The Bonaparte Secret lr-6

by Gregg Loomis

  Across from the bar, wooden booths bear the carved initials of students and fraternities as well as graffiti in Latin and Greek as well as English and other modern languages. The house specializes in political debate, funky atmosphere, generous pitchers of beer, and cuisine that is arguably the worst in any licensed food establishment in the city if not the Southeast.

  When Lang and Francis had begun their friendship, it was also one of the few places where a black man in a clerical collar could share a meal with a white man in solemn lawyer garb without drawing stares of curiosity. Among the motley clientele of Manuel’s, the pair hardly drew a glance.

  They entered through the back door from the parking lot.

  Spurning the tables that occupied the “new” expansion to the bar that had been added nearly thirty years ago, Lang and Francis seated themselves at one of the booths that had been part of the original operation.

  Francis turned to look back the way they had come. “I’ve got to say, riding in that SUV beats cramping into your Porsche.”

  Lang picked up the menu, something he could have recited in his sleep. “I’ll bet you loved Max, the armed driver, too.”

  Francis watched the beefy bodyguard survey the room before taking a seat at the bar. “It seems impolite not to let him join us.”

  Lang lifted his eyes from the menu to look at his security escort. Just under six feet, with close-cropped hair beginning to streak with silver, the man moved with a catlike precision that would have revealed his special military background had his resume not already done so. He constantly scanned his surroundings without being obvious about it. “His job isn’t an exercise in manners. He can’t keep an eye on the whole room sitting with us.”

  “You really are concerned about you and your family’s safety. You’ve had problems like this before and you didn’t hire a security service.”

  Lang put the menu down. “I didn’t have a family, either. I’m not worried about taking care of myself, but when Gurt’s busy tending to Manfred, she can’t be looking over her shoulder.”

  “So, how long does this go on?”

  Larry, their usual waiter, appeared, a foaming pitcher of beer in each hand. He set one on the table. “I’ll be back with your glasses. The usual, folks?”

  “Unless you have something truly fit to eat for a change,” Lang muttered.

  Unperturbed, Larry smiled. “Manuel’s: an Atlanta tradition you can rely on.”

  “Like warm beer, lousy food and indifferent service.”

  Larry turned away with a cheery “But our prices are quite reasonable.”

  Both men watched him go, as did Max at the bar.

  Francis repeated his question. “How long are you keeping these security guys around?”

  “As long as it takes. That’s part of the reason we’re here tonight.”

  “And I thought you were yearning for ecclesiastical enlightenment.”

  “Maybe some other time. Right now, I need information.”

  Francis reached behind himself, producing a book. “You wanted to borrow Chugg’s book, the one about Alexander’s tomb.”

  Lang took it. “Yeah, that’s the one. Thanks.”

  Francis looked around as though making sure no one was listening. What they would be discussing was esoteric, perhaps even too far-out even for the patrons of Manuel’s. “It’s only a theory, you know, that the Venetian merchants who thought they were stealing Saint Mark’s relics actually wound up with those of Alexander, and a pretty wild one at that.”

  Lang was thumbing the pages. “So far, a theory is all I have. I can’t imagine why the Chinese would want the relics of a Christian saint.”

  “Or of a pagan general, albeit perhaps the greatest ever.”

  “You told me, according to our friend Chugg here, the ancients believed Alexander’s body was some sort of talisman, one that guaranteed victory in battle. That was one of the justifications Ptolemy gave for hijacking it. That could be why a nutcase like duPaar wants it.”

  Francis freshened his and Lang’s glasses before holding up the near-empty pitcher. “The ancients also believed in oracles, augury and a panoply of rather ill-behaved gods and goddesses. Do you suppose duPaar also does?”

  “Decided, gentlemen?” Larry had pen and pad in hand.

  “The salmon,” Francis said with all the enthusiasm of a man approaching the gallows. “And try not to overcook it this time.”

  Lang handed his menu to the waiter. “The cheeseburger. Tell the chef I’d like it somewhere between cremated and steak tartare.”

  Larry shrugged. “Chef? At these prices you think we can afford a chef? I just throw stuff on the stove and leave it there until I have to make room for something else.”

  Both men watched his departure.

  “I wish I thought he was kidding,” Francis said ruefully.

  Lang became serious. “You were right about Alexander’s remains, relics, whatever, being just a theory, but I have to start somewhere. This book is as good a place as any.”

  “You think that book is going to help you find Alexander’s tomb? Its location is one of history’s great mysteries. People have been looking for it since the fourth century AD and no one has even come close. Unless, of course, those Venetian merchants who thought they were stealing Saint Mark actually had Alexander.”

  “Maybe, but no one’s life depended on finding Alexander before, either.”

  “But you don’t even know if Alexander’s tomb, or his remains, if they still exist, have anything to do with the incident in Venice.”

  Or the Chinese involvement in Haiti, Lang thought. “You’re right, but I have to start somewhere. If Venice is the reason my house was burglarized, then whatever was in Saint Mark’s tomb had something to do with it. Since those guys made off with Saint Mark’s relics, or whatever, I’m not going to find out what it was by going back to Italy. If you have another idea, now is the time to share it.”

  Francis held up his hands as though to demonstrate they were empty. “No ideas here. If you plan to work Chugg’s theory, where will you start?”

  “Well, I think we can assume Chugg was wrong about Alexander in Venice. The Chinese are still trying to find Alexander’s relics. Or at least trying to prevent me from interfering. If they’d succeeded or quit, I wouldn’t need the security detail.”

  Francis smiled. “You’re making assumptions based on negatives.”

  “Sometimes that’s all there is to base them on.”

  “And you accuse religion of being illogical.”

  Lang had no intent of renewing that debate at the moment. “The foundation is flying a pair of immunologists to Sudan next week. I figure the Gulfstream can make a stop in Alexandria. That seems a logical place to begin, since the only thing we know for sure is that Alexander was, in fact, entombed there.”

  “So you figure if you find the relics first, you can put them beyond the Chinese’s reach and that will be the end of the matter, they will simply go away? Spes sibi quisque.”

  Lang took a long sip from his glass. “Virgil would agree I am relying on myself. It’s for sure no one else’s family is at risk.”

  “And Gurt?”

  “Under the circumstances, we can hardly leave Manfred with the neighbors.”

  “Then why not send Gurt, and you take care of your son?”

  Lang stared across the table in disbelief. “I hope you are kidding! Gurt would no more leave that child while we are all in danger than…”

  The simile failed him.

  472 Lafayette Drive, Atlanta

  04:12 the next morning

  For an instant Lang thought he was dreaming. Then he realized the sound of shattering glass followed by the squeal of tires and a pair of gunshots were not part of a vanishing dream, but what had awakened him. His hand closed around the 9 mm Browning HP automatic in the bedside table as his feet hit the floor. Gurt was already pulling a sweatshirt over her head as Manfred’s frightened voice came down the hall.

&nb
sp; Lang almost collided with the little boy, followed by Grumps, as he threw the bedroom door open and lunged into the hall.

  “Window downstairs broke,” Manfred announced.

  Lang squatted, his face at the same level as his son’s. “You go into Mommy and Daddy’s room, shut the door and stay there until we come back.”

  Manfred’s lips began to tremble. “But…”

  Lang lifted the child up and placed him across the threshold. In the tone that meant the order was not subject to negotiation, he repeated, “I said, stay there.”

  Gurt was beside him. “Lang, the child is terrified.”

  Lang was halfway down the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Then you stay with him.”

  Any answer was lost as he hit the floor of the foyer. Immediately, he smelled smoke. A quick glance around told him the fire was not inside the house. Not yet, anyway. He reached for the double dead-bolt locks on the front door, his hand stopping in midair. What better way to lure him out into the open, making a clear target, than the possibility of fire?

  During the second of indecision, a heavy knock came from outside. “Mr. Reilly? It’s Jake with Executive Security. Open up.”

  All the bodyguards looked pretty much alike, varying only in race and height. They all had that military bearing, so he wasn’t sure which one of them was Jake. The voice, though, was familiar. He unlocked and opened the door.

  The first thing he saw was a man silhouetted against dying flames. The front yard’s winter-dry grass was smouldering, cinder black.

  Jake opened the door wide enough to squeeze in and shut it. Lang noted the M16 automatic rifle grasped in one hand. “Somebody threw the equivalent of a Molotov cocktail from a passing car. Pretty primitive. But if it had exploded inside, I’d guess the whole house would have been a furnace in a second or two. But it hit a window, broke the glass and bounced onto the lawn.” He stopped, puzzled. “You got steel shutters inside the windows?”

  “Seemed like a reasonable precaution when we redid the house. Did you get a tag number?”

  “Nope, had his lights out. Cooked off a couple of rounds through the rear windshield, though, before I had to hold off for fear of sending ordnance through your neighbors’ windows. Might’ve been two of them. A pickup truck parked across the street took off right behind the one that tossed the firebomb.”

  More likely the truck was one of Miles’s men. Although Lang had seen no obvious watchers from the Agency, it would make sense that as Miles had promised, they would keep an eye on things.

  Lang pointed to the back of the house. “Come on in and I’ll brew a pot of coffee.”

  Jake shook his head. “No thanks. If I’m inside, I’m not doing much good keeping watch.”

  “There’s supposed to be a team of two. Where’s your partner?”

  “I’d guess he’s somewhere in the backyard, watching the rear of the premises.”

  Gurt, holding the hand of a pale and shaken Manfred, came down the stairs. Even Grumps seemed wary. “What…?”

  Lang repeated what he had been told.

  Jake touched a finger to his forehead, an informal salute. “Guess I better get back to my post. You aren’t paying me to be a houseguest.”

  As Lang pulled the door open, he caught a glimpse of a dozen or so people in the street in varying stages of undress despite the chill of the winter night. Bathrobes, housecoats, pajamas under jackets. Although it was too dark to see their faces, he was sure they were gaping. He heard a siren rapidly approaching.

  The timely appearance of the Atlanta police could be depended upon when they were no longer needed.

  Lang turned toward the kitchen. “Guess I’ll brew that coffee anyway. I expect we’ll need it.”

  “Lang?” Gurt asked.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

  “You don’t need a weapon to make coffee.”

  For the first time, he became aware he was still carrying the Browning. He stuck it in the drawer of an end table. “I guess not.”

  An hour later, the police had run out of questions and the pot out of coffee. Wearily, Lang was shutting the front door as the eighteenth-century Birely amp; Sons grandfather clock chimed six times. With Manfred asleep in her arms, Gurt had a foot on the front stairs when the phone rang.

  “Who the hell…?”

  “Answering it could well provide an answer.”

  At first Lang thought the caller had a wrong number. There was that instant’s pause before the anticipated hang-up.

  But there was no hang-up. Instead, Miles’s voice, disgustingly cheery, boomed through the line. “Lang! Understand there was a little excitement around the Reilly household this morning!”

  Lang was wondering how anyone could be so damn chipper at this hour before he realized it probably wasn’t this hour wherever Miles was. “You could say that.”

  “My, but aren’t you the sourpuss, for someone who has just cheated death! Thought you’d like to know: one of our guys followed the car that tossed the Molotov cocktail. Got the license plate.”

  “Let me guess-the plate, the car or both were stolen.”

  “How perceptive for one so grouchy at being awoken from his slumbers!”

  Lang picked up his coffee cup from the a table, confirming it was empty. “You didn’t call just to tell me that assassins frequently don’t use their own automobiles.”

  “Quite so. But your security guy isn’t a bad shot.”

  “Meaning?”

  “A patrolman just called in to the APD a report of a man dead in a stolen Ford Taurus. I must say, these people have no taste in automobilia. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a clunker like that.”

  Lang was wondering if there might be a teeny-weeny little bit of coffee left in the pot after all. He held up the cup, motioning to Gurt, who was at his elbow, listening as best she could to the conversation. “I suppose you’re going to tell me the deceased is the would-be arsonist.”

  “According to what my guy heard on the police scanner, the back window of the car appeared to have been shot out, the dead guy bled out from a bullet wound in the back of his neck and there was a can half-full of gasoline in the backseat. I doubt he was on his way from the filling station to top off his lawnmower. Oh yeah, one more detail. He appears to be Asian, no ID on the body.”

  Gurt stood in the kitchen door, Manfred still draped over one arm, the other hand holding a demonstrably empty coffee pot.

  “That’s interesting to know, Miles.”

  “I thought a few facts like that might speed your decision on my little proposition.”

  “It does Miles, it does.”

  “Well?”

  “I’m definitely leaning in that direction.”

  “Lang, do something! Think of your family. They may not miss next time.”

  “The thought had occurred to me. You’ll have your answer before the day is out.”

  With parting salutations, the conversation ended.

  Gurt was facing Lang. “Wherever you have to go, whatever you have to do, make them stop it before one of us gets hurt.”

  That was a decision Lang had already made, Gurt’s agreement or not. He just wanted her blessing before he called Miles back.

  El Nozha Airport

  Alexandria, Egypt

  Three days later

  The Gulfstream 550’s tires met the runway with a satinlike kiss, a tribute to the piloting skills of its flight crew. Lang was pushed forward in his seat as the engines howled into reverse thrust and the plane came to a near stop before turning sedately onto a taxiway like an elderly dowager leaving the dance floor.

  He took his BlackBerry from his pocket and called home. It would be far too early in the morning, eight hours earlier, for Gurt to have hers turned on, but the “missed call” message and his number would let her know he had arrived safely.

  Lang had been watching the city as it spread out beneath him on final approach. Mostly sand-colored buildings surrounding green spaces, hardly the sophist
icated international metropolis of ancient history. He rubbed eyes, gritty from the lack of sleep that always accompanied air travel. The main terminal, a low squat building, suckled aircraft of Air Arabia, Olympic, Austrian Airlines and Lufthansa. Thankful he would not have to transit what he remembered as the tiny, crowded, ill-smelling and generally filthy arrival lounge, he settled back into his seat to await the arrival of the inevitable officialdom.

  The customs and immigration crew had apparently been waiting on the private aviation tarmac. The Gulfstream’s door had hardly wheezed open when two khaki-clad officials climbed the short staircase and began reviewing the general declarations proffered by the plane’s copilot. The deference with which the aircraft’s crew and passengers were treated was far different from the arrogance that Lang recalled being shown across the field in the passenger terminal. But then, the occupants of a sixty-million-dollar private jet were more likely to be powerful people than, say, a merchant arriving from Cairo to visit relatives. Powerful or not, the language of international bureaucracy-paper-was inspected, exchanged and slipped into folders from which it likely would never emerge. Lang purchased the requisite visa stamp for the passport Miles had furnished along with matching Visa card, Mastercard and driver’s permit while explaining the two immunologists with him would not be leaving the aircraft but would depart for Sudan as soon as he left the plane. The disappointment shown at the lost revenues mostly dissipated when Lang thanked the two uniformed men for their prompt and courteous service, slipping an American twenty-dollar bill into both open hands.

  With a minimum of luck, these two would be satisfied that the passports did not contain a stamp from Israel, a real problem requiring Higher Egyptian Authority, and be gone shortly.

  “We’re in a bit of a hurry.” Lang smiled. “I am expected at an archaeological excavation that is waiting for me before further exploration can take place. I hope you can speed the customs inspection process.”