by Gregg Loomis
“He’s good but not that good. Although he does seem to make some extremely lucky shots.” Lang stepped for the door. “Oh, you did deliver the Hartwell appeal to the Office Mate people, right?”
Office Mate was an office supply, copying, scanning and printing operation of the first floor. Most small and single lawyer firms could not justify the expense of the more sophisticated equipment now available. It was simpler and made economic sense to farm out big jobs to such businesses.
“Exhibits, notice of appeal, brief. All of it. Linda says it will be ready in about three days.”
“Excellent. It’s due in thirty.”
18.
Piedmont Driving Club South
4405 Camp Creek Parkway
Atlanta
Forty Two Minutes Later
A low hedge along the busy four lane had an opening simply marked “Private.” Lang turned the Porsche onto a narrow, winding road flanked by the remnants of dogwood blossoms, now giving way to the pink, red and white azaleas. The hardwood canopy sported mint green of new leaves. In April, Atlanta could compete with any city for natural beauty.
The most prestigious of Atlanta’s private clubs with a history dating back to the nineteenth century, the Piedmont Driving Club had been the last to add a golf course to its list of amenities. By that time, 2000, the sites large enough to accommodate golf courses on the more desirable locations north of the city had long ago become far too expensive or distant. That was why it was the only club with a course south of the City. That list of amenities included a spectacular view of the bellies of arriving and departing aircraft along with accompanying sound effects. Atlanta Hartsfield Jackson International Airport was only four and a half miles away and the Club was directly beneath the approach and departure paths of four parallel runways.
Francis, like most clergy, could hardly afford the initiation fee and dues but he was Lang’s regular guest. In fact, he was Lang’s only golfing guest. No one else had the patience to endure what could most charitably be described as Lang’s disappointingly slow adaptation to a game he had taken up only a year earlier. The most dramatic impact weekly lessons had produced was to replace a wicked slice with a spectacular hook. But what he lacked in skill, he made up for in determination, any less of which would have driven most to the tennis courts, bowling allies or, perhaps, the nearest bar.
The parish’s battered ten-year-old Toyota was already parked in the lot in front of the one story club house. The car’s faded paint contrasted with the sheen of new and nearly new products of German engineering and a smattering of American cars.
Even more eye catching was the Toyota’s driver. Francis was standing in the shade in earnest conversation with a man whose white uniform suggested he might be employed in the club’s small kitchen. The priest was clad in chartreuse golf shirt and black Bermuda shorts. He nodded as his companion walked away.
Shouldering his bag of clubs, he approached Lang who viewed him with a head to the side look. “I suppose wearing black all the time accounts for that shirt.”
The two men shook hands as Francis replied, “I always wear highly visible colors when playing with you. It’s a matter of self- preservation.”
“That would be true, I suppose, if I had any idea where my ball was going.”
Minutes later, the pair stepped out of the men’s locker room onto the first tee. There were no other golfers in sight, a rare occurrence on a sunny spring afternoon even if were a week day. Lang tried not to show his delight when his first shot of the day landed a full foot inside the fairway’s bounds. Even the greater distance of Francis’s drive did nothing to diminish his good humor.
“Manus e nubibus,” he chortled, climbing into the golf cart.
Francis got under the steering wheel. “A hand from the clouds, lucky break, whatever. You’ll take it, right?”
The cart bounced along in silence for a moment before Francis asked, “Your trip to Nassau, was it successful? Find out any more about that woman who was the friend of your friend, Celeste?”
Lang gave his friend a glance. He normally walked a line between revealing enough to get Francis’s thoughts on problems he might be facing at any given time while holding back the more violent aspects of some of his ventures. Correspondingly, the priest knew there was a four or five year gap between Lang’s college graduation and his entry into law school but never asked about the blank time. Some facts were unavoidably known, facts that more than hinted Lang was more than the head of a charitable foundation and a successful criminal lawyer. No matter how capable, the hundreds of millions of dollars the foundation spent annually could hardly have come from legal fees. Lang had nearly died in the explosion of the high rise condo he had owned before Manfred appeared and had a close call when a bomb intended for Lang killed a car hop.
No, Lang wasn’t simply a talented and successful lawyer but Francis valued the friendship more than the curiosity concerning his friend’s non-legal activities. He had the wisdom to listen but not question too closely, to give advice when it was sought and to be a mere sounding board when it was not.
“Nassau,” Lang repeated, trying to decide how much to share with Francis. “I learned that the librarian there put up some kind of exhibit relative to the murder of Sir Harry Oakes.”
Francis lifted his foot and the cart whirred to a stop ten or so feet from Lang’s ball. “Harry Oakes? Wasn’t he a rich Canadian back in the ‘30’s who was knighted and murdered sometime during World War II?”
One of the many things about Francis Lang admired was the scope of his secular knowledge. He was definitely not one of those clerics whose world was confined to ritual and dogma.
“That’s the one.”
“And they never found the killer?”
“Well, they never convicted anyone.”
Francis waited while Lang selected an iron. A couple of practice swings and he hit the ball which was definitely headed for the weeds. Lang bit his lip rather than give voice to the string of obscenities, many including the name of the Deity, welling up within him.
“Indictum sit,” Francis warned.
Lang settled for a muttered “shit!” before he returned to the cart.
“What does a seventy year old unsolved murder have to do with the death of that young woman?”
Lang stalked toward the point his ball had last been seen. “That, Francis, is the puzzle.”
Francis followed, crossed the fairway and joined the hunt for Lang’s ball. While they slashed at knee high weeds with golf clubs, Lang related most of what had happened, omitting only the more graphic details of his encounter at the trash bin.
“Eureka!” Francis was holding Lang’s Titleist. “Your ball.”
Lang was almost hesitant to check, preferring to play on, no matter the original owner of the treacherous spheroid. Yep, there was his name on it, one of a dozen Gurt had given him. He had exulted over personalized balls until he realized her purpose: Anyone with his abilities needed a ready means to identify his balls when searching the rough.
“Be sure to note that stroke on your score card,” Francis suggested as Lang tossed the ball back onto the fairway.
“Thanks for the spiritual advice, Padre,” Lang growled as he lined up his shot from his new lie.
This time the ball actually went straight if not far.
As they trudged back to the golf cart, Francis resumed the previous conversation. “So, you’re pretty sure the men who confronted you, tried to take the flyer away, were British?”
“I suppose they could have been Aussies, South African or Kiwis.”
“Kiwis?”
“New Zealander. But I can’t imagine why anyone there would be interested.”
Francis brought the cart to a stop. “And you have an idea why the British would?”
Lang shook his head, no. “Only that the location and the probable killer was English-or at least a British subject.”
Francis was studying his lie, iron in hand. “Ah, good.
That limits your list of suspects to a few million, excluding Citizens of British territories, British Overseas citizens, those born before 1949 in Ireland, India, Pakistan or before Zimbawe’s independence.”
Lang sighed. “Thanks for some really insightful input.”
Several hours later, they were seated in the club’s small bar and grill, sipping cold beers, when Francis reintroduced the subject: “Seriously, Lang: If you think those guys were British military, why don’t you see if you can find out what part of Her Majesty’s armed forces might have an interest in the Oakes murder?”
Lang took a long sip. “Brilliant! Any idea how I might do that?”
“I thought I remembered you mentioning a friend of yours in London, someone with something of a military background.”
Of course! He had forgotten Jacob Annulewicz!
19.
Biggin Hill Airport
Borough of Bromley, London
06:47 British Summer Time
Two Days Later
The mist wrapped the Gulfstream G650 like a dirty rag until the aircraft reached what Lang guessed were at or very close to minimums before tires kissed the north-south runway. From what the foundation’s pilot had told him when Lang had elected the convenience of the general aviation airport, Biggin Hill had no CAT two or three system that would allow a “blind” landing.
He leaned back in his seat, anticipating the engine’s reverse thrust. As the engines’ roar subsided, the aircraft turned onto the taxiway as sedately as the procession of a state funeral. For a brief moment, Lang had a view of the passenger terminal and the head lights of cars scurrying like a train of ants along the A233 behind it. Somewhere on the other side of the field were replicas of both a Spitfire and a Hurricane, guardians of the memorial to the Royal Air Force pilots who never returned to base here during World War II. Like a pre-opening stage curtain, the mist sealed it from his view.
He yawned.
Of course he hadn’t slept here or in the small cabin with bed aft of the seating area. He could never sleep in flight no matter how much of the Gulfstream’s wine bin he depleted or how many over the counter sleeping pills he took. Yes, he knew it was irrational and yes, at thirty thousand feet plus if something went wrong, there was little he could do about it. Tell that to his psyche or subconscious or whatever psychobabble described that part of his mind that kept him awake.
As the engines spooled down, he stretched. The pretty young woman who acted as stewardess-he still called them that-brought him a silver tray with a couple of small, steaming towels on it. The wet heat against his face seemed to chase some of the cobwebs from his mind and certainly the sandy grit of a sleepless night from his eyes.
She collected the towels with what looked like fire tongs as though she feared contraction of some loathsome disease from the man with whom she flew two or three times a month. Lang supposed lessons learned in stewardess school stuck with her just as his Agency training did with him. Why else would she read the safety features of the G656 from the same list each time even though he was the only passenger on board most of the time and knew the list as thoroughly as Francis his litany. Or present him the two item menu (chicken or beef) when he always chose the filet with a vintage Petrus?
“Mr. Reilly,” she said with a smile impossible for one who has been up all night, “The pilot tells me customs will be on board shortly. Would you like me to fetch your suitcase from the stateroom?”
Lang stood unsteadily. “No, thanks. My shave kit’s in it and I’ll try to brush my teeth before they arrive.”
At least he could get rid of a taste like burnt matches that coated his tongue.
As he stood over the sink in the small head, he regarded his reflection: Dark beard stubble, eyes rimmed with red and a wrinkled shirt that clung to him like some malignant skin disease. He’d seen members of Francis’s street people ministry look better.
“Why not call?” Gurt had asked the night before he left. “Quicker, cheaper and easier.”
“And a whole lot less private.”
Since his Agency days, Lang had been aware of ECHELON, the world-wide listening station in northern England that monitored every conversation transmitted by satellite worldwide. Even land lines at some point were potentially susceptible. The huge intake was shared by the various intelligence organizations of the US, the UK, Australia, Canada and New Zealand, the wheat separated from the insurmountable amount of chaff by the use of key words.
Since National Security Agency contractor Edward Snowden’s revelations in 2013 and subsequent defection to Russia, the possibility information gained this way could become front page news had to be considered by anyone transmitting sensitive information. Lang’s visit to his old acquaintance Jacob Annulewicz was hardly a matter of national security but he and Jacob had a history in addition to Jacob’s own.
Born to Holocaust survivors, Jacob’s family had immigrated to Israel after time in a displaced persons’ camp during the chaos that was post-war Europe. For reasons never quite clear, as an adult, he exchanged the warm sun of his adopted land for the damp chill of England where he had taken British citizenship and studied law. Neither deprived him of his status as a citizen of the Jewish State. He was, however, a prime candidate for Mossad, the Israeli intelligence agency. A long and tortured history had taught the Jews that today’s allies may well be tomorrow’s enemies. Hence, they spied upon both with egalitarian vigor.
Before his ostensible retirement ten years ago, Jacob’s assignment had been to keep a watchful eye on the increasing number of Moslems gaining both economic and political clout in the UK and most particularly Arab diplomats. He passed along the scraps of information from which the international picture emerges like the image on a jig saw puzzle.
On a somewhat darker side was Jacob’s ability with explosives. It had been rumored he had affixed a bit of Semtex to the phone of a Hamas leader with a sound sensitive fuse. The victim picked up a ringing phone that blew his head off so neatly there was little or no blood on his necktie.
Retired or not, Jacob was a candidate for surveillance by a variety of British Intelligence and security agencies. No one could be really certain he had retired. Spies don’t receive engraved gold watches at going away parties.
Lang also had a history in England, although nothing that could be proved or prosecuted: The shooting of a hired thug during the Pegasus matter, the killing at the British Museum of a would-be kidnapper that set off the Coptic adventure.
The chance of telephone monitoring was too great.
Gurt had reluctantly agreed. “But you are not taking a weapon?” she had asked.
Since the birth of Manfred, Lang and Gurt had agreed to avoid dangerous adventures, at least without the concurrence of the other. The problem with the pact was simple fact gathering could frequently turn perilous if not deadly. Witness the fact gathering trip to Nassau.
His mind snapped back to the present with the stewardess’s chirp of “Customs officials aboard, Mr. Reilly!”
As usual, the pair of customs officers was far more interested in the customized interior of the Gulfstream, world’s foremost business jet, than any aboard it. The six seat passenger cabin with entertainment center, bar and galley drew far more attention than the quadruple set of General Declarations, those forms required of any aircraft arriving in a foreign country which listed passengers, crew, point of departure and the ever mysterious “method of disinfecting aircraft” under which was printed “Aerosol Aloft.” The phrase conjured up the image of flight crew parading up and down the aisles of a jumbo jet, spraying passengers with Cutter, 3-in-1 or Seven. Lang also imagined a huge warehouse somewhere, perhaps the Arctic, where eighteen wheeled trucks arrived constantly to unload untold tons of unread general decs and individual arrival statements such as the one the shorter of the two officials was perusing now.
“You didn’t fill in the line stating where you will be staying, Mr. Reilly.”
A blank line on a form, anathema to
a bureaucrat.
“I’m not certain.”
“We need an address.”
Lang gave in. “If I stay in England overnight, I’ll be at the Stafford, St James Place.”
Passport duly stamped, Lang departed the aircraft after informing the pilot, copilot and stewardess to be on eight hour standby. He took a cab the slightly less than six and half miles to Trafalgar Square.
The morning mist had lifted at least enough to make out Lord Nelson on his column as Lang turned away and took the three minute walk to the Charing Cross tube station. He stood in front of a news stand just before a shopping plaza and office towering over the Underground station. He was surrounded by a torrent of commuters like a rock amid a rushing stream as he pretended to browse the headlines of London’s tabloids, Sun, Daily Star, Daily Mirror. Small suitcase in hand, he walked around the kiosk, apparently checking out the headlines of the mainline Times and Guardian while actually searching the faces surging past. He recognized none from the airport. Not a sure sign he was not being followed but a good start.
Turning, he retraced his steps through Trafalgar Square and westward down The Strand. He stopped in front of the Savoy Theatre, one of only three remaining in what, in Victorian times, had been the City’s entertainment district. This one had been built in the 1880’s to house the comic operas of Gilbert and Sullivan. Even today, its playbills featured exclusively comedy.
Occasionally Lang paused in front of the window of a chemist or variety store, assuring himself from the reflection he was not being followed.
A short distance farther west, an iron griffin, the Temple Bar Memorial, marked the line between the municipalities of Westminster and London, the two usually lumped together under the latter’s name. Here The Strand became Fleet Street, once the center of London’s literary and news world. John Milton, Ben Johnson. Izaak Walton, Charles Lamb had all lived here or habituated its long gone taverns. Today, investment banking and law were more common than printing presses.