The Coptic Secret (4 page)

"Good morning to you, too," Lang said cheerfully. "I've got a job for you."

"Swell," Jimmy growled, recognizing Lang's voice. "Most of my clients operate during the daylight hours."

"Most of your clients don't operate well in any kind of light, day or otherwise. You got a pencil handy?"

It took less than ten minutes before Jimmy called Lang back.

"He connected from Athens to Rome. Dead end," he announced without preamble. "Passenger's name was Frangelli, address and phone number in Rome. Contact number belongs to a prepaid cell, address is on the Corso. Doesn't exist. No record of Frangelli ever having flown Aegean Air or any major carrier I could call up in a hurry and he's not on Google or any US or European credit records. I'd say you got yourself a real fictional character this time."

"Contact number in Rhodes or Athens?"

"Same cell."

Lang thought a moment. "Thanks, Jimmy. I get any more info, I'll be in touch."

"I can't wait."

Lang terminated the call on his BlackBerry, thoughtful as he put the device back into his pocket. A passenger with no name, a flight between two points so far irrelevant to anything Lang knew. Information, though, could be like a good wine: it increased both in value and quality in time.

IV.

Piazza dei Cavalieri di Malta

Aventine Hill

Rome

Two Hours Later

Gravel crunched as the two men walked side by side along the path. Twin lines of cypress trees pointed like an arrow to the Vatican a mile or so away, creating one of Rome's most famous optical illusions: the trees excluded any lateral view, making the basilica appear to retreat as the observer moved forward.

The piazza had not been open to the public for years. Neither man was remotely interested in the view, mirage or not.

"Who is this man who cost us one of our brothers?" the elder of the two asked in Italian.

The other man replied in the same language. His accent made it clear it was not his first tongue. "From the guest list, we found it to be an American lawyer named Reilly. He also heads a charitable foundation apparently named after his deceased sister and nephew. He joined the military right out of college and there is nothing but routine payroll records until he entered in law school six years later."

The older man gave a derisive snort. "I doubt he learned how to use a spear in such a lethal manner in the regular military. Or in law school"

The younger man nodded. "Our council brothers who saw him say he moved like someone familiar with combat, a professional. Fortunately, our brother in charge assigned someone to follow this Reilly person. He went south from London to Rye, where we discovered his foundation has facilities. Apparently he has found some evidence of Brother Lucci's recent journey to Rhodes, the stub of a boarding pass. He was discussing it in a hotel dining room."

The older man's head snapped up. "What else could he deduce from a boarding pass?"

"The reservations were made under an alias, all contact points untraceable "

"But Reilly has the assets to ascertain such a trip was made. Such a man could be a danger. If he discovers our ancient relationship with the island, it could lead him to us."

"We will watch him closely, Grand Master."

The senior thought for a moment. "And what did he have to do with Weatherston-Wilby?"

"As far as we can tell, they only knew each other through their charitable works. I regret I do not have more precise answers to your questions."

The older man gave a chilly smile. "Considering the little time you have had to gather information, you have done well."

"Our brothers are worldwide and cooperative. What are your wishes?"

His companion thought for perhaps fifteen seconds. "This man Reilly could be dangerous. See to it."

Chapter
Two

I.

Excerpt from the
London Times:

Kidnapping Victim Stoned

LONDON—Scotland Yard announced today a grisly discovery next to St. Paul's Cathedral: the body of Sir Eon Weatherston-Wilby, who had been kidnapped the previous evening from the British Museum during a robbery at an affair sponsored by Weatherston-Wilby celebrating his donation of several ancient manuscripts from Egypt.

Police sources who declined to be identified stated the badly bruised body had apparently been thrown from an upper-story window and then subjected to trauma from blunt objects, quite possibly stones found nearby. Police are investigating the significance of a scallop shell placed on the victim's body, possibly by the killers.

An autopsy is under way. Whether the victim survived the fall and was alive at the time of the possible stoning has yet to be determined as has any motive for the kidnapping and murder.

Inspector Dylan Fitzwilliam said, "I doubt the motive was entirely robbery. Since the manuscripts are related to a murder, they would be difficult to sell on the open market"

The inspector did not exclude the possibility the theft was a "contract" job, that is, that the robbers were commissioned by a collector who wished the manuscripts for himself.

The British Museum declined to place a value on the stolen objects.

The abduction of Weatherston-Wilby took
place...

II.

Delta Flight 1701

Gatwick-Atlanta

Lang Reilly reread the article for the third time. He had only seen it because the airline's supply of USA
Today
had not been delivered prior to the first leg of the Atlanta- London-Atlanta trip the
777
would make that day. For that matter, Lang usually took the foundation's Gulfstream IV to the UK purely as a protest against the Labour government's latest manifestation of wealth envy, a $250 tax on first-class seats.

Right up there in the league with abolishing foxhunting.

The remonstration had been impossible this trip. The Gulfstream's annual inspection was in process and the aircraft grounded for at least a week.

A flight attendant, regulation smile painted across her face, dangled a steaming hot towel in front of him. Without thought, he murmured his thanks and took it.

Lang spread the hot towel across his face as though preparing for an old-fashioned barbershop shave before dropping it on the wide seat divider.

He was lost in thought when the other attendant with an identical smile retrieved it.

Why kill Eon?

If the texts were the point of the robbery, murder made no sense. If for some reason they wanted Eon dead, why take the books? If Eon were complicit in the theft, the thieves might want to eliminate him, but why would he arrange to steal something he was donating? Unless the robbers feared identification, killing Eon was pointless. Lang examined his memory like a student reviewing a text for a final exam. Had Eon given any evidence of recognition? If so, Lang had missed it.

No, none of the possible solutions so far was the correct one.

The only clue was throwing a man from St. Paul's and then stoning him to death if he wasn't already dead. The only purpose for that exercise had to be to send a message.

But what?

And to whom?

Lang slid down the window shade and reclined his seat to the full extent. Perhaps he could get a little sleep before the airline committed the gastronomic atrocity known euphemistically as "an in-flight meal." The only purpose served by airline food, Lang mused, was to ensure the British did not have the world's worst.

He closed his eyes but the vision of Eon being led away would not fade. He hadn't exactly put up a fight but he hadn't gone willingly, either. Lang tried to banish the thought but it was as stubborn as one of Atlanta's panhandlers.

Admitting defeat, he sat up and thumbed through a paperback he had bought at the airport, well aware of his inability to sleep on airplanes. He knew the compulsion to be alert at all times was irrational. If something went seriously south at 37,000 feet, there wasn't a lot he could do about it, awake or asleep.

He began the book, hoping it would banish Eon for the moment.

III.

Park Place

2660 Peachtree Road

Atlanta, Georgia

That Evening

His single suitcase at his feet, Lang was fumbling in his pocket for the key to his condominium. Once inside, he'd take a shower and head for the kennel where Grumps, arguably the world's ugliest dog, would be impatiently waiting.

Why the mutt was so eager to leave what appeared to be, by canine standards, luxurious digs, Lang never knew. Plus the fact the dog always put on a pound or two. Lang's hand closed around his key ring. He slipped the brass key into the lock, turned and eased the door open.

Simultaneously, he smelled the strong odor of gas and there was an audible click, a sound like someone snapping a cigarette lighter.

He may have imagined seeing a spark but there was one, visible or not.

Instinctively, he lunged backward, pulling the door shut but not soon enough.

An explosion was accompanied by heat, a burning, searing monster that tried to devour him as it flung him across the hall and against the far wall as easily as a child might toss away a rag doll.

He never heard the snap of bones the impact caused.

IV.

Henry Grady Memorial Hospital

Trauma & Burn Unit

Butler Street

Atlanta, Georgia

Three Weeks Later

Lang was dead.

He was sure.

Otherwise, why would he be visited by the persons he knew were deceased?

On the other hand, being dead meant an end to pain, right? His pain was far from at an end. Sometimes he ached and burned over every inch of his body; at others he could localize his suffering to a leg, an arm, his back. The pain was always red, blurring his dim sight like a curtain of misery that separated him from whatever world he was in, either real or ephemeral.

The only real thing was the pain.

It was like a slowly rising and receding tide. At times he could get his head above
it,
see the universal Light that blinded and feel the agony wash over him. It was all featureless, soundless red. Then, he would be pulled back under into a wet, warm stygian black he had begun to think of as "the Womb," a place where there was no discomfort, only a mellowness and a sensation of floating in space.

That was where the dead were.

As though in a fever dream, he saw his cubicle at the agency's Frankfurt station: a dim, grimy building across from the
Bahnhof,
where he had spent the bulk of his career. He had graduated from college with a liberal arts degree that, outside of academe, proved worthless. When he was looking around for a job, the agency had a certain appeal: lurking in the shadows of Eastern European cities while countering the machinations of beautiful
spies ...

The experience had proved to be more Dilbert than Bond.

After months of training, Lang had been assigned not to Operations but to Intelligence. Instead of glamour and excitement, his daily chores included monitoring a number of Eastern European newspapers and telecasts.

With a single exception, he had never ventured from friendly soil.

Then he had met Dawn, the woman who became his love, his soul mate and his wife. The collapse of the Evil Empire had meant cutbacks in the agency's budget and resulting reductions in force. It had been to please Dawn, though, he had quit the agency and gone to law school. A small matter. He would have invaded hell had she asked.

Once his law practice began to blossom, Dawn declined. A loss of appetite and weight resulted in a visit to the doctor and a death sentence. Lang had watched the daily dying of a woman in her early thirties as she metastasized into a wrinkled crone, a sack of bones with claws for hands. He had visited her hours a day, making promises and plans they both knew would never be kept.

She died with him at her bedside, her cold face shimmering through the tears he made no effort to staunch.

He fell into a hole every bit as black as the one into which he now sank.

But Dawn was here. Not the pitiful skeleton his wife had become but the full-bodied beautiful girl he had married. She whispered in his ear, sorrowful at his pain and reluctant to leave him.

He would have liked to have joined her.