The Julian Secret (Lang Reilly Thrillers) (20 page)

Or politicians occupied with other matters.

“ ‘Xactly how you plannin’ on finding whoever you’re lookin’ for?”

Lang sat back in his chair and shrugged. “There was an inscription on the cave wall, something about an indictment and the palace of the sole God.”

“You plannin’ on trackin’ a bunch o’ killers from some sorta religious claptrap?”

Lang sighed deeply, all too aware of the task ahead. “That carving dates back to the fourth century; they would have been there when Skorzeny looted whatever was there. He must have seen the same words.”

“So?”

“I can read them, know what the words say. I need to figure out what they
mean
. I’d guess the Germans did. If
I follow wherever they lead, maybe I’ll find out who wants me not to.”

Reavers picked a pen from a cup on his desk, working it through his fingers like a magician about to perform a trick. “You’re guessing the sum’bitches killed Huff an’ Gurt are tryin’ to protect some religious secret sixteen hundred years old?”

“It’s the only lead I’ve got.”

Lang felt no need to point out he had nearly been killed a year ago by people trying to keep an even older secret. “It’s either that or some organization trying to prevent identifying old Nazis.”

The Agency man returned the pen to the cup and gave Lang pretty much the same look he might have given someone seriously delusional. “I don’ see it, but okay.” He opened a drawer and fumbled through it. “One more thing . . .” He slid a square object across the desktop. “Take it.”

Lang picked it up. “A BlackBerry? Thanks, I already have one.”

“With built-in scrambling and a global positioning system? You set you’sef a three-digit code, you press it, an’ we know not only the caca has hit the ole ventilating device but ‘xactly where it struck. They’re special made for us.”

Lang dropped it into his pocket. “It would be your ass, the Agency finds out you let me have this.”

Reavers leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Or the passports, or the ID. Hell, at my age, gittin’ fired ain’t much threat. Tell ya, pard’nuh, best I can, I’m committed to findin’ whoever killed that li’l gal.”

Lang could only imagine how Gurt would react to being referred to in the familiar diminutive. “I appreciate you getting involved.”

“ ‘Involved’? Hell, I’m committed.”

Lang stood, thinking the conversation at an end. “Involved, committed. I value any help you can give.”

Reavers stood also, extending a hand. “Y’know the difference between ‘involved’ an’ ‘committed’?” Lang had a feeling he was going to learn. “Ever’ mornin’ I have
Speck und Ei
, bacon and eggs. The chicken’s involved, but the pig, he’s committed.” The Lone Star State’s very own Jay Leno.

Frankfurt am Main
Dusseldorf Am Hauptbahnhof Strasse
That evening

Lang lay on the bed, staring at the abstract designs of the cracks in the ceiling without seeing them. He didn’t notice the pulsating colors that came through the room’s only window from neon signs outside advertising sex shops, pornographic movies, and cheap restaurants. If asked, it would have been doubtful if he could have named the cheap railroad hotel in which he was spending the night.

He was far too lost in his own self-pity.

First his wife, Dawn, then his sister and nephew. Now Gurt. All snatched away, exited from his life as if his existence were some cosmic revolving door turning in a single direction. Though neither religious nor superstitious, he waited for the other preordained shoe to fall.

Gurt. Her blond hair swirled around her face like a
halo as she spun around to display the dress she had just bought. He smelled the musk of their lovemaking and felt the comforting warmth of her body next to his. Without realizing it, he smiled at some of her more egregious grammatical or idiomatic faux pas. The thrust and parry of their conversations, the smell of her cooking.

Gone.

Gone forever.

He wondered if the pain would have been greater or less had she agreed to marry him.

The same, he supposed.

If he ever needed consolation, it was now. He held his watch up, squinting to see the face. Just past five in the afternoon in Atlanta. Getting out of bed, he crossed the room to the electrical outlet and his BlackBerry, plugged into the current converter to charge. He called up the directory as he recrossed the room and punched the call button.

Two rings later, a man’s voice answered as clearly as though speaking from across the room instead of an ocean.

“Francis?”

The voice warmed with pleasure. “Is this my favorite heretic?”

Lang felt better already. “Francis, I’ve got some bad news.”

He related what had happened since Huff’s death, omitting only references to the Agency. He went into detail describing what had happened at Montsegur.

“You’re sure she’s dead?”

Anger flashed through him like a lightning bolt and was gone just as quickly. The second time in a few hours somebody had asked. What did they think, that he just assumed Gurt had died and abandoned her?

“I’m sure I couldn’t find her on that hilltop, Francis.

I mean, the biggest human thing I saw was a severed hand, which, by the way, wasn’t hers.”

There was such a long silence, Lang was beginning to think the connection was broken.

Then: “What are you going to do?”

Lang was sure of only one thing. “Find whoever is responsible.”

There was concern in Francis’s reply. “Isn’t that something best left to the police?”

Lang swallowed a sharp retort and made himself speak slowly. “I can’t exactly walk into some French cop shop and announce I was there when three or more people were killed. By the time the Froggies finished their investigations, they’d be sure to turn up the fact that I’m wanted by at least the Frankfurt Polizei, if not in Heidelberg, too.”

“Lang, acting out of revenge may not be wise.”

“Francis, I know you’re in the mercy and forgiveness business, but I have no intention of turning the other cheek right now.”

Another pause.

“Lang, you know I’ll help any way I can. I loved Gurt, too. I’ll be praying for her soul.”

“Better you should pray for whoever I find killed her.”

“That carving on the cave wall—what do you make of it?”

Lang knew he was being manipulated, steered away from the subject of Gurt. “Not sure. In fact, why don’t you write it down? I’d appreciate your thoughts.”

He read it, careful to spell out noun endings.

“Got it,” Francis said. “Doesn’t make a lot of sense, translates as something like ‘Julian, Emperor, orders that the accusation against Jews’ king be interred in the palace of the sole god.’ Without the endings, can’t be sure. Sure you haven’t screwed up the declensions again?”

The old familiar sparring made Lang think he might get through his grief somehow.
“Decamo bona verba.”

“I never said you didn’t speak good words, it’s mixing a classical language with the Southern accent that makes your diction difficult. You speak . . .” This time Lang was aware he was smiling. The priest was capable of miracles. “. . .
ore rotundo
, as Horace described gifted orators.” He turned serious. “What about the
solus dei
and the Jews’ king?”

“Christ, of course, was mocked at his crucifixion by being called ‘king of the Jews,’ but the phrase could refer to some actual Old Testament king like David or Solomon. Likewise, the ‘sole god’ could very well refer to the one God of Jews, Muslims, and Christians.”

Lang was thinking as he stretched out on the bed. “That presents something of a problem: Julian repealed Constantine’s laws granting Christians the right to worship. He hated them, felt they were diverting Rome from its heritage of pantheism.”

“What else can you tell me about the man?”

“Like all literate Romans, he loved riddles, and I have a feeling we may have one here. What is the palace of the sole god?”

“Could be in the Christian concept of heaven,” Francis speculated.

“But how do you bury someone in heaven? I think there’s something more literal there.”

“We can figure it out over a dinner at Manuel’s.”

Lang was suddenly homesick for the first time he could remember. The thought of overcooked food and an atmosphere of pseudo-intellectualism had never been so appealing. He knew what he was going to do.

“Reserve us a booth for night after next. I’m coming home.”

Atlanta, Georgia
Lindberg MARTA Station
Two days later

His mind told Lang it was time to go to bed, but the sun was still bright as he stepped from the train. He could have taken a cab, but Atlanta’s rapid rail, though not particularly rapid, made the run from the airport in less time than a taxi, was cleaner, and obviated the necessity of speaking Swahili, Tutsi or whatever other African dialect was native to the driver. Lang supposed the city’s Cab Bureau, in Atlanta’s tradition of Civil Rights Mecca, felt requiring English of its licensees to be discriminatory.

At the top of the escalator, he found one hack driver who at least seemed to comprehend “Peachtree Road” and got in the back.

Lang was not expecting a reception, certainly not one from the SWAT team.

As the cab turned into the condominium’s circular
drive, a police car pulled in behind it while a van blocked the other end. The concierge and Lang’s neighbors gawked in awe as ten helmeted men clad in body armor, wearing an assortment of windbreakers denoting police, FBI, and U.S. Marshal’s Service, and pointing Mac 10 machine guns advanced on the terrified cabdriver as though Osama bin Laden were the passenger. Lang took a quick look from the rear window in time to see a thin black man in a suit climb out of an unmarked third car.

He immediately understood: The Federal Republic of Germany had officially translated its displeasure at the airport incident into an extradition request.

Hands raised, he stepped from the cab. “A pleasure to see you again, Detective.”

Rouse grinned maliciously, motioning to the armed men. “Pleasure’s all mine, believe me, Mr. Reilly. This time you ain’ gonna wiseass yo’ way outta trouble. Us Keystone Kops been holding an international want on you, jes’ waitin’ fo’ you to come home. Sho nuff, heah you come, struttin’ through the airport like you owned the place.”

Lang kicked himself in his mental rear end. As soon as he had presented his passport to Immigration, he had removed his disguise of eyeglasses, jowls made with cotton balls, and a stuffed corset that added twenty or thirty pounds to his appearance. The blond hair alone wasn’t enough to fool the surveillance cameras.

Two of the policemen roughly spun Lang around, pulling his arms behind him and snapping on the cuffs.

Reilly gave the black detective a smile he certainly didn’t feel as he was quickly patted down. “I’ll always have you to thank for the lovely trip to Germany I’m about to take.”

Rouse bobbed his head. “You most certainly welcome,
Mr. Reilly. City gonna be a lot more peaceful, you gone.”

One of the cops held the contents of Lang’s pockets. “He’s clean. Keys, wallet, two BlackBerrys.”

Rouse looked incredulous.
“Two
of them expensive phones, Mr. Reilly?”

“Every lawyer has two so he can talk out of both sides of his mouth. Can you get your bullyboys here to pay the cab for me?”

“Why, sho’. Take your bag inside and have the man put it yo’ ‘partment, too.”

Lang had a small ray of gratitude, thanks to himself for putting the Couch passport into his suitcase when he removed his disguise. Traveling under a false passport would have earned him weeks, if not months, fending off questions from the State Department, the Transportation Safety Administration, and an alphabet soup of other bureaus, agencies, and administrations he had never heard of.

The inside of the police car smelled of Lysol and vomit.

On Garnett Street, just south of downtown, was the jail, or in the parlance of current political correctness, the City of Atlanta Pretrial Detention Center. The name was misleading. Not only were local miscreants confined there, but the federal government leased space to temporarily house a few of its involuntary guests. A modern curved facade of red brick faced a neighborhood of weary concrete-block buildings, enlivened only by flashing neon that proclaimed “City Bonding Co.”, “ABC Bonds,” or, surprisingly original, “Born Free Bonding.”

The outside of the edifice was the only thing that looked new. Inside, linoleum tiles were unevenly worn, walls displayed tiresomely similar graffiti, and the smell of disinfectant was strong enough to bring tears to
Lang’s eyes. He was not surprised that the two officers did not even have to use keys to gain entrance to the supposedly secure areas. The locks had long ago been destroyed by inmates, perhaps the same ones who had knocked out half the glass outside the barred windows. A former governor might well have had this place in mind when he commented that what the penal system needed was a better class of prisoner.

After being probed and prodded in a strip search, Lang exchanged his cordovan loafers for paper shower slippers. Slacks and polo shirt were duly tagged and he was issued a bright orange, beltless jumpsuit at least two sizes too large before being shackled hand and foot and taken up in an elevator that had the odor of human sweat.

“Hey,” he said to one of two guards. “I get a phone call, right?”

The man, a tall and muscular black, never took his eyes off the elevator’s control panel. “You gits all the phone calls you want. There’s a pay phone in the rec room, and you gits four hours a day watchin’ TV, playin’ chess or checkers, or readin’ magazines.”

“A regular social club,” the other man sneered.

“Pay phone?” Lang asked. “They took all my change, along with everything else in my pockets.”

The big black man was still intent on the panel. “I’d say that there’s a real shame.”

Both men chuckled over what sounded like an old, familiar joke.

Although he had been here many times to visit clients, Lang had only seen the spacious if featureless visiting rooms where lawyers were allowed unrestricted access to their clients. He had never seen the tiered cell blocks, four-story stacks of cages abutted by narrow catwalks. He also had never been aware of the noise, an endless
hubbub of screams, shouts, and curses that seemed to be amplified in the confined space.