by Gregg Loomis
A quick call to the States produced a sleepy, "Yeah...?"
"Jimmy?" Lang asked.
"You're calling at fucking two o'clock in the mornin' and you're not sure you have the right person?"
If personality were his only asset, Jimmy Edge would be unemployable. Fortunately, Jimmy was a geek without peer. Unfortunately, his skills were far more useful on the wrong side of the law. Hacking into and altering bank records in his favor had proved far more lucrative than programming corporate computers. Lang had successfully negotiated a plea deal on Jimmy's behalf by which the hacker had provided a complete list of his victims in exchange for probation. The United States attorney had howled like a wounded animal at the court's leniency, but, as one of the larger financial institutions admitted, without Jimmy's help there was little chance their electronic records could be straightened out for years.
"Good morning to you, too," Lang said cheerfully. "I've got a job for you."
"Swell," Jimmy growled, recognizing Lang's voice. "Most of my clients operate during the daylight hours."
"Most of your clients don't operate well in any kind of light, day or otherwise. You got a pencil handy?"
It took less than ten minutes before Jimmy called Lang back.
"He connected from Athens to Rome. Dead end," he announced without preamble. "Passenger's name was Frangelli, address and phone number in Rome. Contact number belongs to a prepaid cell, address is on the Corso. Doesn't exist. No record of Frangelli ever having flown Aegean Air or any major carrier I could call up in a hurry and he's not on Google or any US or European credit records. I'd say you got yourself a real fictional character this time."
"Contact number in Rhodes or Athens?"
"Same cell."
Lang thought a moment. "Thanks, Jimmy. I get any more info, I'll be in touch."
"I can't wait."
Lang terminated the call on his BlackBerry, thoughtful as he put the device back into his pocket. A passenger with no name, a flight between two points so far irrelevant to anything Lang knew. Information, though, could be like a good wine: it increased both in value and quality in time.
IV.
Piazza dei Cavalieri di Malta
Aventine Hill
Rome
Two Hours Later
Gravel crunched as the two men walked side by side along the path. Twin lines of cypress trees pointed like an arrow to the Vatican a mile or so away, creating one of Rome's most famous optical illusions: the trees excluded any lateral view, making the basilica appear to retreat as the observer moved forward.
The piazza had not been open to the public for years. Neither man was remotely interested in the view, mirage or not.
"Who is this man who cost us one of our brothers?" the elder of the two asked in Italian.
The other man replied in the same language. His accent made it clear it was not his first tongue. "From the guest list, we found it to be an American lawyer named Reilly. He also heads a charitable foundation apparently named after his deceased sister and nephew. He joined the military right out of college and there is nothing but routine payroll records until he entered in law school six years later."
The older man gave a derisive snort. "I doubt he learned how to use a spear in such a lethal manner in the regular military. Or in law school"
The younger man nodded. "Our council brothers who saw him say he moved like someone familiar with combat, a professional. Fortunately, our brother in charge assigned someone to follow this Reilly person. He went south from London to Rye, where we discovered his foundation has facilities. Apparently he has found some evidence of Brother Lucci's recent journey to Rhodes, the stub of a boarding pass. He was discussing it in a hotel dining room."
The older man's head snapped up. "What else could he deduce from a boarding pass?"
"The reservations were made under an alias, all contact points untraceable "
"But Reilly has the assets to ascertain such a trip was made. Such a man could be a danger. If he discovers our ancient relationship with the island, it could lead him to us."
"We will watch him closely, Grand Master."
The senior thought for a moment. "And what did he have to do with Weatherston-Wilby?"
"As far as we can tell, they only knew each other through their charitable works. I regret I do not have more precise answers to your questions."
The older man gave a chilly smile. "Considering the little time you have had to gather information, you have done well."
"Our brothers are worldwide and cooperative. What are your wishes?"
His companion thought for perhaps fifteen seconds. "This man Reilly could be dangerous. See to it."
Chapter Two
I.
Excerpt from the London Times:
Kidnapping Victim Stoned
LONDON—Scotland Yard announced today a grisly discovery next to St. Paul's Cathedral: the body of Sir Eon Weatherston-Wilby, who had been kidnapped the previous evening from the British Museum during a robbery at an affair sponsored by Weatherston-Wilby celebrating his donation of several ancient manuscripts from Egypt.
Police sources who declined to be identified stated the badly bruised body had apparently been thrown from an upper-story window and then subjected to trauma from blunt objects, quite possibly stones found nearby. Police are investigating the significance of a scallop shell placed on the victim's body, possibly by the killers.
An autopsy is under way. Whether the victim survived the fall and was alive at the time of the possible stoning has yet to be determined as has any motive for the kidnapping and murder.
Inspector Dylan Fitzwilliam said, "I doubt the motive was entirely robbery. Since the manuscripts are related to a murder, they would be difficult to sell on the open market"
The inspector did not exclude the possibility the theft was a "contract" job, that is, that the robbers were commissioned by a collector who wished the manuscripts for himself.
The British Museum declined to place a value on the stolen objects.
The abduction of Weatherston-Wilby took place...
II.
Delta Flight 1701
Gatwick-Atlanta
Lang Reilly reread the article for the third time. He had only seen it because the airline's supply of USA Today had not been delivered prior to the first leg of the Atlanta- London-Atlanta trip the 777 would make that day. For that matter, Lang usually took the foundation's Gulfstream IV to the UK purely as a protest against the Labour government's latest manifestation of wealth envy, a $250 tax on first-class seats.
Right up there in the league with abolishing foxhunting.
The remonstration had been impossible this trip. The Gulfstream's annual inspection was in process and the aircraft grounded for at least a week.
A flight attendant, regulation smile painted across her face, dangled a steaming hot towel in front of him. Without thought, he murmured his thanks and took it.
Lang spread the hot towel across his face as though preparing for an old-fashioned barbershop shave before dropping it on the wide seat divider.
He was lost in thought when the other attendant with an identical smile retrieved it.
Why kill Eon?
If the texts were the point of the robbery, murder made no sense. If for some reason they wanted Eon dead, why take the books? If Eon were complicit in the theft, the thieves might want to eliminate him, but why would he arrange to steal something he was donating? Unless the robbers feared identification, killing Eon was pointless. Lang examined his memory like a student reviewing a text for a final exam. Had Eon given any evidence of recognition? If so, Lang had missed it.
No, none of the possible solutions so far was the correct one.
The only clue was throwing a man from St. Paul's and then stoning him to death if he wasn't already dead. The only purpose for that exercise had to be to send a message.
But what?
And to whom?
Lang slid down the window shade and reclin
ed his seat to the full extent. Perhaps he could get a little sleep before the airline committed the gastronomic atrocity known euphemistically as "an in-flight meal." The only purpose served by airline food, Lang mused, was to ensure the British did not have the world's worst.
He closed his eyes but the vision of Eon being led away would not fade. He hadn't exactly put up a fight but he hadn't gone willingly, either. Lang tried to banish the thought but it was as stubborn as one of Atlanta's panhandlers.
Admitting defeat, he sat up and thumbed through a paperback he had bought at the airport, well aware of his inability to sleep on airplanes. He knew the compulsion to be alert at all times was irrational. If something went seriously south at 37,000 feet, there wasn't a lot he could do about it, awake or asleep.
He began the book, hoping it would banish Eon for the moment.
III.
Park Place
2660 Peachtree Road
Atlanta, Georgia
That Evening
His single suitcase at his feet, Lang was fumbling in his pocket for the key to his condominium. Once inside, he'd take a shower and head for the kennel where Grumps, arguably the world's ugliest dog, would be impatiently waiting.
Why the mutt was so eager to leave what appeared to be, by canine standards, luxurious digs, Lang never knew. Plus the fact the dog always put on a pound or two. Lang's hand closed around his key ring. He slipped the brass key into the lock, turned and eased the door open.
Simultaneously, he smelled the strong odor of gas and there was an audible click, a sound like someone snapping a cigarette lighter.
He may have imagined seeing a spark but there was one, visible or not.
Instinctively, he lunged backward, pulling the door shut but not soon enough.
An explosion was accompanied by heat, a burning, searing monster that tried to devour him as it flung him across the hall and against the far wall as easily as a child might toss away a rag doll.
He never heard the snap of bones the impact caused.
IV.
Henry Grady Memorial Hospital
Trauma & Burn Unit
Butler Street
Atlanta, Georgia
Three Weeks Later
Lang was dead.
He was sure.
Otherwise, why would he be visited by the persons he knew were deceased?
On the other hand, being dead meant an end to pain, right? His pain was far from at an end. Sometimes he ached and burned over every inch of his body; at others he could localize his suffering to a leg, an arm, his back. The pain was always red, blurring his dim sight like a curtain of misery that separated him from whatever world he was in, either real or ephemeral.
The only real thing was the pain.
It was like a slowly rising and receding tide. At times he could get his head above it, see the universal Light that blinded and feel the agony wash over him. It was all featureless, soundless red. Then, he would be pulled back under into a wet, warm stygian black he had begun to think of as "the Womb," a place where there was no discomfort, only a mellowness and a sensation of floating in space.
That was where the dead were.
As though in a fever dream, he saw his cubicle at the agency's Frankfurt station: a dim, grimy building across from the Bahnhof, where he had spent the bulk of his career. He had graduated from college with a liberal arts degree that, outside of academe, proved worthless. When he was looking around for a job, the agency had a certain appeal: lurking in the shadows of Eastern European cities while countering the machinations of beautiful spies ...
The experience had proved to be more Dilbert than Bond.
After months of training, Lang had been assigned not to Operations but to Intelligence. Instead of glamour and excitement, his daily chores included monitoring a number of Eastern European newspapers and telecasts.
With a single exception, he had never ventured from friendly soil.
Then he had met Dawn, the woman who became his love, his soul mate and his wife. The collapse of the Evil Empire had meant cutbacks in the agency's budget and resulting reductions in force. It had been to please Dawn, though, he had quit the agency and gone to law school. A small matter. He would have invaded hell had she asked.
Once his law practice began to blossom, Dawn declined. A loss of appetite and weight resulted in a visit to the doctor and a death sentence. Lang had watched the daily dying of a woman in her early thirties as she metastasized into a wrinkled crone, a sack of bones with claws for hands. He had visited her hours a day, making promises and plans they both knew would never be kept.
She died with him at her bedside, her cold face shimmering through the tears he made no effort to staunch.
He fell into a hole every bit as black as the one into which he now sank.
But Dawn was here. Not the pitiful skeleton his wife had become but the full-bodied beautiful girl he had married. She whispered in his ear, sorrowful at his pain and reluctant to leave him.
He would have liked to have joined her.
Then there was Janet, his sister, and Jeff, her adopted son, both dead, murdered in Paris. Across the void, he heard her laugh, scoffing at life's inconsistencies. Jeff still had his baseball cap on backward, was still clad in drooping shorts that almost reached his ankles. Forever Lang's ten-year-old best pal and frequent coconspirator against the established order.
They both seemed glad to see him.
Do the dead enjoy?
Then there were the people who were alive. At least, he thought they were.
They came only when Lang had his head above the dark tide, when he was in so much pain he could see them only through eyes he could barely open, hear not at all though they seemed to be speaking.
He was fairly certain some of them weren't even there.
Francis, the black priest, Janet's former confessor and Lang's best friend, was there more likely than not, his prayers doing Lang about as much good as they had Janet and Jeff. But Lang appreciated him coming even if visitation of the sick was part of the priest shtick anyway.
Sara, his secretary, came less frequently, for which Lang was grateful. The first two times, she dissolved into tears and had to be led away by a woman in white. The next couple of times she tried to speak but Lang could hear nothing. He was vaguely aware he had an office and a law practice that needed some sort of attention and that was probably where Sara went, but it all seemed very far away, remote from the black tides that engulfed him.
And he was probably dead anyway.
Then there was Gurt, the one he was fairly certain wasn't really there. A couple of years after Dawn died, Lang had been in Rome and taken up where he had left off with Gurt Fuchs, a German national and coworker at the agency.
Tall, blonde and looking like a travel poster for her native country, she moved through a crowd making men stare and women jealous. She had taken temporary leave from the agency to come to Atlanta and she and Lang had lived together for a year or so. Lang had dreamed of marriage and the family he had not had with Dawn. Gurt was not interested. She inexplicably announced she was going back to work in Europe. He had not seen her since.
Not till now anyway.
If she was really there.
Which he doubted.
Either way, they had exchanged more wisecracks than statements of affection. If he could, he would tell her how much he had loved her, although romantic conversation was hardly his forte or hers.
Now it might be too late.
Either Gurt in the flesh or as a chimera would enter the lenslike edge of his vision and stand at the foot of his bed, speaking words that to him were only silence. She hadn't aged since he last saw her, a time span he simply was unable to calculate, so it was unlikely she was real. Reinforcing the idea even more was the child that grasped her hand, a blond little boy with eyes the color of cornflowers.
There was something vaguely familiar about him, although Lang's pain-racked brain simply refused to figure out what. He peered at Lan
g with the curiosity a child might display toward an insect specimen skewered on pins in an exhibit box.
Then the White Angel would appear and Gurt and the child would leave.
The White Angel, the woman whose face changed frequently but who always presaged Lang's return to the Womb.
Lang had no idea how long he had been slipping from one world to the next. He only knew he woke up one morning, really woke up. He could hear voices and footsteps outside his room, fuzzy but sound nonetheless. He could see without the blurred edges at the perimeters of his vision. He recognized smells of a hospital, antiseptic, starch and, he thought, pain.
Father Francis Narumba sat next to the bed in full priestly regalia, reading what Lang could see was the sports section of the Atlanta paper.
"How're the Braves doing?" Lang asked, the first words he could remember since ... well, since he wound up here.
Wherever "here" was.
Francis looked up, as startled as if one of the icons on his altar had spoken.
Perhaps more so.
"God be praised! I thought..." He smiled. "Debitum naturae."
Debt to nature, Latin euphemism for death.
Francis was also what Lang described as a victim of a liberal arts education. Lang and the priest made a game of Latin aphorisms.
"Debemur mori nos nostraque," Lang replied, surprised how easily he did so.
Francis put down the paper and came to stand over the bed. "Horace was right: we and our works may be destined for death, but it looks like you aren't quite due yet."
Lang struggled to sit up only to find he was too weak. That was when he discovered the tubes stuck into the back of his hand.
Francis gently pushed him against the pillows. "Take it easy! Te hominem esse memento!"
The line a slave always whispered into a conquering general's ear as he rode a chariot through Rome's streets in a triumph; remember, you are but mortal.
"I may only be human, but I've been here ... how long?"