The Sinai Secret (11 page)

"The canals," Louis said, "form a crescent with the open part facing north. Almost all connect with the river, the Amstel, which goes to the sea. This one is the Singel, the innermost."

Lang craned his head back to look at a particularly steeply gabled house. "You've been here often?"

Louis stopped to let a woman on a bicycle pass. A baby gurgled from the wicker basket on the handlebars.

"I came two or three times a year to see how Dr. Yadish was coming along, yes."

The nostalgia in his voice said he would miss the free lifestyle of the Netherlands as well as Yadish..

Passing through the "new" market, an open square, they entered the Oude Zijde, the city's southwestern corner, and home to the university district. Signs everywhere advertised sex toys, peep shows, and "live" entertainment, all in English, even though lurid pictures made most text unnecessary. Scantily clad women posed provocatively in the shop windows of clubs whose neon signs, also in English, promised unimaginable delights.

English: the language of Milton, Shakespeare, and the sex trade.

Past the red-light district, they turned left past a number of university buildings to a small block of modest town houses. Beside one door a glass case displayed the names of residents next to a row of buttons. Louis pushed one, and a woman's voice replied in what Lang gathered was Dutch.

Minutes later Lang and Louis were at the door of a third-floor walk-up. The woman looked like she was in her mid-fifties, white hair tucked into a no-nonsense bun at the back of her neck. Her eyes were bottomless black pools under unplucked eyebrows. She was small, probably less than a hundred pounds, and under five feet.

Lang felt he was holding a thinly wrapped bundle of sticks when he shook her hand at the threshold. "We came to express our regrets, Mrs. Yadish."

She gave him the look of someone tired of social banalities. "Mary, please. I had just returned from saying kaddish for my husband when Louis called from the station," she said in English, ushering them into the living room. "I fear I have not had time to properly clean up or prepare refreshment."

Although worn, the room looked immaculate to Lang. "Thanks, but we ate on the train," he lied. "As I said, Mary, I wanted to personally tell you how sorry I and the foundation are. I also wanted to ask a few questions."

She collapsed, rather than sat, into a stuffed chair upholstered in a cabbage-rose print, the sort of pattern Lang saw in films set in World War II England.

Lang and Louis sat on a sofa so uncomfortable it seemed to have been stuffed with concrete.

She looked at him wearily. "Questions? The police have been here no less than three times with questions?"

Lang almost bolted back to his feet. "The police have been here three times?"

She looked at him quizzically, clearly suspecting she might have said something wrong. "Three times, yes. First by an older man, an inspector, then twice more by a younger man."

"Did either of them give you his business card?"

Now she looked as though he might be deranged. "Yes, of course." She turned to a small side table and produced two cards. "The Inspector was a Van Decker. The other man's name, as you can see, is Hooy."

"The younger man, can you describe him?"

Now Louis was puzzled.

Mary Yadish was staring at the faded Oriental rug. "I suppose so. Large, perhaps over two meters tall. Dark hair cut close. Mid-thirties."

"Did he ask anything different than the first one, Van Decker?"

She lifted her eyes, to regard Lang for a moment. "Yes, yes, he did. He acted as though my husband must have left something other than the CD on which he recorded his research, the one he must have taken with him when he went to Bruges, some sort of records. It was almost as though he knew it."

"Did your husband leave other notes or the like?"

She shook her head slowly. "Benjamin left only his books and his clothes. He had no interest in owning things." She looked back at Lang quickly. "Although your foundation paid him generously."

"Did your husband have any friends, know anyone in Bruges?"

She shook her head again, weary of the repetition. "No one. As I told the police, he went there because he thought he was meeting you."

Was that a tone of accusation?

"How was he contacted?"

She looked at him blankly.

Lang leaned forward. "You said your husband thought he was meeting me. How did he get that information? Did someone telephone him?"

She shook her head for a third time. "I... I do not know. He simply said he had to meet you in Bruges. Two days later..."

Lang could not find a tactful way to ask the next question. "Do you mind if I take a look through his things? There might possibly be something there..."

She stood. "The police searched the closet and the room he used as a study. They found nothing. I have already bundled his clothes to give away, but you are welcome to look. While you do I will make tea."

The clothes were in stacks of suits, shirts, and shoes, surprisingly few of each for what Yadish had been paid. Jacket and pants pockets were turned out, no doubt the result of the previous examination.

After a few moments Lang stood. "Nothing," he said to Louis.

Mary entered the room carrying a small tray. "Tea?"

Lang accepted a cup for courtesy's sake. The brew had a faint aroma of fruit. Cup in hand, he was led to a small room that struggled to contain a diminutive table and a straight-backed wooden chair. The table's surface was barely large enough to hold a laptop computer, telephone, lamp, and what looked like an antique radio. One wall, perhaps eight feet long, was lined with books.

It took Lang a single step to get a closer look at the radio, an American-made Philco with volume and tuning knobs and a numbered dial face. He remembered as a child seeing one like it at the home of an elderly relative.

"Benjamin liked to repair them," Mary said from the doorway. "Old radios. He had to make the vacuum tubes himself."

Lang turned the radio around, noting the bulbous tubes and wiring. "Made the tubes? Your husband
Was
a chemist."

She shrugged. "He liked to play with antique electronics. The disassembled remains of a Victrola are in a closet, if you would like to see."

Lang found space enough to put his teacup on the table and turned his attention to the books. The titles were mostly in Dutch, with a few spines showing Hebrew characters.

Mary Yadish backed out of the doorway, making room for Louis. "Mostly histories, particularly ancient history. Another hobby. Take your time."

"One other question," Lang said. "Was your husband a religious man? That is, did he follow the Jewish dietary laws?"

A faint smile flickered across her face. "Benjamin was Jewish by birth only. I doubt he had been in a synagogue since he was a child." She sighed deeply. "In fact, today was the first time in years that I have been."

So much for proscribed shellfish.

Lang and Louis began to patiently examine each book, thumbing its pages before returning each to its place on the shelf.

Louis blew gently across the cover of one, sending dust spinning into the air like planets in a tiny universe. "What are we looking for?"

Lang was exchanging one tome for another that had illustrations of some sort of metallurgical process. "I'm not sure, but if the good professor kept any sort of records besides the electronic ones, this would sure be a good place."

Louis took a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his hands. "Why would Yadish want to hide his research notes and records?"

"I'm not sure he would, but if he kept an extra set, maybe some handwritten notes, the library would be logical."

On impulse, Lang reached for the radio. He was curious to see if it worked. He turned the volume knob, half expecting to hear something from the era before television, a dialogue between Jack Benny and Rochester, or "Thanks for the Memories," Bob Hope's theme song.

Instead there was a mechanical click, and the face of the dial swung open.

Louis reshelved a book and came over to join Lang in peering into the radio's plastic case. Lang reached his thumb and forefinger in, removing a sheaf of papers rolled with a rubber band. He carefully slid the band off. He was looking at perhaps twenty or so pages in what looked like Hebrew characters.

"From his cousin Joseph in Vienna," Mary commented from the doorway. "He was killed in a motor accident not long ago."

"So he kept papers hidden in a radio?" Lang asked, truly puzzled.

"Benjamin and Joseph were very close. Benjamin went to Vienna for a service for Joseph. Just before he died Joseph mailed those papers to Benjamin, some sort of research he was going to publish. Benjamin checked his cousin's home computer. He never accepted that the accident was that—accidental. The police never found the other vehicle or driver. My husband half believed his cousin was killed for what was on those papers."

Lang put the pages down. "From where did Dr. Yadish's cousin send them?"

She shook her head. "The postmark said Dürnstein." She thought a moment. "It may be nothing, but we never knew. His laptop was missing from the wreckage, but his wife said he left with it that morning."

"Obviously your husband thought these were important."

She shrugged. "We did not know. Neither of us read Hebrew, but Benjamin said he thought they were related to some project he was working on, perhaps the one for you."

Interesting but less than helpful, Lang thought. But if

Yadish thought he needed to hide them, perhaps the papers had some answers concerning his death. Lang knew someone as proficient in Hebrew as he and Francis were in Latin. "May I borrow it long enough to make a copy?"

She shrugged, a gesture more of surrender than assent. "It could not hurt."

"One more thing and we'll leave you alone," Lang began.

"No hurry," she said slowly. "I will be alone for a very long time now."

Lang was unsure how to reply, so he said, "I'd also like a look at your husband's laboratory."

She pointed at Louis. "He can take you there. It's only a few blocks away. But you must arrive before the university locks the building for the night."

As soon as he and Lang were back on the street, Louis stopped. "Vorstaat said the woman had been visited only once by the police. That is why you asked her so closely about the second policeman, Hooy, rather than Inspector Van Decker, no?"

"Yes," Lang said, thinking about the faux FBI man, Witherspoon. Mrs. Yadish's description fit him, too. He tried to dismiss the notion as illogical. How many millions of men in their mid-thirties were over six feet with dark hair? But the idea wouldn't go away. It continued to circle his mind like a stray dog seeking a handout.

FIFTEEN

Five Minutes Later

Louis was saying something.

"Pardon?"

The Belgian pointed to a shop with a copy machine visible through the plate-glass window. "We can make a Xerox there."

Lang turned and stopped. Was it his imagination or had the corner of his eye caught the reflection of someone whirling at exactly the same time to study a handbill posted on a stand? The man was certainly there, and he certainly wasn't the size of Witherspoon. He wore a leather jacket open, with nondescript slacks and black socks under the sandals so loved by Europeans.

Lang handed the rerolled pages to Louis. "Please, if you don't mind, make us two copies of each page."

Louis looked at him questioningly before ducking inside.

Lang studied the surrounding architecture, the boats along the adjacent canal, marijuana plants growing in pots in a coffeehouse window. But mostly he studied the man in the jacket, who seemed as intent on wasting time as did Lang.

Police? Perhaps, but law enforcement officers would be unlikely to waste resources following him when all they had to do was stop him and ask questions. There was a chance, slim as it might be, that Leather Jacket was simply early for an appointment of some kind.

The coincidence that a stranger would suddenly appear idling at exactly the same spot where Lang and Louis were was unbelievable. There were also the coincidences of two bogus cops, and that both the murder victims had been working on the fringes of the same project.

Agency training had included extreme skepticism of mere happenstance. If you refused to accept similarities as flukes, you might be wrong ten percent of the time. Conversely, accepting coincidence at face value was frequently fatal.

Then there was the question of those shots fired in Underground Atlanta. He had been certain they had been a warning. If the shooter had wanted him dead, Lang wouldn't be here right now. Yet the guys who had hijacked him at the Brussels airport weren't out to just warn him.

What was the connection?

Louis emerged from the shop with a bulging paper bag in each hand. He handed one to Lang. "The laboratory is just ahead."

Leather Jacket was still inspecting a window as they left.