The Bonaparte Secret lr-6

by Gregg Loomis

  The wit and sarcasm he recalled was melting his uneasiness like ice on a summer day. “Maybe after the case is over.”

  “Maybe by the time the case is over I’ll be married to the king of Siam. Oh, wait a minute. Siam doesn’t have a king anymore. In fact, it isn’t even Siam.”

  Lang felt compelled to play along. “The British have two unmarried princes.”

  “I couldn’t take the scandals. Besides, I don’t care for Eurotrash.” There was a pause. “Now, what was it you were calling about?”

  Lang laughed out loud. “The Reverend Bishop Groom.”

  “Oh, yeah. A different species of trash. Hold on.”

  There was the click of a keyboard, then, “Here he is: sixteen counts of tax evasion, same number of conspiracy to evade taxes, a dozen counts of mail fraud… Shall I go on?”

  “No need. I have a copy of the indictment. You guys really like to pile it on.”

  “Oh, c’mon! We didn’t charge him with adultery and fornication, something he’s guilty as hell of.”

  “Only because they’re not federal crimes, and I can’t recall the last time a state chose to prosecute. The tender mercy of the United States attorney is well-known. I was calling to see if there might be a plea deal available.”

  “Sure, he pleads and the judge deals him about twenty years.”

  Lang inhaled deeply. “I’m serious, Alicia. The man is, after all, a preacher anxious to return to his flock.”

  “More anxious to fleece his flock, I’d say. He’s done a pretty fair job of that, but I’ll see what we can do and get back to you.”

  His previous discomfort forgotten, Lang was smiling as he hung up.

  He began sorting the slips into three piles: return ASAP, return when convenient and the last stack on the edge of the desk, which a single sweep of the hand would send into the trash basket.

  He had almost finished the task when his phone interrupted. “Lang, it’s someone called Miles. He said you’d know who he was.”

  Lang got up, crossed the office and shut the door before he picked up. “Yes, thank you, Miles. I’m healing nicely.”

  There was a two count before Mile’s relay replied, “Glad to hear it. How long will it take to get to a pay phone? I noticed there were several in the lobby of your building.”

  Lang was not even sure Miles was correct. He hadn’t noticed. With cell phones more common than neckties these days, who used pay phones? Answer: people who suspected their calls, or those of people calling them, might be intercepted. The sheer randomness of selecting a pay phone made eavesdropping unlikely if not impossible.

  “Same number?” Lang asked.

  “Same number.”

  “Gimme about five minutes.”

  Three pay phones were, in fact, in the lobby, lined along a wall like books in a shelf. The first was clearly out of order. The second was splattered with some gooey substance, the origins of which Lang chose not to speculate upon, although he suspected it might have something to do with the homeless. Those beggars, addicts and mental cases populated the city’s downtown area, using the facilities of any building whose security was lax. The chamber of commerce’s pleas to the municipal government to solve the problem of aggressive panhandling went unheeded.

  After all, the homeless voted, as did the bleeding hearts whose sympathies for their less-fortunate brethren did not include working downtown.

  The third phone appeared to be intact and reasonably sanitary. Lang poured in the change required for a longdistance call to the Washington, D.C., area code.

  “Lang?”

  “Here, Miles. I’m guessing you called to make certain my good looks will not be permanently disfigured.”

  “That and a minor matter of national security.”

  A few feet away, the body language of a couple in front of an elevator bank said they were arguing. Rather than stare at a blank marble wall, Lang watched.

  “I’m not in the national-security business anymore, remember? I did you a favor going to Haiti and got my face rearranged for my troubles.”

  “No good deed goes unpunished. But wait till you hear what your pal Colonel Dow had to say.”

  The man’s hands were on his hips, his head inclined forward. From his expression, Lang was glad he couldn’t hear what was being said.

  “I don’t want to know, Miles. The only reason you’d tell me is to hook me in further. I’m retired and want to stay that way.”

  During the pause before Miles’s answer, the woman reacted to whatever the man had said by stepping into the first elevator that opened, although it was in a different bank, going to a floor other than the ones served by the cars for which she had been waiting.

  “Well, that’s your business, Lang, but as an old pal, I’ll give you some free advice.”

  “No doubt worth every penny I pay for it.”

  The man started to follow. He got one foot in past the door before he received a slap to the face that reverberated across the marble lobby. He jerked back as though attempting to avoid the strike of a venomous snake.

  “OK, don’t take it. But were I you, I’d beef up whatever security you have around the house.”

  A mechanical voice interrupted the conversation, demanding more money.

  Lang shoved it in. “Whoa! What about security?”

  “Dow pretty well spilled everything he knew after a little, ah, persuasion.”

  “I’m disappointed he didn’t get the works, but what about security around the house?”

  The man who had been slapped was frantically pushing the up button of the bank of elevators the woman had taken.

  “OK, so he was probably in a little more hurt than you were when the Dominicans finished with him. Fact is, he’s under guard in a prison hospital. One of the things he mentioned was, his superiors think you know something you shouldn’t. You know how the Chinese handle that problem. The Guoanbu ain’t good people. They’re going to be on you like white on rice until somebody in the government pulls them off or-”

  “I get the picture. And you have a plan to make someone call off the dogs.”

  “Of course!” Miles was cheerful, the way he always was when he was getting his way.

  Lang sighed. Dealing with the Agency was like waltzing with the tar baby: there was no way not to get stuck.

  An elevator door opened. The man got on. Seconds later, another opened and the woman got off. Lang turned to stare at the wall. It was more restful.

  “OK, Miles, tell me what you have in mind.”

  “First, a little background. About a year ago, ECHELON picked up an exchange of messages between the People’s Republic and Haiti.”

  Miles was referring to the system operated by the British, Americans, Australians, New Zealanders and Canadians that intercepted any message in the world sent via satellite. Landlines were becoming as obsolete as buggy whips. Consequently, ECHELON’s volume was so great that computers had to search communications for key words before the number of messages of possible interest could be reduced to numbers a finite staff of humans could listen to or read.

  “Since any communication by the Chinese to a country of this hemisphere is of interest,” Miles continued, “we followed the conversation. China has no embassy or even trade attache in Haiti and the two countries have no common code, so the messages were in the clear, something about establishing a trading partnership. As you remarked before going there, there’s damn little Haiti exports that China wants and even less the Chinese manufacture that Haiti could afford.

  “Obviously this exchange had some other meaning, so we alerted our asset in Haiti to watch the airport and see who arrived.”

  “Whoa,” Lang interrupted. “You told me you had no assets in Haiti.”

  “True, we don’t. We had a guy, but we haven’t heard from him nor been able to contact him for some time. I’m afraid he’s been silenced. Anyway, he e-mailed us a photo taken with a special camera we supplied of the Chinese visitor getting off a private plan
e. It wasn’t some bureaucrat from the trade department. It was Chin Diem.”

  “Someone I should know?” Lang asked.

  “Undersecretary for foreign relations. Pretty high up the food chain to be making a trip to negotiate the price of coffee.

  “Anyway, Diem made one or two more trips. Our asset couldn’t find anyone around the current prez for life who knew what was up. Our guy did lay some serious bling on a waiter in a local restaurant who served Diem and the Haitian president. Seems the Haitian, guy name of duPaar, wanted something in exchange for whatever the Chinese wanted, something the Chinese seemed to be having a hard time delivering. From what he overheard, he, the waiter, was pretty sure it was a specific object. Before we could find out what, our man disappeared.”

  “You’re not telling me this just for my enlightenment. What do you want?”

  “To find out what duPaar wants. If we can supply it, there’d be no need for him to deal with the Chinese.”

  Lang whistled. “Whew, pretty tall order, ole buddy. You telling me this is something the Agency can’t handle? You keep forgetting I’m retired.”

  “Retired but incentivized. You solve the riddle, we provide the Haitian pooh-bah with whatever bauble it is he wants and the Chinese no longer have a reason to wish you ill.”

  Lang shook his head as if Miles could see the gesture. “I’d say they have a hell of a reason if I’m the one responsible for screwing up their plans.”

  “You and I both know that revenge, pure and simple, is not what drives the policy of any rational nation. It’s too expensive a luxury. Once a project is dead, former threats to it become irrelevant.”

  True.

  Lang changed the subject. “What is their interest in the Western Hemisphere’s poorest nation, anyway?”

  Again, the machine asking for money. Lang scraped the last change from his pocket, depositing it to the accompaniment of what sounded like an old-fashioned cash register.

  Miles cleared his throat. “We believe they aren’t interested in Haiti per se. It’s just that the country is the most likely Caribbean nation to accept Chinese on their soil. Can you imagine the boost to the local economy a few thousand Chinese with cash in their pockets could give?”

  “OK. I get it. But what does China get?”

  “A presence in the Caribbean, more than likely a military one, based on what you saw there. Think of it as an unsinkable aircraft carrier or missile cruiser. But until the Chinese come up with this whatchamacallit, duPaar isn’t unlocking the door, no matter how much good the deal would do his country. The Chinese will have to satisfy him before he agrees to more than the handful of troops you saw up at the old fort.”

  Lang checked his watch. He was due for a motions hearing in forty minutes and this was taking far longer than he had anticipated. “Thanks for the poli-sci lesson, but I still don’t see what all this has to do with me.”

  “Lang,” Miles said in a tone a teacher might use with one of his duller students, “we, the Agency, have no idea what the gizmo is duPaar wants and no way to find out, much less how or where to acquire it.”

  “And I do?”

  “Let’s say you’ve already established contact with our Chinese pals. They will keep in touch. Sooner or later, you’ll have a chance to find out what it is.”

  “Or get killed in the meantime. Let me get this straight: Because the Chinese will keep trying to kill either (a) me or (b) my family or (c) both of the above, I am the person in the best position to find out what object it is the president of Haiti wants in exchange for allowing the Chinese to establish some sort of military presence there.”

  “Makes sense to me.”

  Lang hated to admit it, but the idea did present a certain twisted logic. The old baited trap. The opposition wanted to eliminate someone. The proposed victim was made to seem accessible, while covertly guarded. When the potential assassin made a move, the target’s minders moved, capturing the would-be killer, hopefully someone with knowledge of facts that led closer and closer to the information sought. That was the idea. Unfortunately, failures were usually lethal.

  “And just why would I want a target painted on my back?”

  There was what could have been another clearing of Miles’s throat or a chuckle. Lang suspected the latter. “You already have one. I’m offering you a way to remove it. Look, you know we can cover you 24-7. You can’t get better security for you, Gurt and Manfred.”

  Lang thought of the private company he had already hired. Ex-Delta Force, ex-Marine Recon, ex-SEAL types already in discreet positions around his house. Bulletproof SUVs with armed drivers taking Manfred to pre-K, Gurt to the grocery store. He felt pretty damn secure. But for how long? The security people’s incentive was to do what they were hired to do: keep the Reilly family safe. The Agency’s motivation was to foil the Chinese plan to gain a foothold in the Caribbean and, possibly, end the threat to Lang as well.

  Lang decided to do what any rational man would do. “I’ll talk it over with Gurt and get back to you.”

  472 Lafayette Drive, Atlanta

  21:26 the same day

  A smile played across Gurt’s face as she watched a waterlogged Lang pour a healthy two fingers of scotch whisky. “You have had a hard time with Manfred?”

  Lang contemplated and discarded a carafe of water before taking a gulp from the crystal tumbler. “What was your first clue, that I’m soaking wet?”

  “That helped in the thought process, yes.”

  Another swallow. “Bathing Manfred can be a problem when he gets excited. But having Grumps jump in the tub, too?”

  “Perhaps you should not let the dog in the bathroom.”

  Lang emptied the glass and was working on a refill. “If I shut him out, the damn dog howls and scratches the paint off the door, and Manfred is almost as bad. How do you separate them when Manfred goes to school in the morning?”

  Gurt took a sip from her wineglass. “By force of will.”

  Lang snorted. “More by bribe. I note you feed the dog just as you take Manfred out the door.”

  Gurt picked up the book in her lap and started to read. “What is it you say, by hook and cook?”

  “By hook or crook. ”

  Gurt’s face wrinkled in puzzlement. “I can understand hooking and cooking to get something, but crook?”

  Unable to explain the idiom, Lang added a few drops of water to his glass this time. “I spoke to Miles at length this afternoon.”

  Gurt put her book back down, suddenly alert. “And?”

  He gave her a summary of the conversation.

  When he had finished, she got up, crossed the room to an ice maker under the bar, removed a chilling wine bottle and refilled her glass. “This would mean traveling to where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “To find what?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “How will you find out?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  Gurt returned to her seat, wineglass in hand and nodding. “You and Miles have a well-planned mission.”

  She might not get American idioms but she has sarcasm down cold. Lang slumped into his favorite chair. “Wouldn’t you say our problems with the Chinese began in Venice?”

  Not sure where this was going, Girt nodded uncertainly. “Yes.”

  “So, it might be a fair statement that whatever it was that this guy, duPaar, wants was in that church, Saint Mark’s, right? Or at least, the Chinese believed so?”

  She thought a moment. “If you assume the robbers in Venice were seeking the object duPaar wants and if you also assume that object was really in the church. Did you not tell me you and Francis had this conversation before we went to Haiti?”

  “Sort of. He had a theory, or had read a book, positing that Alexander’s, not Saint Mark’s, remains were interred in the basement of the church.”

  “You are telling me this man in Haiti wants someone’s bones?”

  “They’re called relics, like Sain
t So-and-so’s toe bone being preserved in the altar of a church. In medieval times, they not only had religious significance but were a boon to local commerce. Pilgrims would travel miles to pray before the elbow of good Saint Such-and-such. The town would prosper from what we would call tourist trade.”

  Gurt smiled. “I have seen everything from bones to a vial with a drop of Christ’s blood to a nail from the cross. In Rome, there is a church that displays the chains in which Peter was confined, the ones which miraculously fell away.”

  Lang considered another refill but put his glass down on the table beside the chair instead. “San Pietro in Vincoli. Same one that has Michelangelo’s Moses. But yeah, like that. Thing is, what would duPaar want with relics, Alexander’s or Saint Mark’s?”

  Gurt was looking at him over the top of her wineglass. “I suppose that is what Miles wants you to find out.”

  Lang got up and surveyed the bookshelves as though looking for a volume. “We made a deal when you and Manfred came to live here: we were finished with the Agency. Neither of us would go romping off on adventures without the other’s agreement.”

  “Some of the ‘adventures’ came looking for us. We certainly did not ask to be shot at in Venice or have our house broken into.” She pointed to a shuttered window. “Neither of us wish the need to have our home guarded by a security service or use our special devices forever. Soon or late, we will want to live like normal people.”

  He turned away from the books, nodding agreement. “That’s why I didn’t turn down Miles’s request flat.”

  “Flat?”

  “On the spot. Immediately.”

  He could visualize Gurt filing this Americanism away wherever she kept such things. “Speak with Francis, then with Miles again. Let us talk after you have some idea what you may be searching for and where it might be.”

  Good idea.

  Manuel’s Tavern

  602 North Highlands Avenue, Atlanta

  19:02 the next evening

  For over fifty years, Manuel’s Tavern has been the gathering place for Emory University students and faculty, the local Democratic Party elite and those who would like to be either. Jimmy Carter, his hand firmly in that of the business’s founder, Manuel Maloof, smiles down from the wall behind the bar that runs along one wall. Bill Clinton’s autograph is scrawled across a photograph from the waist up. As a local wag speculated, perhaps a full-body shot had been discarded when closer scrutiny revealed the former president’s fly was unzipped.