The Elizabethan Secret (Lang Reilly Series Book 9) (21 page)

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 before 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, were 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.

              Second, Frobisher did, in fact, accompany Drake as did a number of British naval heroes including John Hawkins who sailed on a ship bearing his name.      

              Third, I could find no consistent accounts of exactly how many ships Drake had in total, only seven major vessels and varying numbers for the others.   

              Navigation in the sixteenth century was problematic. Although determining latitude had been done for centuries by noting the angle of the North Star or the altitude of the sun at noon, it was not until the late eighteenth century that it became possible to precisely determine longitude at sea. The process involved not only measuring speed but time, a difficult process when a ship’s movement in rough seas battered the clocks then available. The fact Dee’s instrument could have aided in this process is my invention, not fact.

              The use of “comrade” in addressing other members of a communist society has changed slightly in The Peoples’ Democratic Republic of Korea.
Tonginu
, one who is working in the revolution, is the current word. I’ve chosen to translate it as the equivalent of the more traditional usage. 

              The Spanish Armada of 1588 engaged in a running seven-day battle, an attempt by Phillip II of Spain to finally conquer the kingdom he had co-ruled until his wife, Mary Tudor (A/K/A “Bloody Mary”), died and Elizabeth became queen. The general idea was to send a fleet to pick up an army of around 30,000 (a huge number in those days) in the Spanish Netherlands under the Duke of Palma along with shallow-draft landing boats, then invade England. It has to be one of the most poorly planned military maneuvers ever undertaken. The commander of the fleet had no idea where Palma and his army were, nor were there any ports that could be used for embarkation of that number of troops. Plus the flatboats never materialized.

              Spanish naval tactics at the time consisted of firing a volley of cannon before the gunners armed themselves to board the enemy. The English with their smaller, more maneuverable ships stood their distance, pounding the Spanish with cannon fire. Constant attack by Dutch rebels in small, shallow-draft boats, an attack by fire ships while the Armada was crowded into the harbor at Calais, unfavorable winds, and a huge storm that scattered the fleet gave the Spanish no choice but to sail north around the tips of Scotland and Ireland into the open Atlantic to get home. Over a third of their one hundred thirty ships were lost.

              Although, as noted above, John Dee predicted the attempted invasion, there is no evidence he witnessed any part of it or that his mysterious “compass” played a part in a victory attributable as much to Spanish incompetence and bad luck as to English seamanship. There no evidence to the contrary, either. The Duke of Essex was Elizabeth’s army commander in the wars in Ireland in the 1590’s, so I’ve placed him at Plymouth a couple of years earlier although at the time, England had no standing army, only the “trained bande,” a group of veterans of other wars that could be summoned somewhat like today’s National Guard. 

              I believe the phrase is “literary license.”

              Drake’s continuance of his game in sight of the Spanish fleet may be legendary or fact but in either case was not an act of bravado. He had little choice but to wait. The English fleet was stuck in harbor until the incoming tide changed some hours later. 

              Raleigh was the last of the famed Sea Dogs. He was accused of consorting and plotting with Catholics and convicted on what today we would view as questionable evidence. Elizabeth’s successor, James I (James VI of Scotland), had him imprisoned in the Tower where he lived with his wife and family until the King sent him on an expedition to search for gold in South America. The venture ended not only in failure but with Raleigh being charged with piracy for raiding settlements of England’s new ally, Spain. Raleigh was returned to the tower and beheaded.

              Although knighted, he was never a lord. Dee’s addressing him as such was an acceptable flattery at the time.

              The description of Elizabeth’s last days is accurate. Lord Chamberlain’s Men was the name of Shakespeare’s acting company who did, in fact, put on a play for the queen at Whitehall, most likely
Twelfth Night
during Epiphany 1601.

January, 2015