by Gregg Loomis
The priest held up his hands in surrender. "No, please. It was wonderful, but I've eaten too much."
She stood, taking the platter away. "Then I will wrap it for you to carry with you. Homemade takeoff."
"Takeout," Lang corrected, still thinking. "Does he not take it off, away?" Lang didn't reply. He despaired of Gurt's logical
mind mastering the American idiom.
While Gurt wrapped the remains of the strudel, Lang brought two glasses and a bottle of single-malt scotch to the table. He set a glass in front of Francis and offered the whiskey.
Francis stood, aware that, whatever its nature, the phone call, not company, was on his friend's mind. "No, thanks. I've gotta drive home, and I don't need a DUI."
Lang gave him a crooked grin. "No papal dispensation for driving under the influence?"
Francis accepted the rest of the strudel from Gurt, nodding thanks. "The police of the apostate cut us true believers no slack." He opened the door to the hallway and elevators, turning to speak over his shoulder. "Although a clerical collar has spared me the occasional speeding ticket."
"Okay, then," Lang said. "But at least let's check the score. Ought to be somewhere in the middle innings out there in La-La Land." The Braves were playing a series against Los Angeles, three time zones distant.
"For just a minute," the priest conceded, stepping back inside and closing the door. "But keep that scotch out of reach, my reach."
Both men sat back down at the kitchen table as Lang turned on the small television set on the breakfast bar. No matter how many times he saw it, Lang still regarded the transfer of images across a continent to be every bit as magical as anything the ancient gods might have done.
20
They had hit the end of an inning, and a car ad began to unfold, the announcer shouting in perpetual excitement. As the shiny new vehicles available at LOW, LOW, UNBELIEVABLY LOW PRICES faded, a familiar figure appeared, a silver-haired man holding a Bible, his ice-blue eyes staring earnestly into the camera.
"My fellow citizens," he began, "it is high time for us to take back our country from the godless courts and those who would crush our Christian heritage. When I am your president, we will work together for these things and to make America, once again, the first among nations ..."
Both Lang and Francis had heard it before. Harold Straight, candidate for his party's nomination in the upcoming presidential election. His determined face faded to strains of "God Bless America."
"I'm sure the Jews of this country find his message comforting," Lang observed wryly.
"Not to mention Muslims, Buddhists, and everyone else," Francis added.
"Also, any country that dares to think it's number one is likely to find the Marines on its national doorstep."
Gurt, abandoning her usual posture that television was a sure cause of brain rot, moved to look at the fading screen. "This man has a chance to win?"
Lang shrugged at the unpredictability of American politics. ''A lot of people believe he can put the Ten Commandments back in courthouses, stop the teaching of evolution, and reverse Roe v. Wade."
"And this is good why?" Lang glanced at Francis, who smiled back. "I'm sure Francis here would advocate the end to abortion-"
"Not at the price of having Straight in the White House," the priest interjected.
"And," Lang continued, "his message about his dad dying in World War Two to save American values hits home, too."
"This is normal, to get into politics because of what your father did?" Gurt was incredulous. "There wasn't a war convenient for this guy to get into when he was in the Army," Francis explained. Gurt turned and went to the sink to wash dishes, a pastime both more interesting and useful than politics.
As the image of Dodger Stadium returned to the screen, Francis said,
''After seeing Mr. Straight, perhaps I will accept your kind offer of a little scotch."
In spite of multiple scotches and dinner wine, Lang could not sleep. Instead, he watched shadows of light from the street below form abstract patterns on the ceiling. Finally, he gave up. Moving carefully to avoid waking Gurt, he slipped out of bed and stood on the deck just outside the room. Absently, he observed the golden ribbon of traffic moving along Peachtree Street, his mind miles and years away.
He was startled when an arm encircled his waist from behind. "The phone call, yes?"
He reached a hand over his shoulder to touch Gurt's face. ''Yeah..''
"Tell me."
21
He sighed. "Remember Don Huff?"
There was a pause. "I'm not sure. Should I?"
"Tall, slender fella from somewhere in the Midwest. Passed through the Frankfurt office after coming over to the Third Directorate from ops. He was the one got my ass out of a sling at Checkpoint Charlie when I was bringing your dad out. We didn't see a lot of Don, 'cause he was older and married."
Gurt shook her head. "There were so many. It is a difficulty to recall even those I was working with last year. Why is he calling you after all this time?"
Lang turned to face her "He didn't. His daughter did. Don was murdered in Spain yesterday." Even in the dim light from below, he could see her eyes widen. "Was it someone settling an old score?"
Lang shook his head. "I doubt it. Don left about the time I did, took early retirement when the Evil Empire collapsed, the intel budget was getting cut, and anyone not blind could see the main show was moving east, to hot, sandy places where the women hide their faces, scotch is hard to come by, and the fly is the national bird. Last I heard, he was writing a book."
"Perhaps someone did not like what he was writing."
Lang turned back around to stare below without really seeing anything.
"Possible, I guess, but I doubt it. Seems a bit of a stretch."
"Then who?"
"That's what his daughter wants me to find out."
"We are going to Spain?"
"I are going."
He sensed, rather than felt, her stiffen. "The last time you left me, ran away, you would have been killed had I not followed."
More true than he was comfortable admitting. "But you have a new job. Besides, all I'm gonna do is look around, see what I can find out. Least I can do for someone who saved my life."
"I also saved your life, and I want to go."
If Lang had learned anything since Gurt had been in Atlanta, it was that he was not going to win this argument. Or any other. At first, he would believe he had won only to discover days later the dispute was far from over. If surrender was inevitable, he might as well hand over his sword as gracefully as possible.
"Okay, I'll do what I can to make sure I have no court dates for the next few days, and you take Grumps to the kennel."
"You can call Sara, your secretary, and she will tell you more about your schedule than you could know. You take Grumps to the kennel."
Although Grumps was well-mannered to the point of being docile on most issues, the kennel wasn't one of them.
Lang sighed with his second defeat in as many minutes.
22
CHAPTER THREE
Seville, Spain
AeropuertoSan Pablo
Five days later
Even with a bedroom in the foundation's Gulfstream v: Lang's basic distrust of anything that flew prevented sleep. There had been a time when he couldn't keep his eyes open on a plane, but somewhere he had come to dislike aviation even if he could not deny its convenience. The flight could have been worse-Atlanta to Madrid by commercial jet, then take Aviaco, the local feeder, to Seville. Lang's view was that if one plane had proved airworthy, it was folly to challenge fortune by changing to another.
That was why he was making one of his rare personal trips on the foundation's airplane. Scrupulous to the point of compulsive, he kept the line between his own life and the foundation's business delineated far clearer than even his battalion of accountants suggested. He had defended too many clients who had let their own needs extend into money they we
re managing for others.
"
The irritation caused by lack of sleep was exacerbated by Gurt's deep, regular breathing, which lasted until he got up and went forward to watch one of the movies the plane carried, one described by the critics as a sophisticated, sexy comedy, "two thumbs up." The first twenty minutes went from trite to corny and back again. Lang suspected the leading man, if not the producer, was one of the critics' in-laws.
He never knew if the film got better. He awoke in front of a blank screen when the plane's steward, chef, and majordomo gently shook him with one hand while placing a steaming plate of eggs Benedict on the tray in front of him and announcing that they would be on the ground in an hour.
Having wakened Gurt, Lang showered and shaved. Although minuscule, the Gulfstream's toilet facilities were a vast improvement over the commercial airlines'. So were its storage capabilities. Lang took a sports shirt and slacks from a closet rather than donning attire wrinkled by storage in a suitcase. Minutes after the Gulfstream's tires kissed the runway, the aircraft's clamshell doors wheezed open and Lang and Gurt squinted into brilliant morning sunlight made all the brighter by their confinement aboard the plane.
Leaving the crew to deal with the paperwork generated by international travel, Lang and Gurt carried one suitcase each to the customs area, where a uniformed official spent more time trying not to be obvious in his admiration of Gurt than on his cursory inspection of their luggage. Chagrined at the brevity of the examination of bags, Lang realized he could have easily brought the Sig Sauer P226 automatic that had resided in his bedside table since his retirement. But why? he consoled himself. He was here to nominally investigate a murder while giving such consolation as he could to the bereaved child of a man who had saved his life. What use would he have for a firearm?
23
None, he hoped.
"Mr. Reilly?"
Both Lang and Gurt turned to look at the young girl. Petite, almost elfin. Her face was longish but with a small nose that looked as though it had been added as an afterthought. Only a closer look told him she was an adult, not a child. There was something in her dark eyes that made Lang think of a small animal about to bolt for its burrow.
"You are Don's daughter?" he asked.
She shook her head slowly. "No," she said in English, "I am Sonia, Mr. Huff's assistant. His daughter is at the house, waiting for you."
The voice had only a trace of the languid Spanish, spoken at a much slower pace than its New World counterparts.
It took a few minutes for Lang to make sure the flight crew had found accommodations and that they would remain in touch with both him and the foundation in case needed by either. He and Gurt followed the woman to the parking lot, where she indicated a sleek, clean Mercedes of recent vintage.
''A beautiful car," Gurt commented, her first words of the morning.
Sonia shook her head sadly. "It is, was, Senor Don's, Mr. Huff's. He was very proud of it." She opened the back door. "Please."
After tossing the bags into the trunk, Lang helped Gurt in, choosing the more informal arrangement of sitting next to Sonia in the front. "Kind of you to meet us. You are taking us to the house?"
The engine started with a purr. "No, Mr. Reilly. Senorita, Miss Huff, has made hotel reservations for you within walking distance."
The ride was through a city virtually indistinguishable from any other in Europe. The greatest difference, Lang thought, was the unhurried pace of traffic. The blaring horns and screeching brakes of Rome and Paris would feel isolated here. If anything, the drivers were courteous, something most cities, including those in America, would find novel. A few minutes more brought them to the sluggish brown waters of the Rio Guadalquivir. Below the Puente de Isabell II, foot-powered paddle boats traced lazy S-curves and fishermen stood on the banks.
Once on the eastern side of the river, Sonia turned left on the Paseo de Crisobal Colon and the streets became narrow and twisted. Stuccoed buildings hid behind walls of handmade brick, their orange tiled roofs visible. They were in the old part of the city.
The Hotel Alfonso XII was a structure in an impressive mock-Mudejar style. Its abundance of Moorish flourishes, impeccable service, and lavish accommodations were such that, according to Sonia, the guests to Spain's most recent regal wedding had stayed there, having only to cross Calle San Francisco and the small Plaza de Jerez to the cathedral to watch the eldest royal daughter marry a Spanish nobleman.
But they would have had trouble reaching the venerable church today. The street was filled from curb to curb by men in black robes,peaked hats,
24
masks, and with bare feet. Most dragged wooden crosses.
"What is that-who are those volk?" Gurt asked from the backseat. "Looks like the Ku Klux Klan," Lang observed. "Except they're wearing the wrong color."
"Penitents," Sonia explained. "This is Good Friday, the Friday before Easter. This is the next-to-Last Seana Santa, Holy Week, celebration. The men in the robes seek forgiveness of sins committed the year past."
"Not hard to see where Nathan Bedford Forrest got his idea for the Invisible Empire," Lang muttered.
"Who?" Gurt wanted to know.
If there was anything Lang did not want to have to explain, Justify, or apologize for, it was a post-Civil War organization that had morphed into one of America's most famous hate groups. "Nothing. Can we edge by into the parking lot?"
An hour later, the streets were empty of those hoping to clear their souls. Lang and Gurt rode with Sonia down narrow cobblestone streets until huge wrought iron gates opened to admit them to the loveliest patio Lang had ever seen.
Lang got out on the street. "We could have walked." Sonia nodded in agreement. "I had to bring the car back."
Lang hesitated before entering the enclosure, reaching up to pick a ripe orange from one of a line of trees. He followed the Mercedes into the patio as the gates slowly swung shut, peeling the fruit as he went. The first bite brought such an explosion of sour acid into his mouth that he spat the pulp without thinking.
Sonia, unsuccessful at hiding a grin at his discomfort, said, "Anglese. We call those oranges 'English' because only the English buy them."
Lang spat again, but the bitterness remained. "The English eat them?"
Sonia could no longer suppress a laugh. "Eat them? No, Mr. Reilly, they make their beloved marmalade from the rinds."
Lang was wondering if he could ever enjoy that jam on his breakfast toast again when a tall, blond woman came out of the house. Wearing her hair pulled behind her head only emphasized the long, almost equine, face. Her height seemed to give her an awkwardness so that she appeared to walk with disjointed steps, as if her bones had not been properly attached to her body.
She extended a narrow, knobby hand. "Langford Reilly. My dad told me about you. I'm Jessica Huff." Lang took the hand. "Most likely he told you what a young idiot I was."
She gave a sad smile as she turned to Gurt, just now climbing out of the Mercedes. "And you are Lang's wife?"
Gurt shot a warning look at Lang. "No. I am Gurt Fuchs." Puzzled, Jessica shook Gurt's hand anyway, waiting for an explanation.
When she realized none was forthcoming, she gestured toward the house.
"Let's go in. I appreciate your coming."
Jessica ushered them into a wood-paneled room and indicated they
25
should sit. Lang was surprised at the comfort afforded by the uninviting chair of leather and wood carved in the Spanish fashion.
Sonia appeared with a tray of coffee cups.
"Again," Jessica said, "I appreciate your coming."
Lang accepted a cup, tried to balance it on the narrow arm of his chair, and conceded he would simply have to hold it. "Again, lowed your father bigtime and we'll help any way we can. But I don't know what we can do. If Don spoke of me at all, you know I wasn't in Ops. I sure didn't learn anything about criminal investigation."
Jessica nodded, a person not surprised. "You
were one of the few of my father's former, er, associates, he ever mentioned. I didn't know who else to turn to."
Gurt's head swiveled, following the conversation.
Lang took an experimental sip of the coffee. It was as bitter as the orange. "Have the local police any idea who...?" Jessica clasped her hands. Lang noticed they were red, as though she had been doing laundry in strong detergent. "That's just it. They aren't doing anything. I mean, they came to the house, poked around, asked questions. Since Dad wasn't a local, I get the impression his . . . his murder is permanently going on the back burner. They don't have a clue."
"And you do?"
She glanced at the heavy beams in the ceiling as though seeking inspiration. "It had to be because of the book he was writing."