The Pegasus Secret (43 page)

“Our long-ago brethren recognized the places and rivers in that document and found the tomb, something that would have been an embarrassment to the Church, as Christ’s corporeal body supposedly ascended into heaven. The Vatican saw the wisdom of—ah—paying us to guard this secret.”

“Why didn’t the Vatican simply destroy the tomb and its contents?” Lang thought he had given Gurt the correct reason but he wanted to know for sure.

The man regarded the end of his cigarette. Thinner and longer than any brand Lang had seen, he would have bet it was made to order. The Templar took a long drag before answering. “And commit the ultimate sacrilege, defiling the tomb of Christ? Better the pontiff should have exhumed Saint Peter and thrown him into the Tiber. Bad enough the body of Our Savior had not ascended, that the Gnostics had been right all along. Besides, the pope only saw part of the documents we found. Where Joseph and Mary actually went, we kept to ourselves.”

This was the weirdest conversation Lang had ever experienced. He was sitting in the ruins of an ancient temple, conversing like two baseball fans discussing batting averages
with the man who had been at least indirectly responsible for the deaths of what family he had—the first person he had truly wanted to kill. And the one person he knew he would not.

“For such a valuable secret, you left a lot of clues lying around. You explained Poussin’s painting, but the cross by the side of the road that lines up with the statue?”

“A relatively modern addition, but a clue for those who know what they are searching for—only Templars until you. We may need to remove one or both markers.”

The man shifted his seat on the rock, grasped his knees and seemed to be waiting for Lang’s next question. The son of a bitch was enjoying this, bragging on the cleverness of the order. Lang not only wanted to kill him, but he would have enjoyed doing it with his hands around the bastard’s throat, watching the life leach out of that arrogant face.

Lang’s rational self told him that he would be better off to learn what he could. “You must have a pretty large organization to have tracked the painting from London to Paris to Atlanta.”

The other man exhaled smoke tinged with red from the lights. The illusion looked as though he were breathing blood. Stephen King would have loved it here. “Not large but very, very efficient. You don’t keep an international organization secret for seven centuries without being efficient.”

These people, or at least this one, weren’t overcome with humility, just as Pietro had observed seven hundred years before.

“Like the Mafia,” Lang said.

The corners of the Templar’s mouth turned down in disdain and he sniffed at the comparison, totally missing Lang’s sarcasm. “Come now, Mr. Reilly. The Mafia is hardly secret, hasn’t been for forty years. And most of its members are in prison—or about to be. No, Mr. Reilly, we are
much more efficient. We have brothers in every western country, influential members of their societies. Two heads of state, leading politicians. Education, commerce, science. Any field you choose, we have members not only in it but dominant. And sufficient wealth to buy half the world’s nations, General Motors, any other large corporations you care to name. Or politician. There has been no single foreign policy in the Western world we have not orchestrated. We cause conflicts including war when it benefits us and peace when it does not.”

Now there was a comforting thought.

Or the man was crazy, megalomania on steroids. Worse, he might
not
be crazy. But if half of what he was saying was true, every conspiracy nut in the world was, in fact, an optimist.

Lang had forgotten how cold he was. He stood, stretching joints that were beginning to ache with the damp chill. “As soon as I see the articles in the papers, I’ll e-mail instructions about the money, where to send it. Oh yeah, if you’ve got someone on the papers, thinking about fabricating a story, don’t. I get arrested, the Templars’ll be the biggest story of the century, maybe the millennium.”

Silver Hair also stood, again crushing his cigarette butt under the sole of a very expensive Italian loafer. “May I send you the papers?”

“I’ll see ’em. In fact, I’ll assume our deal is off, I don’t read about it in the next month.”

Silver Hair shook his head, tsk-tsking. “You don’t give much leeway, do you, cut us a little slack as you Americans say.”

“We also say a tit for a tat. Your people didn’t cut my sister or nephew a hell of a lot, either.”

“Simply business, Mr. Reilly, a matter of survival. Nothing personal.” He smiled benignly as though justifying the smallest of transgressions.

The son of a bitch meant it, just like that. Pure animal hatred provided more than enough heat to dispel the damp. Lang fought back the urge to lunge for his throat right there. Only the realization that, if Lang killed him, he would still be a fugitive and there would still be an order of Templars stopped him.

“Well, it’s been swell.” Lang stepped aside to walk past and out of the room.

“Yes,” the Templar said, “I enjoyed our chat, too.”

Lang snorted. You can recognize a vampire because they don’t cast a reflection in a mirror. You can tell a Templar because, they don’t get sarcasm.

Lang was out of the room before he turned, giving in to curiosity. “One last question.”

Silver Hair nodded. “By all means.”

“You are all men. How do you . . . ?”

The older man’s smile was visible even from where Lang stood. “How do we provide a continuing membership without procreation? The same way the Dominicans, Franciscans or any other holy order does: by men joining. The difference is, we recruit, search out the brightest all over the world.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Remember: Celibacy in the church of the fourteenth century was more form than function. Even the popes had mistresses and children. We . . . well, I suppose I’ve more than answered your question.”

There were a thousand other questions but Lang wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was interested.

Shadows were beginning to stretch across the Via di San Giovanni as Lang left San Clemente. Even the delicate light of late afternoon made him wince after the twilight underground. Glancing at his watch, he was surprised to see he had been gone only half an hour.

Lang felt as though he had arisen from a tomb himself.

Lake Maggiore
A week later

Sara groused when Lang refused to tell her where he was. He wasn’t willing to bet his freedom that the line wasn’t still tapped. She did agree to send a copy of the
Atlanta Journal
story of his exoneration to Jacob when it appeared. Jacob would e-mail a code word when both articles had run.

When it came, the storyline common to the papers was that both murders had occurred as an attempt to steal a priceless painting by Nicolas Poussin, a French painter who had a small room of the Louvre dedicated to his work. Having possessed it, Lang had been suspected of its theft until the real culprit was identified and apprehended in London. It came as no surprise to Lang that the purported thief likely died in an escape attempt. The hulk of
the car in which he had fled was too badly charred from the unusual explosion, resulting from a high-speed crash, to distinguish human remains. Neither piece mentioned that the art dealer in London had been killed after the man in Atlanta nor what a doorman was doing with such a treasure.

Foolish consistences may be the hobgoblin of little minds, Lang thought with a wry grin, but not of newspapers. Otherwise, why would their editorials tout a candidate, then excoriate him a year later?

Lang was almost sorry to learn that the need to hide was over.

He and Gurt had spent the time on the shores of Lake Maggiore at the cluster of summer homes and a gas station called Ranco, hardly a town or even a village. The only inn had but five guest rooms. It had thirty seats for dinner, however, and each was full every night. Lang gained at least a pound a day.

They made love every morning. Afterwards, they lay exhausted, postponing getting up, watching the rising sun paint the snowy tops of the Swiss Alps across the water a blood red. The scene was reflected in the bottomless black waters of the lake until the picture was streaked by the morning ferry.

The days were spent walking like young lovers, which Lang guessed they were, along the shore, admiring the handsome homes built by people who had declined the commercial development of Italy’s more popular Como.

After a far too sumptuous dinner, the couple sat on the deck outside the room and watched the stars until the lake’s mist reached like fingers to extinguish the celestial show. As soon as one would stand, the other would make a dash for bed where they tore at each others’ clothes and made love again until they fell into an exhausted sleep.

Who would want that to end?

It was only on the way to Malpensa that Lang sat up in the seat of the old taxi with a jolt. He had just spent the first day in years when Dawn had not been in his thoughts. The realization made him feel guilty.

But not for long.

Atlanta
Two weeks later

Gurt adored Atlanta. She gaped at the huge homes on West Paces Ferry, marveling that any single person could own such acreage solely for a residence. She loved the variety of restaurants in Buckhead. The high-end malls, Lenox Square, Phipps Plaza, were her nirvana, supermarkets her promised land. The multiplicity of choices both delighted and confounded her. On her first grocery shopping trip with Lang, she was unable to make a selection of anything that had more than three alternatives.

They went to a Braves game. The game did not hold as much interest as the beer and hot dogs. She came away viewing America’s national pastime as a large, hot, outdoor Oktoberfest.

She adored Grumps, too, an affection equally returned. Once returned from Sara’s care, the dog missed Lang’s secretary not at all, wriggling with spasms of joy whenever Gurt returned to the condominium from her outings with Lang, leaving him to muse that if the Germans had loved their fellow man anywhere near as much as they loved their dogs, the past century would have gone a lot more smoothly.

In fact, the dog’s affection became a source of humor between Gurt and Lang. Any time he put arms around
Gurt, Grumps would grab Lang’s shoe, socks or pants, anything he could hold in his teeth, growl and try to pull Lang away.

Lang’s apprehensions about living with a woman proved unfounded.

The first recognizable blow to his belief in the sanctity of his own space came from Francis.

It started when the priest came by for dinner, hamburgers cooked on a grill on the balcony accompanied by the current vintage of Chateau Budweiser in cold bottles.

After Gurt and Lang gave Francis the somewhat sanitized version of their recent European experience, Gurt and Francis got into a discussion that wandered from the medieval Church to indulgences to Martin Luther. Lang left them and went to bed about half past 1560—the year, not the hour.

At Francis’s insistence, Gurt was included in dinner at Manuel’s, the priest sweeping aside Lang’s protests that the evenings there had been historically male-only. As the priest pointed out with Jesuitlike logic, that had only been by Lang’s choice. Lang was astonished to hear her tell a joke in understandable if halting Latin. He had no idea she knew a word.

Only months later did Lang find the thin book of contemporary anecdotes with their Latin translations,
Amo, Amas, Amat: Learn Latin and Amaze Your Friends
. She had gone to a lot of trouble just to please him.

There were no potions on the bathroom counter, no feminine silk in the drawers. Although she was always appropriately dressed when they went out, the room in Lang’s closets had not diminished. He began to wonder exactly where did she keep her stuff. He supposed that years of living in cramped apartments in Europe had made her thrifty with space.

She amused herself while Lang was at work, recounting
a list of the day’s activities over dinner: shopping, walking in various parks or simply enjoying Grumps’s company.

Lang began to eye the calendar warily, noting the increasing speed with which her date of departure seemed to approach. Too stubborn to admit it, he nonetheless dreaded the thought.

Atlanta
A week later

It was one of those early summer evenings in Atlanta when it was easy to forget that the temperature would soon be nudging the high nineties and the slightest stirring of air perceived as a breeze. Lang and Gurt were walking Grumps along Peachtree at a pace slow enough to allow the dog to savor and return each message his predecessors had left in the grassy margin between sidewalk and street.

Gurt was to leave the next day. Lang could think of little else.

“Lang,” Gurt asked lazily, “have you named the bene . . . benefic . . .”

“Beneficiaries,” he supplied. “Of the foundation? No, not yet. I’ve narrowed it to Central American relief funds that specialize in schooling and health for children, kids like Jeff. I’ve had to hire a staff just to screen the applicants. If I interviewed them all, I’d have to give up the law practice.”