The Coptic Secret (12 page)

She looked up from the screen and pointed. "It is a dealer in old books. It is to be found in the Mala
Strana
, Little Quarter." She pointed as though Lang could see through the walls of the cramped space. "The area just on the other side of the Charles Bridge."

II.

Piazza dei Cavatieri di Malta

Aventine Hill

Rome

At the Same Time

The older man was looking over the shoulder of the younger, squinting at the computer screen. "You have found nothing, Antonio?"

Antonio shook his head. "Nothing, Grand Master. The American lawyer, the woman, the child—even the dog— disappeared after leaving the pawnshop" He turned to look into the face of the other man. "But I can speculate, should you permit."

"Please."

"We know this man, Reilly, has access to a private jet." He paused long enough to click several keys. A photograph of Lang at the British Museum filled the screen. "We also know that jet left for Africa the day before yesterday"

"Africa? I don't—"

Antonio held up a cautionary hand. "If I may, Grand Master?"

The older nodded. "Forgive my interruption"

"The plane made a single stop en route: Munich "

"And you think this Reilly was on it."

It was Antonio's turn to nod. "I cannot know, of course, but our brothers in Germany are to obtain copies of whatever documents the aircraft submitted to the authorities. We should know before tomorrow"

"That may well be too late. Discovery of the contents of those books would mean disaster."

Antonio was silent for a moment. "We do not know there
are
copies."

"It is a chance we cannot risk. It is better we eliminate this American than to find we have made a mistake. Safer yet, we must silence all but us who might know of the contents of the book. That is why the Englishman died. We must continue to observe the shop from whence they came. If he has found out anything, he will come there."

"It will be done, Grand Master."

III.

Prague

Twenty Minutes Later

The late afternoon sun had sunk enough to put the narrow streets into total shade, making it difficult for Lang to read the tiny print on the map. He was pleased to find he was not lost when he looked up and saw the Old Town Bridge Tower, a medieval defense that guarded the eastern end of the Charles Bridge. He was tempted to take a minute or two to admire the Gothic sculptural decorations of its facade, including the carved kingfisher, personal symbol of

the fourteenth-century King Wenceslas of Christmas carol fame.

Then he thought of Manfred, weeping in terror as bullets tore through the walls of the country cabin.

He had no time for historical exploration.

Crowds of tourists wandered back and forth or took pictures of the procession of marble saints that lined the wall along each side of the bridge. Similar to its builder's inspiration, Rome's Ponte Sant'Angelo, the bridge also seemed to be a favorite spot to photograph opposite skylines.

Lang had no time for a Bernini wannabe, either.

Almost a mile later, Lang was leaning on his cane as he stepped off the bridge and began to study the map again. The shop he was looking for should be two blocks down the Nerudova and then right on the street he was seeking, Josefska.

Unlike the Old Town, here the roads were wide enough for automotive travel if barely so because of the lines of parked cars. The pavement began a steep incline toward the castle, now invisible behind nearby rooftops. He made a right turn and stopped suddenly. Directly across from the shop two men lounged against a black Opel Astra. One was smoking a cigarette, the other reading a newspaper. The short street consisted of one or two shops and several restaurants, all closed until the dinner hour. Possibly, the men were waiting for someone, but just like the men outside the pawnshop had attracted Gurt's attention, they set off a well-tuned alarm system in Lang's head. Any anomaly, a dirty, dented car in an upscale neighborhood, a panhandler with shiny shoes, anything that didn't seem to belong where it was, brought agency training to mind like a reflex.

Realizing standing still would make him as just as obvious, Lang developed an interest in the menu posted in a restaurant window before crossing the street and resuming a leisurely stroll. If these guys were, in fact, watching Starozitnicvi Straov, he would certainly attract their attention by entering. As he passed, he noticed a neat sign in Czech, German and English. If Lang was seeing correctly through glass that appeared not to have been washed in this millennium, the latter two announced entry was by appointment.

Lang was about to turn a random corner when he caught his reflection in the side mirror of a parked Renault Megane. He saw himself clearly but also one of the men from in front of the shop, walking casually but at a clip that would shortly close the distance between them.

Lang glanced around. There was no one other than he and the two men on this stretch of street. The weight of the Browning in its small-of-the-back holster was reassuring, but gunfire in this quiet section of town would likely draw the police in a hurry. Involvement with the local cops had no upside. He would be far better off handling this quietly.

The man behind was getting closer. Lang could see sunlight reflecting from the shaved scalp and the single earring so many Czechs seemed to favor. He was big, too. Somewhere north of two hundred, Lang guessed, most of it muscle, judging by the biceps that strained against the restraints of the tight black T-shirt.

Lang increased his speed slightly, swaying like a ship under sail as he used his cane to hobble around another corner. He stopped, turned and spread his legs into a batter's stance.

He didn't have to wait long. Baldy rounded the turn, his eyes searching for Lang in the near distance. It took a millisecond for him to adjust his sight.

Not a lot of time but enough.

Lang lunged forward like a clock spring suddenly released, putting all his weight behind a major-league, go-for-the-fence swing with the walking stick. It landed where it had been aimed, at the bottom of the man's nose, bending the nasal cartilage back against and into the point it became bone. Tissue snapped with an audible pop.

The blow was neither fatal nor particularly damaging but it was one of the most disablingly agonizing Lang knew. Its recipient would be blinded by tears of pain for several seconds at the least.

Baldy's hands flew to his face as he yelped and collapsed to his knees, bringing his head into range of another home-run cut to the side of the jaw.

Baldy fell sideways, lying on the sidewalk as he emitted blood and moans in equal parts.

Looking up to make sure his victim's companion had not heard anything, Lang knelt and awkwardly rummaged through the man's clothes. His fingers closed around a switchblade, which Lang shoved into his own pocket. He had expected no identification and he found none. He was about to give up when his fingers touched paper. He pulled it out and stared.

He was looking at himself in formal garb.

The British Museum.

But
how ... ?

He had scant time to think.

Baldy's friend rounded the corner, grunting in surprise as he saw his pal stretched out on the pavement. If anything, he was bigger than Baldy, big enough to make Lang wonder if steroids were the Czech breakfast of champions.

One thing was certain: they liked knives. Or at least, this pair did.

Another switchblade snicked open, the last of the afternoon sun dancing on a six-inch blade. Lang used his cane to push himself to his feet as the man advanced, knife extended.

He mistook Lang's steps backward for an attempted retreat. Lang didn't understand the words but the tone was clear enough: "Come here, little fish. All I want to do is gut you."

Lang was about to get his twenty-five dollars' worth along with a handsome dividend. Holding the cane in his left hand as he backpedaled as best he could on gimpy legs, he used the right to tug at the cane's knob.

His eyes never left his assailant's; they didn't have to. Instead, he watched his opponent's widened stare as Lang withdrew a good three-and-a-half-foot blade from his gentlemen's walking stick. He had recognized it as a sword cane the second he had touched the brass knob in Monk's shop.

The blade hummed evilly as Lang slashed at the air. "Not exactly what you'd expect from a cripple?"

Evidently so.

It was a lot more steel than the man facing him wanted any part of. He took a couple of steps backward before turning and fleeing.

Bastard probably parked in handicapped spaces, too.

Lang had started to trudge back to the hotel when his BlackBerry buzzed. His office number showed on the screen.

"Sara?"

"It's me, Lang."

"What's up?"

"It's Home Depot. I called like you asked me to and asked that they come get the stove, deliver the wall oven."

Jesus! She could have text messaged him; that was the point of having a BlackBerry. But then, that was Sara, resistant to new technology as a flu vaccine to the virus. When typewriters had become the next buggy whips, it had required a series of threats, promises and finally a raise to convince her to learn basic computer skills rather than retire. E-mail was suspect, subject to electronic whim just as computer files were not to be trusted nor CD's worthy of confidence; they would not cannibalize their information unlike their paper counterparts.

She picked up on the pause. Or perhaps his sigh. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, no. I was just, er, meeting with some people. Home Depot was delivering a wall oven
and ... ?"
"The man from your condo management company called, complaining about the hall outside your unit being blocked"

"See if you can get the guy who was supposed to install the oven to move it inside."

"Not that simple. They left the stove and delivered a hood to go with it. I called the store. They said that was what you ordered."

Lang sighed. "Who did you speak to, Laurel or Hardy?"

IV.

Thirty Minutes Later

When Lang got back to his hotel, he felt as though Baldy and Co. had succeeded. The still-mending parts, which was most of his body, ached, stung or just plain hurt. He resisted the impulse to stretch out on the bed to relax sore muscles and joints. Instead, he went back to the hotel's small office.

"A favor?" he asked.

The woman nodded. "Surely. Perhaps choose a place for dinner? Call for a driver for a tour of the city tomorrow?" She grinned suggestively. "Maybe arrange for company this evening?"

"Thanks, but no." Lang pointed to what looked like a phone book. "I have a hobby, collecting old books and manuscripts. A friend referred me to a shop here in Prague .. ."

Certain he would never get the pronunciation anywhere near understandable, he wrote out the name. "The sign on the window said 'by appointment.' Could
you ... ?"

She squinted, reaching for an old-fashioned rotary phone.

She spoke what Lang guessed was Czech. He only understood his name and the word "American," a frequent European synonym for "sucker" She handed the phone to him.

"Hello?" he asked tentatively.

"Mr. Reilly?"

He could not tell if the voice, slightly accented, belonged to a man or woman.

"Which of my customers was kind enough to give you my name?"

Lang made the instant decision to go with the truth. Or as much of it as seemed expedient. "Eon Weatherston-Wilby."

"A great pity. You have heard?"

Lang nodded as though the person on the other end could see. "Yes. He gave me the name of your shop shortly before he, er, died. I would very much like to see what you have that might be of interest to me."

"Is there something in particular, some certain type or time period?"

"Something similar to what you sold Sir Eon "

There was a definite pause. "I think it better if we met someplace other than my business."

"I'm a stranger in Prague. Make a suggestion."

"Do you like the food of New Orleans?"

Strange question. "Sure,
but... ?"

"The basement of your hotel in, say, an hour? If we are to talk, we must finish our business before twenty-one hundred hours. Thereafter, the music makes it difficult to hear."

The line went dead.

How was whoever he had just spoken to going to recognize him wherever they met? He didn't even have the name of the person he was meeting.

Then Lang recalled the sign in the huge vaulted room below the hotel:
red, hot and blues! live american jazz and blues nightly.