by Gregg Loomis
On August 15, 1209, a certain Veloix of Carcassonne, one of the few survivors of the city's surrender, had cheerfully confessed that he remembered a previous life. He had been drawn and quartered and his mutilated body buried at an unmarked crossroad. No reason was given why he had not been consigned to the flames prescribed for heretics. Steinmann read the transcript of his brief trial.
Fire had claimed Leigh of Rennes after she admitted before a conclave of priests presided over by a bishop that she had previously died as a child in a famine a hundred years earlier. She had had the nerve to specify the town nearby the farm on which she had lived, and named her parents. The transcribing priest had left an aside noting that, of course, as the poor peasant girl she claimed to have been, there would be no record of her birth or death and only those without faith in the Resurrection of all souls would seek verification anyway.
After an hour of sitting on the cold marble, Father Steinmann's back began to throb, yet he stood only to take down another volume. An hour after that, he had seen enough. Transcript after transcript was replete with recitations of heathen tenets and superstition, particularly on the certainty of reincarnation. According to Cathar belief, a soul went not to heaven, hell, or purgatory but sought another host in an effort to live a life more perfect than the last. With each death, the soul was given an opportunity to continue improvement until, at last, perfection was achieved. Then and only then did that soul become one with God.
But then, Steinmann thought to himself, these people also believed Mary, pregnant with the daughter of Our Savior, had escaped Jerusalem shortly after the crucifixion and come to the southwest of France where she lived out her days. These Cathars believed themselves to be the descendants of that child. They believed that they carried the blood of Christ Himself.
The hubris of those people had been as great as their theological errors.
As far as Steinmann knew, the Cathars had been the first Christian sect to believe openly in the recycling, rather than the Resurrection, of souls. First or last, it was a pernicious belief in itself, but its origin was even worse, one that the Church in general and his office in particular could not allow to become known.
At any price.
That was Steinmann's problem: beliefs spread like some virulent disease. If that child from Atlanta resurfaced and appeared on one or more of those television shows that produced entertainment under the guise of current events, some program like 60 Minutes or even one of the late-night shows . . . or was featured in one of those monosyllabic magazines read by people who didn't read, People and the like . . . the matter could simply get out of hand.
Particularly if reported in conjunction with what was discovered in one of the archives' more recent . . . acquisitions.
His Holiness could take no overt action to prevent such a calamity, but Steinmann's office could and would take action—both overt and covert.
The problem was that the devil-spawned little boy seemed to have disappeared, possibly kidnapped, and this man Reilly seemed to be the only one making any sort of effort to find him.
Reilly.
The two men, supposedly professionals, sent to Cracow by The Office of the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith had failed miserably. Not only had they not gotten a shred of information from Reilly, but one of them had to be taken to a hospital with severe burns. And Reilly had been alerted.
He sighed as he stood up, feeling his age in his hips and knees. The familiar tightness was squeezing his chest like bands of steel. He knew the pain would follow shortly. His hand closed around the small pill bottle in the pocket of his robe. No, not now. He would have to leave, go to a place where there were no security cameras.
God's will be done. He could only hope the Divine intent was manifested by . . . how? For starters, didn't kidnappers dispose of their victims more often than not? He had read somewhere that the odds of recovery of the kidnapped plummeted after the first few days.
In the meantime, he had to deal with Lang Reilly.
Deal with him before a scourge far more damaging than reincarnation was released upon the Church.
He shuddered to think about it.
It took all of his willpower not to race from the Secret Archives and the relief of the pills.
CHAPTER 60
Gasthaus Schelling
Rothenburg ob den Tauber
That Evening
WYNN-THREE WOKE UP AND WAS cold. He had been cold for what he thought were days, although he wasn't sure. Since he had been taken from Mommy and Daddy, days and nights seemed to come together in such a way that he could not tell one from the other.
He remembered being lifted off his feet and carried away while Mommy screamed. He had screamed, too, until someone gave him a shot. And then he remembered nothing until he was in the back seat of a car with two men he didn't know in the front. Mommy and Daddy had told him over and over to never get into a car with someone you don't know, but he was already in the car so it wasn't really his fault. Still, he hoped Mommy and Daddy wouldn't be mad if they found out.
The men, Mr. Friedrich and Mr. Otto, were bad men. Although they hadn't hurt him and had given him warm clothes and food when he was hungry, they didn't seem to care when Wynn-Three cried for his parents and said he wanted to go home. Mr. Friedrich and Mr. Otto said they would take him home as soon as they were finished.
Finished with what?
Finished when?
Neither seemed to know when Wynn-Three could go home.
There was the really, really old man, the doctor who came every day. Wynn-Three didn't think he was sick, but he couldn't remember what the doctor did. Except he thought the old man had something to do with the dreams, the bad dreams that had made him wake up screaming for Mommy. But Mommy wasn't there to kiss his tears away and hold him tight until he went back to sleep.
And the dreams kept getting worse. Actually, it was the same dream: he was running in snow, so cold he ached. Behind him he could hear dogs barking. Not dogs like Grumps next door but mean dogs. And bad men, really bad men who wanted to hurt him if they caught him. He didn't know why they wanted to but he was quite sure they did.
It was the dream that had awakened Wynn-Three. He sobbed into his pillow for a few minutes, wishing Mommy was there.
Then he realized he had to go to the bathroom.
At home when he had to go at night, he called out for Mommy or Daddy to come to his room and walk him the few steps to the potty. They made sure he did his business and then walked him back to his bed. He was pretty sure either Mommy or Daddy looked in the bathroom first to make sure there weren't any bad things in there that ate little boys. This place where he was staying with Mr. Friedrich and Mr. Otto did not have a potty just a few feet from the bed. He had to go out of this room and cross another to get to it and they had told him he was a big boy and could go potty by himself. He felt good about being a big boy but he still wished Mommy or Daddy were there to take him to the potty.
He couldn't go in the bed. Mr. Friedrich and Mr. Otto had gotten very angry the night he had done so in his sleep. They threatened him with a whipping if he did it again. He wasn't sure what that word meant, something worse than a time out, and he was pretty sure he wouldn't like it.
He got out of bed, wishing he had his furry blue bunny slippers to keep his feet off the cold floor.
That was when he noticed the snoring coming from the bed next to his where Mr. Friedrich and Mr. Otto slept. There was nothing unusual about the snoring; he heard it every night. Sometimes it kept him awake. This was the first time both the grown-ups had been asleep when he was awake. At home, he might have crawled in the big bed and cuddled up to Mommy or Daddy but he sensed neither of these men would like him doing it now.
He started to reach for the lamp beside their bed to turn it on to make sure there were no bad things here but changed his mind. Instead, he groped his way to where he thought the door was and felt for the knob.
The door was locked.
Now what to do?
From experience, he knew both Mr. Friedrich and Mr. Otto were grumpy if he woke them up. But they would really be grumpy if he went on the floor, and he couldn't hold it much longer.
He felt his way back across the room and touched the body in the big bed nearest him. When nothing happened, he pushed the mattress up and down.
The body made a grunting sound and the light came on. Mr. Otto was staring at him angrily. He smelled like Mommy and Daddy did the morning after having friends over for dinner. It was the way Mr. Otto smelled most mornings.
"I have to go tee-tee," Wynn-Three announced.
Mr. Otto didn't look happy even though Wynn-Three was trying to go potty like a big boy. It took a minute for Mr. Otto to understand before he pulled back the covers and put his feet on the floor. He said something to himself the way Daddy sometimes did when Wynn-Three did something that made him angry. He crossed the room, unlocked the door, and motioned Wynn-Three toward the potty.
Finished, Wynn-Three came out of the bathroom to see Mr. Otto standing in the doorway of the bedroom, motioning again, "Zum Bett!"
Although he didn't really understood the words, Wynn-Three was pretty sure he was being told to go back to bed. He needed no encouragement. He climbed under the heavy comforter just as the room went dark again. He was drifting to sleep to the sound of resumed snoring when he came wide awake.
He had not heard the click of the door being locked again.
He got out of bed, this time making an effort to be very, very quiet. Quiet like a mouse, like Daddy said. Wynn-Three was never quite sure if Daddy was referring to Mickey Mouse, who was never quiet in the old cartoons on television, or some unnamed mouse. But he was going to be very, very quiet anyway.
He tiptoed to the door and felt for the knob again. This time the door swung open.
Wynn-Three was staring into a lot of darkness, darkness that might be filled with bad things. But Mommy and Daddy might be out there, too.
He took a deep breath. Be a brave little man, that was what Mommy always said when she took him to the doctor and he had to have a shot, or when he fell down and skinned a knee. She would want him to be a brave little man here, too. She also wouldn't want him to go outside without a hat and coat. And probably his galoshes, too. Well, his galoshes weren't here, but he did have a hat and coat Mr. Friedrich and Mr. Otto had given him.
Leaving the door open, he was very, very quiet as his hand ran along the wall until his fingers touched the coat tree. By trial and error, he tried on coats until he found his. His hat was at the very top, far out of his reach. He would have to do without it. Stooping by what had been his bed, he ran his hand across the floor until he found his shoes and socks. The shoes were going to be a problem: he was nowhere near able to tie the laces, and he wasn't going to ask Mr. Friedrich or Mr. Otto to tie them for him.
Shoes in one hand, coat in the other, he made his way back across the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
CHAPTER 61
W.A. Mozart International Airport
Salzburg, Austria
At the Same Time
THE GULFSTREAM'S ENGINES HOWLED IN REVERSE thrust as the aircraft shuddered to a stop so abrupt Lang Reilly was pressed against his seat belt. Either the airport was ill-equipped to handle jets or the tower controller had assigned the plane to an unusually short runway. All Lang could see from the window was red runway lights, rather than white, indicating proximity to the end of it, whatever its length. Red lights changed to blue as the aircraft turned onto a taxiway.
Lang had made the decision to at least take a look around Oberkoenigsburg before going home. It would have to be brief if he were going make Phillip Hall's bond hearing the day after tomorrow. But then, there shouldn't be a lot to look at. It had taken a search of Google Maps to locate the tiny town tucked away in the Austrian Alps between Bavaria and Upper Austria. Salzburg was the nearest airport.
During the relatively short flight from Cracow, he had phoned home to speak with Manfred as he did nightly whenever away from home. The conversation had been predictable.
"Daddy, when will you be home?"
"Tomorrow, son."
"What are you bringing me?"
"A new toy."
After Manfred, Gurt had come on the line. "You are spoiling our son. There is no need to bring him gifts every time you are away."
"Sure there is. I need to. It relieves the guilt I feel for not being there with him."
"You are also not here with me."
"What sort of toy would you prefer?"
Manfred must have been silently ordered out of the room, as the answer was definitely not G-rated.
Only then did he tell her what the Auschwitz records had revealed and that he was making a diversion to Oberkoenigsburg before coming home. It was easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
The miles between them did nothing to mute the suspicion in her voice. "You will do what in this place?"
"If there's a connection between Wynn-Three and this Mustawitz person, it may be there. I'm not sure."
"You are conducting recon only?"
He was never quite certain whether she was more concerned with his safety than afraid she would miss out on any excitement. "I don't know what else there is to do."
"It is clear from what you say at least two persons or organizations are very interested in what you do."
Lang was puzzled. "Two?"
He could almost hear the smile in her voice. She enjoyed seeing something he had missed. "Two. The men in Cracow, you said they were professionals, did you not?"
Lang saw where this was headed. "And the guy at Auschwitz itself, coming after me with a chunk of firewood, demanding my notes. A pro would have pretended curiosity at what I was copying, or something a little subtle, and when that failed . . ."
"It is unlikely the person or persons would hire both people who knew what they were doing and people who did not. There are at least two persons or organizations involved."
What she was saying was logical, if disturbing. Lang had considered the possibility the kidnappers might include a number of persons, but who else was interested in his efforts to get Wynn-Three back?
A few minutes later, he was driving a rented BMW M135i on the road between the city and the airport, still as puzzled as ever. He turned off the road and soon was on the edge of Salzburg's Altstadt, the old city. He parked the rental, shoving coins into a machine that buzzed before it hiccoughed out a printed ticket to be left visible on the dash. Checking to make sure the time printed allowed the car to remain overnight, he slipped his single bag from the back seat, took his cane in the other hand, and locked up. The rest of the way would be on foot since vehicular traffic was not allowed deeper into this section of town.
Within minutes, he was in the heart of the old part of the city with its narrow, winding streets and buildings along the left bank of the River Salzach. Cheerful light from handblown glass windows shining on falling snowflakes made it appear as though the heavens were raining gold coins. He stopped in front of three handsome town houses that he knew dated back to the mid-fourteenth century. Or at least the facades did. Inside, the three houses were joined together by a series of walkways and tunnels not visible from the street, the Radisson Inn.
Unlike most of Radisson hotels, this one was small but luxurious. He walked past a wood fire cackling inside a ceiling-high porcelain stove as he was shown his room, furnished in antiques or very good reproductions. The bell hop, costumed in waistcoat, knee britches, silk hose, and powdered wig, deposited the bag beside the bed, slipped Lang's tip into his pocket, and asked him if he wished for dinner reservations.
He did, along with an early wake-up call. Oberkoenigsburg was close enough to have reached tonight, but Lang had decided driving on snowy, unfamiliar roads in the dark was pushing his luck. There would be ample time tomorrow to reach the ski resort, look around, and make it back to the airport for an afternoon departure.
An hour later, drowsy from Wiener Schnitzel with all the trimmings and perhaps one glass too many of the light, sweet Austrian wine, Lang returned to his room. He paused outside the door, stooped, and checked the knob. The hair he had stuck to its underside with saliva was missing.
Warning bells went off in his head. Someone had been in his room while he was at dinner.
Looking up and down the short hallway, he drew the blade from his cane, unlocked the door, and shoved it open, remaining in the hall. The first thing he noted was that the heavy eiderdown comforter, which served as a top sheet and cover for most Austrian beds, had been turned down. Light reflected from the foil-wrapped chocolate on his pillow. The heavy satin curtains had been pulled across the mullioned windows.
He entered the room and closed the door, grinning sheepishly. Paranoia had saved his life more than once. This time it just made him feel foolish.
He could feel the adrenaline leaking away like water from a rusted bucket, but old habits died hard. He made a slow circuit of the room, looking for anything that was not as he had left it. His suitcase was no longer on the bed, but the maid would have had to move it to turn down the Federbett. He stuck his head into the bath. Polished marble gleamed with a near-blinding glare.
His shave kit.
Hadn't he left it on the other side of the sink? Although far from fastidious, Lang arranged his toiletries in such order that shaving cream was not likely to get onto his toothbrush and toothpaste did not clog his safety razor. All too often, he had run his brush through his hair only to discover something sticky had gotten onto it.
Looking into the small leather kit, he noted things were out of order. The maid might have had cause to move his suitcase but not to rearrange his personal items. He quickly stepped back into the bedroom and checked his bag. Sure enough, its contents had been disturbed also. Housekeeping had not been the only person in this room while he was having dinner.