The Elizabethan Secret (Lang Reilly Series Book 9)

by Gregg Loomis

  25.

  472 Lafayette Drive

  Atlanta, Georgia

  6:56 That Evening

  Brian Williams concluded The NBCEvening News with what might be the only bright spot in an otherwise depressing world: a surf boarding golden retriever. The Middle East was aflame with sectarian hatreds, the Russian president was once more exploiting the weak and irresolute American President with another land grab in Eastern Europe and California was suffering a drought that a bearded scientist proclaimed as both the worst on record and attributable to global warming.

  Never mind that studies of tree rings in what is now the Golden State depicted droughts of much longer duration going as far back as 800 AD, a fact neither Brian nor his tame climatologist did not choose to share with his audience.

  “You think Grumps could do that?” Manfred asked.

  Lang was startled. He hadn’t seen his son enter the room. “Do what?”

  The little boy pointed. “Surfboard. Bet he could!”

  Lang clicked the remote and the predominantly doleful liturgy that was network news evaporated from the screen. He smiled, envisioning trying to get the water-loathing Grumps near the pool, let alone on a surf board.

  “Don’t you think so, Dad? We could give him a try.”

  “Er, I think we’ll have to wait until it’s warm enough for the pool.”

  Like any child, patience was not among Manfred’s virtues. “Aw, Dad! That’s forever!”

  “Summer’ll be here before you know it” Lang said, employing that ageless adage for restive children that had probably been among the first words spoken by mankind. “Besides, I doubt Grumps is all that eager to become a surfer.”

  He went to the bar and turned on the old fashioned seventy-eight record player. A disk dropped and Harry James’s trumpet began the introductory notes of All or Nothing at All. The band leader had two distinctions besides his music: He had been married to World War II’s most popular pin-up, movie star Betty Grable, and he had hired an unknown vocalist, a skinny first-generation American kid of Italian descent from Hoboken, named Frank Sinatra. Neither relationship endured.

  As Francis would say, ‘Sic transit gloria mundy.’

  Lang was pouring from the Scotch bottle when Manfred asked, “Why do you drink that stuff?”

  The child had reached that hyper annoying stage of “why?” Why is the sky blue, why is it hot in the summertime and the unanswerable, why do you and Mommy lock your bedroom door if you come home in the afternoon?

  A simple answer was usually best.

  “I drink it because I like it.”

  “Why do you like it? Mommy says it tastes terrible and when you and Uncle Francis have more than one or two, you act silly.”

  De gustibus non est disptandum.

  Gurt to the rescue as she appeared in the doorway with a mild reproof. “Manfred, you shouldn’t be repeating what I tell you.”

  “Curses!” Lang exclaimed with exaggerated melodrama, “My whole espionage system is under attack!”

  “What’s es-pin-age?”

  Gurt gave Lang a cocked you-deserved-that eyebrow. “You can explain that over Abendessen. It is ready.”

  “Mom, why do you say ‘dinner’ in German?”

  Lang went to the table with a ‘your turn’ smile.

  Chicken! Chicken baked with sauerkraut. Last night had also featured chicken, this time cooked in bacon drippings. The night before, another chicken dish, the specifics of which Lang could not recall.

  He had had occasional discussions with Gurt about the sameness of meals and was not likely to have another. Besides pointing out that red meat was basically unhealthy, she had invited him to assume the culinary chores should he believe he could improve the quality of the cuisine. Outdoors on the grill Lang could hold his own. Inside, the smoke alarm, rather than a meat thermometer, tended to guide him.

  Besides, no point in unnecessarily causing a conflict he couldn’t win. He had learned he rarely won a dispute with Gurt. And when he thought he had, he subsequently learned the argument wasn’t over yet.

  He could continue to feed his red-meat cravings at lunch downtown, far from her dietary oversight. But Manfred . . .?

  He was suddenly aware Gurt had directed a question at him. “Pardon?”

  Waving Manfred silent before he could pose the inevitable question, she repeated, “Croatia. You still planning to be there next week?”

  Lang nodded as he used a napkin to wipe his lips. “Yes. The country still hasn’t recovered from the Bosnian war, what, twenty plus years ago? The foundation is planning a children’s clinic there.”

  “Exactly where?”

  “That’s why I’m going to Zagreb, to hear where the government thinks it might be most needed. Then, I’ll spend a day or two looking around the country to see for myself.”

  “Croatia is a small country. It shouldn’t take long to see most of it. But don’t you think the government knows best where a clinic might be most needed?”

  “Do you truly believe any government knows what is best for its country as opposed to what is best for its government? I suggest you think about our own.”

  “Own government or country?”

  “Both.”

  Gurt had no answer.

  26.

  Kim II Sung University

  Pyongyang, Democratic People’s Republic of Korea

  Two Days Later

  Sang Ja-reeb, university president, looked out of his top-floor office window. Winter’s snow had almost all disappeared from the fifteen hectare campus. Another month and the white flowers of the Kousa dogwoods and flat-topped Euodia trees would punctuate the green of the now-brown grass.

  He sighed, wishing he could devote more time to the pen-and-ink reproduction of those and other flowers that occupied what few spare hours he had instead of meeting with the sort of people with whom he would spend some part of this morning, explaining why he, and this university, was unable to fulfill their request.

  It all had to do with the nation’s view of education in general and science specifically. In the Democratic People’s Republic, scientific research and learning had to have military, industrial, or agricultural value. A more efficient method of refining steel or growing more rice to the hectare were preferable to theories of how the universe worked. In fact, the more abstract the science, the more likely he would have to answer to the committee that oversaw the university.

  And abstract this question was.

  He turned from the view of the anonymously modern buildings across the patch of grass to frown at his desk. On it was a round, obviously very old object that could have been a pocket watch or compass had either existed in that shape in the sixteenth century. There was a post in the center that might have attached a . . . What? The odd figures spaced ninety degrees apart didn’t help, either. If he could decipher those, perhaps . . .

  In the life-sized poster that adorned every public facility, the pudgy Kim Jong-un seemed to be sneering at him from the wall behind his desk. In the Democratic People’s Republic, failure was not taken lightly; it was considered an affront to The Great Leader.

  He drew a deep breath and went to answer the knock on the door. On the other side was a man. Short, his height was visually exaggerated by the high peaked cap of his army uniform. The left breast of his jacket was paved with medals. Sang always wondered at such adornments. North Korea had seen no combat since 1953. What were the decorations awarded for?

  Surely, they weren’t all for good conduct.

  He stepped aside to let the man enter. “Comrade Kwack.”

  Kwack strode into the office as though it was his own and pointed to the desk. “You have discovered the purpose of that?”

  None of the polite inquires as to the host’s family or well-being. But then, Kwack was one of the higher-ups in the National Defense Commission, one of the many government organizations whose name had nothing to do with its function. Others included The Committee for Peaceful Unificatio
n of the Fatherland and the Korean Peace Committee. As an official of such a powerful government branch, Kwack owed no particular courtesy to a mere university president, no matter the communist dogma of equality. In practice, some were more equal than others as per Orwell’s Animal Farm, a book the possession of which could cost Sang his job if not his freedom.

  “I regret, comrade, that no one on the scientific staff here could decipher its use.”

  Kwack spun on the heels of his highly polished shoes. “Are you telling me, comrade, that the scientists of the decadent, imperialist Americans are superior to ours?”

  Sang had anticipated this--an accusation more than a question. Questioning someone’s opinion as the superiority of everything North Korean and the threat implicit therein was a common motivating factor in The Democratic People’s Republic.

  “Comrade, what makes you so certain the Americans know the object’s function? Our metallurgist ascertained it is quite old, four or five centuries. Part of it appears to be missing. Could it be its use has been lost in time?”

  Kwack hadn’t thought of this. “Why, then, would the Russians want it?”

  “Do they?”

  Kwack realized he had ventured beyond his authority. Like most totalitarian states, information in North Korea was hoarded for the sake of secrecy in all things. Now he was on the defensive. “I did not say that.”

  Wisely, the university president changed subjects. “The American . . .”

  “Reilly.”

  “Reilly. I would think if he is the one who bought it at an antique auction, he might be aware of its purpose. You might have a better chance of getting the information from him than the Russians.”

  Russia’s failure to establish itself as a dominant power in East Asia and its caution in delivering potential aid to the Democratic People’s Republic, caused the regime to drift into China’s influence more than Russia’s. The two countries maintained a somewhat strained relationship since Russia had joined those nations urging North Korea to give up its nuclear weapons.

  “It is not for you, comrade president, to determine foreign policy,” Kwack said stiffly.

  Now it was Sang’s turn to change tack. In this country it was unwise to suggest that an official, particularly a high one, might not know what he was doing. “Of course not, comrade. I never thought you would contact the Russians rather than simply pursuing the American and force him to tell you what you want to know.”

  It did not require a man of Sang’s education to see the birth of an idea.

  “That has been the plan all along, comrade president. I regret your university was unable to be of help.”

  With that, the man in uniform made an abrupt turn and left.

  Sang shook his head. He had hardly expected deference from an officer of the National Defense Commission, but was rudeness necessary? Ah well, he had planted an idea, perhaps one that would grow like the hybrid tuberous begonia, the Kimjongilla he so loved to draw. In any event, he would not like to be the American, Reilly.

  27

  Hilton Imperial Hotel

  Marijana Blazier 2

  Dubrovnik, Croatia

  Two Days Later

  In Lang Reilly’s opinion, Dubrovnik was pretty much a bust so far. His reservation for a corner suite had somehow morphed into a room overlooking the old town, fortress, and Pile Gate. Interesting, but not what he had asked for.

  The hotel’s gym, though, was a pleasant surprise. At home, Lang had a daily hour and a half routine involving a treadmill, weights, and various machines designed to keep different sets of muscles toned. Pectorals, abs, rear delts, all as tuned as modern equipment could make them. Lang was all too aware a set of machines could not defeat the aging process but he intended to put up as much of a fight as possible. Missing a workout, particularly in exchange for hours in the confines of an aircraft, made him feel cramped. It was with a sense of relief he attacked the machines. As a finale, he logged an estimated three miles on the treadmill at a fast jog.

  By then, he was as sweaty as he was hungry.

  There is a degree of risk in asking hotel personnel for recommendations of eating establishments. Far too many concierges have relatives in the hospitality business or, more likely, receive kick-backs from restaurant operators for hotel guests directed to their establishments. Put most generously, there is no guarantee hotel employees and the guest share a common taste.

  The restaurant recommended by the hotel’s concierge had a magnificent patio view of the harbor. The clientele seemed to consist largely of cruise-boat passengers whose boisterous conversations had the tone of being fueled by alcohol, perhaps more than a sample of slivovica, local gin-clear plum brandy.

  One table was occupied by a sole diner. Although the light was not the best, Lang thought he might be an Asian. No matter his genealogical origins, the fact he was alone made him as obvious as a missing front tooth.

  The menu featured entrees priced at four hundred kuna, or one hundred bucks. A pre-dinner cocktail added another fifty.

  The prices didn’t seem to bother the mostly English-speaking diners who, Lang guessed, came from one of the half-dozen or so cruise boats visible from his table.

  But they bothered Lang.

  Rip offs always did.

  Besides, this trip was at the Foundation’s expense. Although Lang answered to no one in its administration, freedom from accountability didn’t equal freedom from responsibility.

  He handed the waiter a credit card. “For the drink,” he said.

  The waiter’s eyebrows arched. “You are not having dinner with us?” he asked in American accented English.

  “Not at those prices, no.”

  The server, a slender young man in his early twenties, scurried inside where Lang could see him conferring with a bearded, burly man Lang supposed to be the owner or manager.

  Moments later, the same man was standing beside Lang’s table.

  “You have a problem with our menu?”

  Slavic? Definitely East European

  “I have trouble with your prices. Now, run the credit card through for my Scotch and you can turn the table.”

  “You make reservation, you pay for dinner.”

  Lang sighed. He had been subjected to this sort of tourist bullying before. Motivated by the uniquely American phobia of being disliked, most meekly submit to the most outrageous demands made upon them in a foreign country. The hum of conversation died. The confrontation at Lang’s table was center stage. It was something people like the restaurant’s proprietor counted on.

  Lang stood, making certain his face was only inches from the bearded one, a gesture that would have crossed any language barrier had there been one. “I’d like my credit card now.”

  “You will not leave without paying for dinner.”

  “Oh?” Lang stepped around him, headed for the exit. “I’ll cancel any charge you put on the card.”

  The man grabbed an arm, a move Lang fully anticipated. “You . . .”

  The sentence died as Lang snatched his arm backward. His assailant’s reflex was to pull back just as Lang slipped his right shoe behind the man’s left. Using his opponent’s momentum, Lang’s foot swept the other man’s from under him.

  As the bearded man stumbled backward, one arm flailing, Lang grabbed the one that had been holding his. With a quick step, he was now behind the restaurateur, jamming the wrist up to the shoulder blades.

  Lang whispered in the man’s ear, “My card before I rip your fucking arm off.”

  The man shouted something in what Lang supposed was Croatian and Lang’s Visa card reappeared in the hand of his former waiter with a celerity unknown in most restaurants.

  Halfway up the two sloping blocks to the hotel, Lang dropped into a pizzeria and sandwich shop populated by what appeared to be young locals, one of whom, a twentyish girl with streaked hair and a plethora of tattoos, explained the menu to him.

  A good sign. When the menu does not have an English translation, it is
a good bet the food will be authentically local.

  Lang enjoyed a toasted sweet potato-sage bread sandwich stuffed to overflowing with garlic, fava bean pate’, goat cheese and prosciutto, washed down with a Tomislav beer, named in honor, according to the young woman, of Croatia’s first king. True or not, the roasted malt gave the light brown beverage a discernable caramel flavor.

  Cost: Forty-two kuna, including tip.

  Back at the Hilton, Lang helped himself to a nightcap of a Scotch in the mini bar (hardly a bargain at one hundred kuna), took a seat at the small table on his balcony, screened from the neighbors. He took a cigar out of his jacket pocket, a Montecristo #2, one of three pyramido’s he had purchased in Zagreb. He used the small blade on the wine opener in the mini bar to cut the tip before he lit it and puffed contentedly.

  He would have to finish this and the next before returning home.

  Over the low railing, lights shown on the old wall and its fortresses. Tomorrow he would take the day off from seeking clinic sites and explore a city that had its origins in the fall of the Roman Empire, flourished as a port and trading center under the Ottoman Caliphate, the Venetian Empire, and the Hungaro-Croatian kings before being incorporated into the Austro-Hungarian Empire, which collapsed with the loss of World War I. The victors, seeking convenience rather than practicality, had lumped Croatia, along with Slovenia, Serbia, Bosnia, Montenegro and Macedonia into a new country, Yugoslavia, despite severe differences and hatreds that had existed for centuries and that erupted in religious and ethnic warfare with the fall of the communist dictatorship.

  Lang got up and made an unsuccessful foray into the minibar in search of another miniature of Scotch. He returned to his cigar. Today he had driven south from Zagreb, Croatia’s capitol and largest city, stopping in Karlouag, Ogulin, Gospic, and at least two villages the names of which he was unable to pronounce. In each, he had used credentials supplied by the country’s health ministry to inspect such pediatric medical facilities as the town had. In most he had been pleasantly surprised. A couple reminded him of grainy photographs of nineteenth century institutions.