Now psychologists' and psychoanalysts' lips are sealed when one of their overimaginative subjects fabricates a previous life."
"As you mentioned, there are other religions that preach such things."
"The Church long ago swung too far in the direction of giving dignity to merely pagan beliefs and rituals. No matter the tolerance preached by the last pope, a good, if misguided, man, we cannot allow some sort of serial existence to replace the Resurrection as promised by Our Lord. Besides, as you know, we have recently obtained material that points toward the source of the heretical idea of reincarnation. The Church can hardly afford to give it any recognition or credence at all."
Steinmann bobbed his head. "Recently" in Vatican terms could include most of the last century. "I understand, Your Eminence."
"I do not intend to question your methods. This is definitely a case where the ends justify the means. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Your Eminence."
"One final matter, and then I must go: you are sure no record of your activities in regard to this matter exist?"
"Quite, Your Eminence."
"Be certain it continues so. The handling of this matter will remain between the two of us."
"And His Holiness?"
"Is to know nothing of it until the matter is satisfactorily resolved. If something goes wrong, he must not be connected to it. Sometimes, Heinz, the greatest service is in deeds done in secret."
Steinmann bowed his head. "Thank you for your time, Your Eminence."
"Prego."
The ends justify the means.
I do not intend to question your methods.
Carte blanche.
The Church had once been able to use efficient and direct methods to combat heresy. The Church commande
d armies and countries. Today he was just one man, one priest, but his methods would be just as efficient, even if now illegal. An unbending obedience to the pope, the pontiff whose cardinal had given a direct, if subtle, order.
An order to be obeyed.
He realized he was very much by himself in handling this matter. Any gaffes would be his and his alone. As a Jesuit, absolute obedience to the pope would require him to serve in freezing winters of Greenland or the unbearable heat of Africa. If he failed, he might well have that opportunity.
Or face criminal charges.
But the law could not touch his soul.
Absolute obedience, the fourth knot in the rope around his waist. Poverty, chastity, and obedience were the first three, the ones a normal priest wore. The fourth, worn by Jesuits alone, was absolute obedience to the pope. Steinmann's fist grasped the fourth knot.
CHAPTER 57
Szewska 29
Cracow, Poland
1:06 P.M.
The Same Day
CRACOW HAD BEEN THE CAPITAL OF Poland until the reigning monarch moved his court to Warsaw in 1596. From the window of his small hotel room, Lang could see the busy Mediaeval Market Square, first laid out in 1257 and dominated by the ebulliently Renaissance Cloth Hall, the origin of the city's wealth and importance. Today its ground floor was the site of cafés and small shops, and the upper level housed a museum of nineteenth-century paintings.
Lang had completed the tour of the two children's clinics that would give legitimate cover to the trip and further his charitable ventures. Transportation by private jet often drew the scrutiny of IRS agents whose annual salary would hardly top off the Gulfstream's tanks with Jet A. The thought of America's Gestapo meddling in one's affairs was never pleasant.
On the positive side, the medical facilities in question had turned out to be legitimate candidates for the foundation's largesse. One, dedicated to combating child tuberculosis, would receive state-of-the-art X-ray equipment to replace the antiquated machines typical of the former Communist Bloc health-care systems. The equipment that the clinic was currently using looked as old as the Market Square. The second clinic, specializing in the treatment of burns, would get a stipend to bring in a preeminent German specialist to spend six months training the staff in modern treatment procedures. The burdens of the state system afforded them neither time nor money to acquire any specialized skills. A great part of the foundation's monies went to minimize the detrimental impact of the state bureaucracy on medical care. Lang's sister, Janet, had been a juvenile orthopedist, dedicating her life to bettering the lives of children across the Third World. Her adopted son had been as close to a child as Lang ever had expected to have, as well as his best buddy. It was their deaths in a murderous blast that had set him on the road to unmasking the Pegasus organization, and, ultimately, extorting the funds that made the foundation possible.
Janet would be proud of him.
Now, with time to play tourist, Lang bundled into a coat, muffler, and wool watch cap and went outside, tucking his cane under an arm. Along the edges of sidewalks, last night's snow glared in the bright cold of a pale winter sun. Circling the square, he paused to look up at the Gothic tower that was the last vestige of the original town hall. From there, he proceeded clockwise to a church whose twin towers were the tallest structure in sight.
By now, the cold was becoming uncomfortable. He crossed the street to the Cloth Hall and took a seat in one of the cafés. He was reaching for the menu when his hand stopped. Seated two tables away were two men he had seen earlier that day. They hadn't been together then. One had been reading a newspaper in the lobby of the hotel when Lang had returned from visiting the clinics. The other had been outside just a few minutes ago, apparently photographing the baroque homes lining the square.
Both were large, probably two hundred pounds or more. One had the flattened nose of someone who had either played a rough sport or been in a fight or two. Under their coats, they wore bulky sweaters and knockoff American jeans. Both wore well-worn brogans, the type that could easily have steel-tipped toes. They held menus but their attention was on the room itself, the constant vigilance of someone who did not intend to be surprised. It was the mannerism of men anticipating, if not exactly expecting, trouble.
Earlier, Lang had hardly noticed either, but seeing them together set off an alarm that had long ago been honed by Agency training in the finer arts of paranoia. Possibly the duo were old friends meeting for a late lunch. But what were the odds Lang would have seen both of them separately? Too long to ignore other, more sinister possibilities.
Pretending to read the incomprehensible words of the menu, he scanned the room slowly. He, the two men, an elderly couple, and a pair of white-haired grandmothers lingering over tea. But the two men had taken the table between Lang and the exit. He could not leave without them seeing in which direction he went. Professionals or another coincidence?
Lang became aware of someone just behind him and jerked his head around to stare into the face of a startled waiter.
"Do you speak English?"
The man looked puzzled for a moment as though considering the possibility that he did indeed speak English. He then shook his head, retreating into what Lang guessed was the kitchen.
Actually, Lang remembered a smattering of several Slavic languages from his days spent at a desk across the street from the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, reading Communist newspapers. He was probably still good enough to decode a menu in Russian, but not Polish. He also spoke passable German and understandable, if execrably pronounced, French. Lang believed keeping such linguistic skills to himself to be wise. No point in advising the world of the tongues he could at least understand.
The waiter returned with an older man, one Lang guessed to be the proprietor.
"Englis'? I speak a little," the new arrival said with a heavy accent. "You 'Merican, know persons in Chicago? I have daughter in Chicago."
"I'm afraid I'm from Atlanta."
The man made no effort to hide his disappointment as he bent over Lang's shoulder and translated several items. Lang had barszcz czerwony, beet root soup, followed by kabanos sausages with potatoes, all washed down with a beer he could have pronounced no better than his soup or entree. The pair at the table by the door were still occupied with their stew when Lang left.
With the rest of the day on his hands, he wandered upstairs to the painting museum. Nymphs, centaurs, virgins, and other mythical creatures languished in sylvan glens or beside reflecting forest pools. The Poles, or at least those in the nineteenth century, seemed obsessed with sensuality, if not outright sex.
But then, who wasn't?
Better these chubby and scantily clad women, Lang thought, than the meaningless daubings of paint splatter, unrecognizable forms, and geometric patterns of color that passed for art in contemporary society. Better yet, there was no sculpture, modern or otherwise.
Outside, shadows were extending their dark arms eastward. A number of spots were already in darkness, and streetlights were beginning to blink into life. Lang had forgotten how early twilight came to places this far north. Twilight and a cold that made his throat burn with each breath.
He had exited the museum on the side from which he had a view of his hotel down an intersecting side street. The area he was crossing was open, a place for outdoor cafés and drink stands in warmer weather. He had almost reached the street when a man stepped out of one of the larger pools of darkness. He was one of the men from the café. At the same time, footsteps crunching on the crust of ice covering the snow behind Lang announced the presence of the second.
A hasty glance toward the street took in a number of people passing by. A few vendors were braving the cold to sell hot chestnuts, sausages, and cheap souvenirs from stands on wheels. It was unlikely these two were going to try anything violent in front of so many potential witnesses.
Or so Lang hoped.
But he wasn't going to bet his life on it.
Pretending
to study the architecture of the buildings surrounding the square, he walked with deliberate steps to the street. His followers got no closer but had now positioned themselves so that keeping the present distance from them would require him to enter the street where his hotel was located, a street not nearly as full of people as the square. He was being herded like a straying sheep. Whoever these men were, they knew what they were doing.
Still feigning unawareness, Lang crossed the street and stopped behind a couple purchasing a bag of chestnuts just roasted on a glowing charcoal brazier. As anticipated, Lang's two shadows followed, drawing closer. The fact that they seemed indifferent to being recognized meant either they meant him no harm or they had no intent of him being in a position to identify them later. Lang was still not willing to gamble on the former.
The customers in front of Lang received a paper cup of nuts steaming in the cold, paid, and moved on. Lang stepped up to the smoldering grill. The red glow reflected from the vendor's face like a demon stoking the fires of hell. Warmth from the fire caressed Lang, momentarily displacing the chill. He stuck his hand in a pocket as though searching for change. If his two watchers were going to make a move, the moment one hand was so occupied would be it.
Sure enough, they moved within arms' reach, one actually taking Lang's free arm in his hand. "Mr. Reilly? I . . ."
The sentence was never finished.
Snatching his arm free, Lang sidestepped the brazier, kicking it over. Red hot coals spilled over the feet of the man who had grabbed him.
The assailant lost all interest in Lang as he danced madly in an effort to snuff out the flames that sprang from his trouser cuffs. The vendor bellowed and raged, apparently blaming the man with his pants on fire for his loss of inventory, and began beating on him with both fists.