by Gregg Loomis
“Special Agent Warren here has answers to those questions,” Morse said with a malicious grin. “He’s in charge.”
Before the F.B.I man could issue the Bureau’s standard “No Comment,” a uniformed officer interrupted. With him was a black clad man, absent Balaclava, hands handcuffed behind him and obviously worse for the wear.
The officer, nameplate “Higgens,” looked uncertainly from one face to another before addressing Morse. “Er, Detective, there’s another body behind the house right where the woman said he’d be, along with this guy who was tied to a picnic table.”
Warren slowly shook his head, looking at Lang. “I’m supposed to believe your wife took on an armed man, overcame him and left him in this shape? Looks like someone beat the hell out of him. I can’t believe a woman did this.”
“Believe it,” Morse said dryly.
“And there’s this,” Higgens offered, “Found it when I frisked the suspect.”
Lang took the object from the cop’s hand. It was the item from the London auction, the Dee object. “This explains a lot.”
“God, I hope so,” Morse sighed.
“Maybe we better go inside,” Warren suggested. “Somewhere we can speak in private.”
The group turned toward the house, including the blond reporter.
“I’ll have a statement later,” Warren said. “For the moment. We want to talk to Mr. Reilly alone.”
“But the people have a right . . .”
Both Warren and Morse had heard that about a thousand times. “Officer,” the latter said to Higgens, “have someone string crime tape around the house there. Anyone unauthorized crosses it, arrest them.”
“Bastard!” said Ms. Five Alive News.
49.
An Hour Later
The dullness of pre-dawn was leaking through the windows of the den. Empty coffee cups adorned nearly every flat surface. Morse and Warren occupied the leather couch while Gurt and Lang sat in facing chairs. The other three F.B.I. agents had left the room moments ago to review the scene in the first available light of day. A protesting Manfred had been relegated to his room in a vain hope of going back to sleep. He was, of course, accompanied by his canine shadow, Grumps, who, once convinced neither extra attention nor food was involved, went a great deal more willingly than his young master.
“So,” Lang recapped, “you got news from the TSA that at least one North Korean national was entering the country illegally?”
Warren nodded. “An alert member of the flight crew notified Transport Safety they had reason to believe at least one of their passengers was a North Korean traveling under a false passport. He got careless, left a piece of paper with your address. We rushed here.”
Only after the horse itself locked the door to an empty barn, Lang thought. But he asked, “They were well armed. Surely those AK 47’s didn’t come on the plane.”
Warren shook his head. “Can’t go into that. National security.”
In other words, he has no clue.
Morse stood. “Looks like my people have secured the scene. Since Agent Warren here claims jurisdiction, I may as well leave. I have enough facts for my report. Sole survivor could be charged with attempted murder, committing a crime while in possession of a firearm, etcetera, etcetera. My boss can decide whether or not to prosecute.”
“He’ll be in detention plenty long enough for you guys to decide,” Warren assured him.
Lang cleared his throat. “Not so fast.”
The two lawmen shared a “now what?” look.
“I want to send him back to North Korea.”
“But why?” Morse asked
“For what reason,” Warren echoed.
“That object he had with him. The fact he had it makes me think his mission was to somehow force me to explain what it was, why the Russians might want it. I now know the answer: it gave the position of the sun somewhat like a compass gives the direct of magnetic north.
“That was valuable information in an age when figuring longitude was difficult if not impossible. Now, satellites can do it within a few feet except maybe at the poles where the angles of most satellites are too extreme to be quite that accurate.
“I want the North Koreans to know that. I want them to give up, quit. Don’t want to be looking over my shoulder or forward to more bodies in my yard.
“If we send this guy home with that explanation, maybe they can verify what I say and see it’s not worth trying to harm me or my family.”
“Makes sense to me,” Morse said, shaking his head, ‘no’ as Gurt pointed to the kitchen and a full coffee pot. “But then, not my call.”
“Mine, either,” Warren said. “I take your point, though. But this guy has violated a number of federal laws.”
Gurt spoke for the first time in this conversation. “So, send him home as a peace offering to the North Koreans.”
“As Detective Morse said, ‘not my call.’ I’ll make the suggestion though.”
“If not,” Lang said, “I’ll give the whole story to Goldilocks from Channel Five out there. That will get back to North Korea.”
“It’ll also get to Washington, make the intelligence people, particularly Office of Naval Intelligence, look pretty silly, something those spooks really don’t like,” Warren observed.
“That had occurred to me,” Lang said. “I’ll keep my mouth shut for the next ten days. After that . . . Well, let’s say being a guest on all those news programs sounds like fun.”
“You’d embarrass your country?” Warren bridled.
“To protect my family when my government has it in its power to make it unnecessary? In a New York minute.”
Morse, headed for the door, paused. “And the Russians, what about them?”
“Once North Korea’s dogs are called off, I’m guessing they will call theirs off, too.”
This was to prove to be one of those rare occasions when Lang let optimism overrule experience.
50.
Law Offices of Langford Reilly
Two Days later
10:37 am
Lang was stirring a cup of the fresh coffee Sara had brewed, the second pot of the new day. Before him was a copy of a multipage indictment against the newly resigned chairman of the Fulton County Commission. The man had used his county credit card for everything from personal clothing to having his vinyl record collection custom fitted with polyethylene sleeves, each labeled and filed in order. Had this been the sole offence, Lang could have sympathized with the motive if not the execution.
But it wasn’t.
County purchased airfare and hotel rooms for a family reunion in Las Vegas, County payroll and medical benefits for the cleaning woman and landscape crew at his home, all his due as the heir of a prominent--if equally questionable--figure from Atlanta’s Civil Rights past. That seemed his only defense.
Lang hardly noticed when he heard the outer door, the one to the hall and elevators open. He was expecting no one in particular except for the couriers, UPS, Federal Express, and postal employees who were in and out daily.
He certainly was not expecting a muffled scream from Sara or to look up into the muzzles of a pair Makarov pistols.
Lang had never seen the men behind the automatics before but with their shaved heads and hard faces he recognized them instantly as twins to the Spetsnaz on the street in London.
One of the two motioned him up and away from the desk. The other began to search the drawers. Through the open office door, he could see a third menacing a terrified Sara. They were indifferent to his repeated queries as to what they were after. He knew all too well but hoped the question caused some distraction.
Two in his office, one menacing Sara and, presumably, making certain no one interrupted the search of the office. Was there a fourth unaccounted for? Not that it mattered at this point: Lang had more than he could handle as it was.
One had yanked open the breakfront and was methodically snatching out leather-bound books and shaking each one bef
ore tossing it aside. Hardly the way to treat books, most of which were two centuries old. Pages were coming loose as were parts of hand-tooled leather binding.
“Hey!” Lang shouted, reaching out to restrain such vandalism. “Watch what . . .”
The reply came from behind, a slap on the side of the head that sent him reeling. His hand hit the Fratin bronze, knocking the dancing bear to the floor with a thump.
“Lang?”
Time seemed to stop for an instant. Brian stood in the doorway wearing a puzzled expression.
How the hell had he gotten past . . .?
The Russians didn’t care. Somewhere close to Lang’s ear, a gun went off.
The instant of distraction was an opportunity. Snatching up the heavy bronze, Lang pivoted, swinging it an arc that ended at the head of the man behind him, a sound a ripe melon might make if dropped on concrete. The man went down as though the floor had been cut from beneath his feet.
The guy at the breakfront dropped a book and was reaching for the pistol he had put aside on the edge of the massive piece of furniture. Lang dove under his desk just as second shot sent his ears ringing and a bullet splintered the inlay above his head.
Lang rolled violently to his right, his arm reaching from the floor for a desk drawer. He found it as a third shot went to the spot where his head had been a split-second before.
His hand closed around the Glock .40 caliber in the drawer. Without removing it, he twisted it in the general direction of the breakfront and squeezed off two shots.
Surprised his opponent was suddenly armed, the Russian glanced around for possible cover. Lang used the brief respite to snatch the Glock from the drawer and violently roll left, firing as he went.
His antagonist had not anticipated the move as evidenced by the crimson spot that was rapidly spreading across his shirt. The shock of the wound sent him wobbling backward a step, just long enough for Lang, still prone, to get off two more shots.
Lang was never sure which did what damage but it didn’t matter. One ripped a bloody smear across the man’s cheek and shattered a pane of the breakfront’s antique blown glass. The other entered just under the chin, coursing upward into the roof of the mouth and into his brain.
He went down gargling his own blood.
Before Lang even considered getting to his feet, he looked for the man who had been in the outer office keeping an eye on Sara. He was in the doorway, Markarov in hand, trying to find an angle from which Lang was not at least partially shielded by one piece of furniture or another and it looked as though he had found it.
Lang involuntarily tensed in anticipation of the shot that was coming before he could bring his own weapon to bear.
Instead of firing, the man’s knees buckled. His head lolled to one side as though his neck could no longer support it and he crumpled to the floor.
Behind him Sara glowered, the shattered remains of her computer monitor hanging from its base which she clutched in both hands.
She slowly shook her head. “He was not a nice person,” she said, possibly the most stinging denunciation Lang had ever heard from her.
He slowly got to his feet. “Brian?”
Brian stepped into Lang’s line of vision, his right hand clutching his left shoulder. Blood oozed between his fingers. His face was pale but wrapped in a smile. “See, I told you they were trying to kill me!”
51.
Atlanta
472 Lafayette Circle
A Saturday in Late April
8:27 pm
Smoke billowed from the Webber, a sure sign the charcoal had caught and soon would become glowing coals suitable for roasting the pork loin that had marinated all day in a raspberry sauce. On the picnic table, ears of locally grown corn were foil wrapped, waiting to be consigned to the heat once the meat thermometer indicated the pork was within ten minutes of being done.
That left plenty of time for cocktails, a timespan being enjoyed by both a barbeque-fork wielding Lang Reilly and Father Francis who was holding a bilious green plastic cup in obedience to family rules prohibiting glass anywhere near the pool in which Manfred and Leon gleefully splashed. Grumps nervously paced along the edge, his desire to be as close to his young master as possible balanced by his hatred of getting wet.
Gurt was occupied inside, making a salad.
Francis rattled ice cubes, took a sip and asked, “You think you did the right thing?”
“Tempus omnia revelat, but yeah, donating that sun compass or whatever you call it to the British Museum was the only thing to do, particularly making sure the gift got a lot of press. Not only did we get the curator’s opinion as to what its function was, we let the world know I don’t have it. Since the Fibbies wouldn’t release the surviving Korean, it seemed like the only way to get the word out.”
Francis went to the plastic cooler on the table, his cup making a scraping sound as he refilled it with ice before reaching for the bottle of Scotch. “You think there’s any chance the Russians or North Koreans still want it now that its function is known?”
Lang used the long-handled fork to prod among the charcoal briquettes. “Not my problem.”
“You could have saved yourself quite bit of trouble had you gotten rid of the thing sooner, you know.”
Lang sighed deeply. “Francis, I bought the damned thing as a gift for you, knowing your interest in Elizabethan England. By the time I knew it was trouble, I no longer had it. Help me remember the next time I’m looking for a gift for you to resist the impulse.”
The priest pointed to the bottle. “Single malt Scotch is always acceptable and a lot less dangerous.”
The two men drank in companionable silence for a few minutes before Francis spoke again. “So, what’s on the agenda for the near future?”
Lang shook his head. “Other than learning to play a decent game of golf, running the Foundation, and defending the usual lot of miscreants, not a lot. One thing that is not in the plan is more trouble. I want to see Manfred grow up, lead a normal life without all the excitement.”
Francis raised his cup. “I’ll drink to that!”
“Me, too. Only question is, how long before I’m bored out my mind?
Author’s Note
John Dee was perhaps the last of the Renaissance Men as we know the term: Alchemist, astronomer, astrologer, navigator, cartographer, occultist, spritualist, Hermetic philosopher, and, most of all, mathematician. In his day, all of the above were considered part of mathematics, a science of which the church was becoming increasingly wary. Dee did, in fact, do a horoscope for Queen Mary although astrological observations did not go by that name in the mid-sixteenth century. The predictions were accurate and the consequences as described in the book. The angel Uriel, one of several with whom Dee claimed to converse, predicted the attempted Spanish invasion of 1588 four years before the event. Dee was the first person to coin the phrase “British Empire.”
Perhaps Dee’s most lasting legacy is his continuing advice to Elizabeth to build up the navy, although he did not necessarily do so at the time and place suggested in the story. He saw the surrounding sea not as a limit of England’s expansion but a highway to explore and conquer much of the known world including “the New World,” a dream fulfilled, I expect, far beyond even Dee’s expectations.
He prepared what might be the first map of the Polar region, a document he titled “Infinite Yse.” He also invented special navigational instruments, including a “paradoxall compass” a description of which I was unable to find but which I chose to make the “sun compass.” Prophetically, he believed the Polar Region held great riches, although he could not have known of the estimated ninety billion estimated barrels of oil and limitless natural gas or the uses to which they would be put centuries later.
For the interested reader, there are more books on Dee than one can comfortably consume in a year. The John Dee Society’s web page does provide a tab to a concise biography.
Springs, or a suspension system for coaches, we
re unknown in England until 1564 when the queen imported a Dutchman as her coach builder.
James I, Elizabeth’s successor, never liked Hatfield Palace and sold it. The purchasers (whose family still owns it) tore down most of the two story, red brick structure in 1611, replacing it with a building more in the (then) current Jacobean style. I mention this because the description of the palace is more my imagination based on what Tudor palaces remain than observation.
I think I got the English and Welsh law of Treasure Trove right. Originally, finds reverted to the Crown. The American version can best be summed up as finders keepers.
The Internet is surprising sparse when it comes to the exact function of the Office of Naval Intelligence. In fact, most of what I did find related to HALO, a series of futuristic video games in which the Office apparently plays a major part. So, I had to wing a good part of the story that relates to them. But then, a spy agency should remain in the shadows, shouldn’t it?
A “chaldron” is an Elizabethan weight measure given various values in today’s measure varying between 5880 to 5900 pounds, or about 2667 kilograms. As is the case today, ships were measured by the weight of the water displaced or naval “tones.” The accounts differ as to whether Frobisher was to bring back rock or soil and they are unclear why the material was thought to contain gold or why it could not be mined on site. What is clear is that all that was present was a worthless iron compound. His patrons lost their investment. Queen Elizabeth could not have been too displeased with him, however. She gave him letters of marque and reprisal, basically a command to raid enemy merchant shipping in the south Atlantic for a percentage of the take. He grew rich from plundering Spanish treasure ships. Although he became landed gentry, the sea never ceased to call. He died in November 1594 as a result of poor medical treatment for wounds received at the siege of Fort Cruzon, a Spanish fortification in the siege and release of Brest. Frobisher Bay bears his name.
A trio of notes about Drake’s raid into the Caribbean and Florida: At some time after Elizabeth’s ascension to the throne, cannon (“guns” to contemporary and present naval personnel) became standardized on British warships. Previously, navies of the world used whatever was available, resulting in a confusing medley of calibers, powder charges, and ammunition. Since uniformity was in place by 1588, the date of the defeat of the Spanish Armada--in part due to the superior fire power achieved by the transformation--I’m guessing Drake’s expedition had already embodied the change.