The Pegasus Secret (27 page)

Jacob sat down hard on the leather-and-chrome hammock, his pipe temporarily ignored. “Bloody hell! If they have his service records . . .”

“He has no place to go in London they don’t know about,” Gurt finished. “I need to warn him.”

Jacob looked up at her. “I have no idea where he might have gone. He left here in a hurry.” He pointed the pipe’s stem at the balcony. “Took the quick way down.”

Gurt walked over, sliding the glass open as though she expected Lang to still be there. “What did you two talk about before the ‘cops’ arrived?” She made quotation marks in the air.

Now Jacob remembered his pipe and was stoking it with a match. “He’d just come back from Oxford, went to meet a chap I know, history fellow. Wanted to learn something about the Templars.”

Gurt turned from the opening onto the balcony, her forehead wrinkled. “Templars? As in Knights Templar?”

Apparently despairing of getting the briar going again, Jacob set it down. “The same. He found . . .”

There were two pops from the street below, sounds distinct
from the murmur of the city. Jacob and Gurt rushed onto the balcony. If the noise had come from just below, its source was masked by shrubbery and shadows. Both turned and made a dash for the door and the elevator down.

London, South Dock

Lang had never killed anyone before. He would never forget each tiny detail, as if everything had slowed to a dreamlike pace. The Beretta bucked as though it were trying to escape his grasp, fell back to center the sight on the dark splotch on the white shirt and jumped again, all before the first shot had echoed off the nearby buildings. Brass shell casings, catching the light, sparkled like twin shooting stars as they arched into darkness.

His attacker grunted in surprise and pain. Unlike the movies, the bullets’ impact didn’t even slow him down. If it hadn’t been for the two red flowers blooming on his shirt, Lang would have thought he had missed. The pistol’s front sight centered again and he was about to squeeze off another round when the man’s knees buckled. As in a slow-motion film, his legs gave way and he hit the ground like a felled tree. His body was sprawled in a position that made Lang wonder if his bones had turned to liquid.

In any major American city, the sound of gunfire would make the neighbors burrow deeper into the safety of their homes. But not in London, where street shootings were still a novelty.

Above Lang’s head, lights were coming on, windows were opening and the curious were calling out, asking each other what had happened.

Lang hurriedly checked both men’s pockets, finding
only the bogus police ID. Tucking the Beretta into his belt, he took one last look at the two bodies. He expected exultation or at least some degree of satisfaction for the small measure of revenge. Instead he felt a faint nausea. He made himself think of those two open graves on the hillside in Atlanta, but it didn’t help much.

Three of them for the persons he had loved. Scorekeeping was useless. He turned and walked quickly in a direction away from the approach of pulsating sirens.

London, South Dock

Inspector Fitzwilliam arrived in a less than jovial mood. These things always seemed to happen during the BBC newscast, calls that took him away from the telly and returned him to a dinner long since gone cold.

A crowd silhouetted by flashing lights was his first view of the crime scene. His next, after shouldering his way through the throng of spectators, made him forget both news and supper. Bodies were scattered about like some red Indian massacre in one of those American Westerns he had enjoyed so much as a lad. Two victims, one bloody as a freshly butchered beef, the other with neat, round holes in the breast of his shirt.

This was London, not New York or Los Angeles where street gangs conducted wars the police were impotent to prevent. What the hell . . . ? But the two victims didn’t look like street criminals. They wore suits with ties.

The detective in charge spotted Fitzwilliam and came over, notebook in hand, wrapped in an odor of curry. The sweat glistening on his dark face made Fitzwilliam suspect this was the first truly grisly murder the young man had seen.

“ ’Lo, Patel,” Fitzwilliam said, “Any idea what happened?”

“Like the shootout at the bloody OK Corral,” Patel said, the whites of his eyes large in contrast to his brown skin. “Both poor sods had shoulder holsters, police identification. I checked, the identities are false. We found one gun, a Beretta, in the shrubs over there,” he pointed. “Other pistol, if there was one, has gone missing.”

Fitzwilliam nodded, digesting this information. The U.K. did not permit the carrying of handguns, let alone concealed handguns, by anyone other than police, military and a very few security types. The presence of weapons and bogus ID indicated organized crime, quite possibly the so-called Russian Mafia that threatened to overrun Europe, or, worse, a part of a Colombian drug cartel.

The inspector walked over and took a closer look at the bodies. Even in this poor light, neither had Slavic features nor the coloring or strong facial characteristics of many Latinos. “Don’t suppose they had any other means of identification on them?” he asked.

At his elbow, Patel shook his head. “Not so much as a National Health card.”

Fitzwilliam squatted beside the body that had been shot. Suit was off the rack as were the shoes. The Russians favored tailor-made Italian toggery; the Colombians, fancy boots. He’d bet these men were neither. The fact that both holsters were empty would indicate they hadn’t been ambushed, were at least trying to defend themselves. But how do you get stabbed while you’re carrying a pistol?

He stood, taking in the entire scene with weary eyes. There was something about this South Bank neighborhood off Lambeth Road. He was certain he had never been here before, yet . . .

Annulewicz, the former Mossad agent who had been a friend of Reilly’s. Didn’t he have a South Bank address? The inspector began to pat his pockets in the vain hope he might have Annulewicz’s address.

“Can I help you, Inspector?” Patel offered solicitously.

Fitzwilliam gave up the search but he was sure Reilly’s former friend lived around here somewhere. If the American were involved, that might explain something, although Fitzwilliam was unsure what.

“No, thank you,” he said crisply, beginning to scan the growing crowd of spectators.

His search was almost immediately rewarded. A woman, blonde and tall enough to stand out. Pretty, like the photograph of Reilly’s woman friend, the German. He made his way to her side just as she was moving to the outer ring of spectators, about to leave.

“Miss? Pardon me, miss.” He had his identification hanging from his jacket pocket but he removed the leather wallet with the badge to hold out where she couldn’t miss it. “Miss Fuchs?”

She had to hear but she gave no indication. Remarkable control, he thought. “I know who you are, miss. I’d prefer to have a word with you here than at the station.”

That stopped her. It was only when she turned that he realized she was a full head taller than he.

“Yes?”

“I’m Inspector Fitzwilliam, Metro Police,” he began as though the badge weren’t inches from her face. “We’re looking for an old friend of yours, an American, Langford Reilly.”

The coldness of the stare she fixed on him was undiminished by the poor light. “And what makes you think I know where he might be? If you know who I am, you also know I have not seen him in nearly ten years, maybe more.”

“May I remind you, Miss Fuchs, that harboring a felon is a crime?”

She nodded slowly. “I’ll bear that in mind in case he comes looking for a harbor.”

Even the woman’s back managed to convey indignation as she took long strides into the darkness.

Fitzwilliam motioned to one of the uniformed officers, gave him instructions and returned his attention to the two bodies.

Moments later, the constable returned, pointing towards one of the high-rise buildings. “Residents’ names’r listed inside, just beside the lift. He’s on the twelfth floor.”

Fitzwilliam thanked the man and went inside.

In response to his ring, the door cracked open. The inspector could see a bald scalp and spectacles precariously perched on a nose. “Mr. Annulewicz?” Fitzwilliam held his badge up to the door. “Metro Police. Might I come in?”

The door shut and a chain lock rattled. The door opened again and Fitzwilliam entered a small living room in which two women sat on a couch. He guessed one was Mrs. Annulewicz. The other was Miss Fuchs. He dipped his head in recognition and introduced himself to the others.

Annulewicz shrugged in response to Fitzwilliam’s question. “Haven’t seen him, Inspector. What’s he done that would have Scotland Yard at my door?”

“Police matter,” Fitzwilliam said, willing for the moment to perpetuate the charade that they didn’t know. “We’d like to talk to him.”

Annulewicz turned to the German woman. “Gurt, d’know our old mate Langford Reilly was in town?”

She shook her head. “Not until this gentleman asked me if I had seen him.”

“I see,” Fitzwilliam said, as indeed he did. “And when was the last time you were in the U.K., Miss Fuchs?”

She shook her head again. “I am unable to remember exactly.”

“Ten years or so ago, Miss Fuchs, according to immigration records. I suppose you were suddenly overcome with nostalgia.”

“It had been too long,” she said.

“I don’t suppose either of you have any idea what happened right outside your window, down there on the street?”

“We heard a noise and went downstairs,” Annulewicz said. “I came right back up as soon as I saw someone had been hurt. But the police came before I could place a call.”

Fitzwilliam reached into a coat pocket and produced a pair of business cards. “I won’t bother you further, particularly since it’s been so long since the two of you have seen each other. But if you hear from Mr. Reilly, ring me up.”

They were both nodding as he left.

Amazing how chummy the two of them were, Fuchs and Annulewicz, Fitzwilliam thought bitterly. Truly amazing since, according to the information he had from the CIA, the two had never met.

London, South Dock

Lang went down the steps of the Lambeth North Underground Station at a pace unlikely to invite attention. He took the first train. There were few passengers, probably because it was after working hours in what was largely a residential neighborhood. He rode for a few minutes before checking the multicolored diagram of the Underground posted in each car. Brown, Bakerloo Line. Three or four stops and he’d be at Piccadilly Circus, only a few blocks from where Mike Jenson, Dealer in Curios, Antiquities, Etcetera had been murdered only . . . when? Had it been only yesterday?

Lang figured Piccadilly was as good a location as any, better than some. Dinner and theater crowds would provide
protective anonymity. And maybe, just maybe, he would get lucky. Maybe an old acquaintance would still be there, one that he doubted was in his service file.

The train shuddered to a stop. A teenaged couple boarded, he with purple hair and an intricate tattoo of a dragon writhing beneath his tank top, she with green spikes of hair along her scalp like the dorsal ridge of a dinosaur. Her gender was ascertainable only by breasts pressing brown nipples against a T-shirt that had been laundered into gossamer. Both kids dripped rings and pendants from various pierced body parts.

And Lang thought the girl at Ansley Galleries had been weird.

He might as well have been invisible. The two sat at the far end of the coach, oblivious to anything but themselves. How they managed what the tabloids call intimate embraces without entangling body jewelry was a mystery.

The faces of the only other passengers, two middle-aged women without wedding rings, managed to express disapproval, curiosity and envy all at once.

Lang was watching what was about to become what he termed
coitus terminus subterra interruptus
—having sex interrupted by a subway stop—as he reviewed the information he had gained. The translation of the Templar papers indicated that area of France, the Languedoc, might be the place he needed to search. Pegasus’s business in a largely rural part of Burgundy was hardly coincidental.

Pegasus.

Did a modern, multibillion dollar corporation take its name from the symbol of a monastic order that had been officially disbanded seven hundred years ago, or was it an incarnation of the Templars themselves? Pietro had described the Templar organization in terms that also fit Pegasus: receiving a shitload of money from the pope. Could a secret two millennia old account for everything, both in
Pietro’s time and Lang’s, a secret whose key lay in a copy of a religious painting by a minor artist?

The questions were enough to make his head hurt.

Hand in hand, the adoring punkers got off at Westminster. The two spinsters looked as though they were thankful to have survived a particularly nasty epidemic.

Even with the Templar papers, as Lang mentally referred to them, he knew way too little. He had learned during his stay with the Agency, old aphorisms notwithstanding, what you didn’t know was anything but benign. Classic example was Kennedy’s decision to withhold air support, uncommunicated until troops were already on the beaches of the Bay of Pigs. Bet you couldn’t find a veteran of that fiasco who believed what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you.