The Elizabethan Secret (Lang Reilly Series Book 9)

by Gregg Loomis

  38.

  Kim Il Sung Square

  Pyongyang

  Democratic Peoples Republic of Korea

  10:00 pm Local Time

  Kwack Pum Ji, Director of the Reconnaissance General Bureau, stood at the picture window on the top floor of one the featureless buildings surrounding the highly illuminated square. Scattered piles of smog- blackened snow resembled some gigantic skin rash. At the moment, the huge space, designed for the massive military parades for which the country was famous, was occupied solely by a pair of roller skaters. They wore only light jackets despite a temperature that had hovered only slightly above freezing all day.

  Across the square, chunks of the ice that clogged the River Taedong half the year gave back the reflection of the lights. On the other side of the flow, the needle-like spire of the Juche Tower stabbed the underbelly of dark clouds that would probably bring late spring snow. Flood lights gave the structure the color of ivory.

  Kwack scowled at the thought of a winter that knew no retreat. It would be months before it was warm enough to enjoy the beach house in the newly developed area of Wonsan. Of course, as his wife pointed out, they could vacation now at the country’s first and only ski resort.

  A ski resort indeed! North Korea did not even have a single stop light and Kim Jong un builds a ski resort with multiple slopes, luxury hotels, spas and even an indoor swimming pool while peasants starve. And just who does he think is going to . . .?

  The director looked over his shoulder as though someone might be reading his thoughts, thoughts which, if verbalized, could provide a one way ticket to the camps. After all, the Great Leader had stood a senior general in front of a firing squad for drinking liquor during the period set aside for mourning his father in 2012.

  The door opened silently and a man in the uniform of enlisted rank in the Korean People’s Army saluted before dropping a single piece of paper on the highly polished surface of Kwack’s desk and departing as quietly as a ghost.

  Thoughts of peasants and ski resorts vanished as he scanned the decoded message. The team he had sent to Dubrovnik had failed. Reilly had escaped by car. This was not news the director wanted to deliver when he met the Great Leader tomorrow. Like so many who had inherited power rather than earned it, the North Korean president was intolerant of failure, frequently equating it with disloyalty. There were rumors of beheadings and burnings.

  Trying with only moderate success to dismiss such thoughts, Kwack sat at his desk, tapping on a computer keyboard the code that would allow him access to Google, access available to very few citizens of the Democratic People’s Republic. As he waited, he opened a desk drawer, shuffling papers aside. Hs efforts produced a package of Wrigley’s Spearmint chewing gum. He had tried the reactively tasteless Unbangui, the local product, in an effort to stop smoking with no success.

  As his taste buds enjoyed the burst of flavor, he could not help himself from reflecting on the disapproval with which the Great Leader would view his smuggling in the American product. Never mind Kim Jong-un’s love of Western automobiles, films, and basketball, others were denied such pleasures.

  A map of Croatia appeared on the monitor.

  Now, if he were making a hasty departure from the country and wished to attract minimum notice, how would he go about it? A few more key taps informed him Dubrovnik had no rail station and there were limited departing flights to Zagreb, Frankfurt, and a few other destinations. Possible the American Reilly had sufficient false passport and supporting identity to get him on a flight under another name but unlikely. Such documents took time and Kwack guessed the American would be in a hurry.

  Back to the map.

  The highway seemed a likely choice. Dubrovnik to Split and then the ferry to the Italian mainland. A few coins in the right (Italian) hands and Reilly’s name drops from the ship’s manifest.

  No way to be sure but Kwack was an experienced gambler. After all, what is the intelligence business but making an educated guess what one’s opponent will do based on the most information available?

  The Democratic People’s Republic did not have embassies and consulates in every country. The one in Rome was the closest to the situation at hand. He could have a couple of teams in Split in an hour or two.

  For what?

  Kwack’s hand drew back from the old-fashioned rotary dial phone on his desk.

  A live Reilly might be able to explain the use of the mysterious object. But did he know? If so, why had he left it with the Georgia Tech professor from whom it had been stolen? No, the most probable scenario was that Reilly had been seeking the answer to the riddle.

  But once in the hands of the Russians, a live Reilly could inform them he no longer had possession of the object, thereby ending a waste of Russian resources in what the Americans described as a hunt for wild geese, whatever that meant. Also, Kwack had to assume Moscow was as adept as Pyongyang in reading other people’s mail. Should they discover the object’s disappearance, the simplest cipher analyst could connect the frequent mention of Reilly’s name and the theft.

  That would bring the usual Russian condemnation of international banditry, hooliganism by the Democratic Peoples’ Republic, and the rest of the hypocritical criticism designed to draw attention while the Russian bear gobbled up bits and pieces of Eastern Europe. Odd that The Great Leader cared what Russia or anyone else said about a regime described by the world as “secretive” and “isolated.” But he did care. His staff carefully culled from the international press anything disparaging of Kim Jong-un, lest he fly into an irrational rage.

  Conversely, should the American meet with an unfortunate accident, chances were that neither Russia or anyone else outside the People’s Democratic Republic would ever know who had possession of the device or what its purpose was.

  He reached for the phone and dialed three digits.

  39.

  Split

  The arrival of the police had alerted tourists and natives alike that something very unclerical had taken place in the cathedral. Lang made his way outside and into the emperor’s courtyard where he was nearly shoved back inside by the crush of the curious mob. Somehow, he managed to work his way into the vaulted tunnel. He stopped at a small shop, feigning interest in the gold rings and earrings while checking behind. No one seemed to have the slightest interest in him.

  If attention was focused on anyone, it was upon a young woman whose endowments were more likely the result of the plastic surgeon’s art than nature’s largess as seen in a very skinny, bra-less tank top. A man, old enough to be her father, but probably not, was slipping a gold necklace over blond hair with very brown roots. Her squeals of delight were drawing the eyes of every man and scowls from every woman. Lang slipped by a couple. He couldn’t understand the language but it was a fair bet the women were not commending either the giver’s generosity or the recipient’s worthiness.

  Lang had learned long ago, no matter the nationality, people are more alike than different.

  The important thing was confirmation that no one seemed to be noticing him instead of Goldilocks.

  Out of the tunnel, he crossed the quay and then the street. A few minutes later, he was displaying ticket and passport to an attendant before walking the gangplank into the stern of the ferry that towered three stories above his head. In front of him was one of those original Fiat 500’s, the model into which Italians successfully cram a family of four plus luggage in space roughly equivalent to the average bathtub.

  As the little car parked in one of the four hundred fifty spaces on the main deck, Lang climbed a staircase and came to what he gathered was a check in. Again he showed both passport and ticket, this time receiving a key and directions to deck 3 above. About halfway down a narrow corridor, he found a door with a number matching that on the key.

  The house on Lafayette had closets larger than the stateroom. A narrow bunk was secured to the bulkhead to his right. A round faux wood topped table secured to the deck was halfway between it and th
e stainless-steel shower, basin, and toilet that all but touched each other. Two adults could not have fit behind the pocket door that separated the bath from the rest of the cabin.

  There was a window in the far wall.

  Odd. Hadn’t Semitz specifically mentioned interior accommodations as a security measure? Tossing his bag onto the bed, Lang took the two steps required to cross the room. An exterior room may lack some measure of security but only if an intruder scaled two stories of steel in the pitch and roll of the sea.

  Lang stepped out into the corridor and locked the door. Looking both ways to ascertain he was not observed, he pulled a hair from his head, ran it across his tongue and stuck it between door and frame. The door could not be opened without dislodging the telltale hair.

  Thirty minutes of exploration revealed a small electronic casino, two dining rooms, one self-service, the other a sit-down, tablecloth affair, two bars that could have been taken in situ from a 1960’s Holiday Inn and a passenger section reminiscent of the interior of an airline complete with rows of seats. Judging by the two sizes, there was both a first and tourist class for those not paying for a private cabin. Both had the air of family picnics in that most of the passengers had brought their own food, which they were noisily unwrapping and eating.

  Lang wondered if that told him anything about the two restaurants.

  Shortly after dark, he had his answer: The ship’s chef was the culinary brother of the preparer of the Dubrovnik hamburger. Employing the hardest-to-screw-up theory, he had ordered spaghetti in meat sauce. The plate arrived in the hands of a silent waiter and could generously be described as room temperature. The noodles were chewy and the sauce tasteless.

  The paucity of other diners, perhaps only half a dozen, made Lang wonder if he had somehow missed the memo.

  One of the bars was a different story. Lang felt lucky to slide into the last seat at the bar. The chairs around the half-dozen tables were filled with men with others standing, although there were a few women. From a sound system invisible in the dimly lit room, Frank Sinatra extolled the virtues of New York, New York.

  That the singer had been dead nearly fifteen years had no perceptible effect on his popularity. Lang took a quick look behind the bar to see if the same pictures of Sinatra and Sylvester Stallone might be there that still graced the walls of half the trattoria in Italy where both were better known and loved than the current Prime Minister.

  But then, neither of the Americans had been indicted for, in essence, stealing from their government.

  Putting aside the thought, Lang’s eyes searched the labels on the back bar. Not a familiar Scotch label in sight as the bartender moved to stand in front of him, a question on his face.

  “Scotch?” Lang asked hopefully. “Scotch whiskey on the rocks?”

  The barkeep shook his head. Lang hoped he meant he didn’t understand, not that there was no Scotch.

  “Scotch whisky on ice?”

  A nod.

  Moments later, Lang was looking at a short glass half filled with an amber liquid. He held it up to what light there was. He saw, or thought he could see, the vague outline of what might have been a single ice cube. The glass and its contents were room temperature, too. The Blue Line’s hospitality division seemed infatuated with the ambient heat or lack thereof. The liquid tasted somewhat like Scotch but was raw enough to make Lang wonder if it had been distilled just that afternoon. He could only hope the Blue Line people were better at running a ferry than they were at the food and beverage business.

  Lang extended his credit card. Let the folks back at American Express figure out the value of the local currency, the kuna. He left the bar not quite ready for bed.

  He was never quite sure how he managed to wind up on the car deck. Pale yellow lights reflected from row after row of empty vehicles positioned in military lines as though waiting for a signal to animate them into life. A single set of stairs lead up to a deck at the bow of the ship. Two stories below, Lang could see flashes of phosphorus as the ship’ bow split the dark waters into double churning silver scars.

  Standing at the apex, hands on the steel railing, he let the mild spring air comb through his hair. He could not help but think of the scene at the bow of the ship in the film Titanic. Hopefully this voyage would end with better result.

  Above, the sky was black velvet punctuated with a million diamond chips. He turned in a complete circle, always amazed at the panorama of constellations. Not one tenth of them would be visible amid the glow of city lights at home.

  He suddenly became aware he was not alone.

  A leather sole against metal stairs? The scrape of something against steel?

  Young lovers to his right enjoying a romantic spot or just someone taking in the clean, salty air?

  He edged slightly to his left to spy whoever it might be against the stars. Something in the darkness of the deck sparkled. It could have been a bit of jewelry reflecting starlight, perhaps the glass face of a watch.

  Or something more sinister.

  Ducking to keep his profile below the railing, he scurried crab-style toward the back of the platform at the top of the stairs. As clearly as a child’s silhouette drawn on translucent paper, a figure, most definitely male, stood. The posture suggested alertness if not aggression. One hand, the darkness made it impossible to ascertain which, held the object Lang had seen reflecting the starlight.

  Long and thin, the blade was unmistakable.

  A choice: Lang was between the would-be attacker and the stairs. A brief dash and Lang would be on his way to lock himself in his cabin. Agency training from long ago taught that action deferred was action postponed until the attacker decided otherwise. On the other hand, assassins frequently came in multiples. There could be one or more Lang didn’t know about.

  The decision was made for him with the sound of a second set of footsteps.

  The missing potential assailant?

  Attacker or someone just enjoying an evening at sea?

  No time to wait and see.

  Lang stamped his foot on the metal deck. The sound drew the attention at the silhouette with knife. He spun to his right, his full body facing a crouching--and hopefully invisible--Lang.

  Lang came out of a stooped position like a spring uncoiling. His head hit his opponent just below the sternum, a linebacker meeting a running back at the line of scrimmage.

  A “whoof!” of expelled breath accompanied two steps staggering backward, all in a single second. Using both hands, Lang scooped up the unsteady knees and heaved with all his strength. He was never sure if his imagination or his eyes saw a flip in mid-air.

  There was no doubting the anguished scream that preceded what could have been the distant splash of a body hitting water.

  There was no time for a victory celebration.

  The clang of shoe leather on metal deck made Lang spin just in time to see a second flash of star-lit steel.

  Stooping, he grabbed at a point just behind the blade with both hands, letting his antagonist’s momentum roll him onto his back. Legs extended into the man’s body acted as spokes to a wheel, a maneuverer he hadn’t even practiced in years, still a pretty fair judo Tomoe-nage. The effect was to sling his opponent up and over the railing into empty space. Gravity took him to follow his confederate.

  This time, there was no question as to the splash.

  So much for star gazing. Lang hurried back to his diminutive room, checked the tell-tale hair and locked himself in. A quick survey of the small space revealed the furniture was bolted to the deck, no doubt in anticipation of weather far rougher than tonight’s placid crossing. For whatever reason, there was nothing to jam against the door.

  Lang was in for a sleepless night.

  40.

  Law Offices of Langford Reilly

  Peachtree Center

  227 Peachtree Street

  Atlanta

  Two Days Later

  9:26 am

  Lang was still experiencing jet lag. He
rarely, if ever, was bothered traveling to those time zones ahead of Atlanta, but the effects of the return seemed to increase yearly. Last night he had almost dozed off at the dinner table, well past midnight Croatian time, and he was unable to go back to sleep this morning when his eyes popped open just past 3:00. It would be a day or two before his body clock adjusted to the five-hour difference. In the meantime, he tried to curb the irritability that resulted from being hungry at odd hours, wanting to sleep in the middle of the day, and a general, ill-defined case of raw nerves.

  It did the latter little good to learn the house had been under observation in his absence by persons unknown using a stolen van. According to the police, when found, the vehicle was void of any identifying evidence, including fingerprints, a fact that indicated whoever the persons might be, they were experienced if not professionals in the surveillance business.

  Professionals didn’t watch houses for the fun of it, particularly in stolen vehicles. They had been acting on behalf of someone. The question was, who?

  The why was clear enough to make him wish he had passed on the auction and remained in the Shropshire countryside among his friends, Victoria the hawk, Daisy the Brittany, and Elmer the ferret, not to mention Llywen, the Port drinker.

  His mood was not improved when he opened his office door to find Brian Conner seated in the waiting room.

  Every lawyer, at least every sole practitioner, has a Brian.

  This one was near six feet, a handsome young man whose main problem was that he refused to control his bi-polar disorder with medication. He complicated that with being gay.

  Originally, Brian had come to Lang with a less-than-credible story of threatened prosecution by the Federal government as retaliation for making public the fact said government was smuggling cocaine on the Stone Mountain Railway, an amusement device whose single route was encircling the state-owned amusement park.

  Why had Lang been the lucky lawyer to hear this revelation? They were related, Brain asserted. Lang’s mother had been a Connor, a distinction he shared with perhaps a hundred thousand or more Americans with Irish ancestry.