The Sinai Secret (15 page)
Outside, Lang took the taxi summoned by the doorman, ordering it to the train station.
At the station he paid the cab as Louis took a bag in each hand and headed inside.
Lang grasped his arm, watching the car in which they had arrived. Instead of joining the queue of taxis outside the station, it drove off—perhaps returning to a designated area, perhaps having complied with instructions from the police.
Lang gently tugged Louis toward the line of waiting cabs. "I've never really seen the city." He signaled to the hack first in line. "And there's no time like now."
After ten minutes of aimless cruising, Lang was certain the cab was not being followed. He directed it to the copy shop, where he retrieved his weapon before returning to the station and making the next train to Brussels.
In their first-class compartment, Louis finally relaxed. "You have avoided the police now, yes?"
Lang leaned back in the seat. "For the moment, anyway."
The monotony of the steel wheels against iron rails was hypnotic. Lang was about to doze off when his BlackBerry beeped. Only Sara had that number, and it was unlikely she was calling just to see if he was enjoying himself.
"Yes, Sara?"
"A couple of matters, Lang," she began without preamble. "That detective, Morse, calls here daily. Won't tell me what he wants other than to see you as soon as you get back."
"I'm not sure when that might be."
"I am. You forgot you agreed to take part in the bar's CLE on criminal defense this Friday."
Lang groaned. "Surely—"
"Surely you'll do it. If you want to continue to practice, that is. As usual, you're behind."
Lang nodded his defeat. "Okay, okay. I'll be there."
CLE.
Continuing legal education, the Bar Association's greatest boon since Georgia had required all lawyers to become members upon passing the bar forty years ago. The association, like all bureaucracies, had taken on a life of its own not necessarily dedicated to the well-being of its members.
The bar made about four hundred dollars per lawyer a year for twelve hours of mind-numbing tedium. Most lectures were a cure for chronic insomnia. Any educational value would be—and was—equaled by simply reading current court decisions and statutes. Besides, no lawyer was likely to reveal tricks and tactics he had learned the hard way: that Judge Biddle down in Macon, Georgia, never granted attorney's fees on discovery motions, or
that any questionable bit of evidence was best presented while Judge Whipple in Augusta was dozing after his lunchtime nip at the bottle.
Since the big firms largely controlled the association, they had quickly obtained the right to conduct CLE on their own, thereby avoiding an inconvenient loss of billable hours. In all his years of practice Lang had never heard an opponent from one of these legal behemoths beg off of a deposition because he was taking CLE that day.
In short, the program accomplished little other than enriching the association and presenting a less than accurate image to the public of lawyers always abreast of current developments, rather than well rested after napping through a seminar.
It was, however, possible to at least partially pay the legal equivalent of a future indulgence by participating in the program, giving a lecture in exchange for required CLE hours. Lang had promised to do just that, and now that promise was due.
Now Lang was faced with not only a sleepless night on the flight home but also an inattentive captive audience when he arrived.
While Lang had been on his phone, so had Louis.
"The boat," he began, "the registration. The craft belonged to a corporation out of Jersey."
The Channel Islands, where British law guaranteed secrecy of bank accounts and corporate ownership—the only appeal of arguably the most obscure and isolated place in Europe, along with the continent's worst weather. Without the encouragement of total business privacy, the populations of Jersey and Guernsey would soon consist only of the hardy cattle named for the islands.
"Did you get the name of the corporation?"
"Manna, Limited."
Same as the boat itself. Lang stored that bit of information away. "And platinum metals?"
"I have no answer yet."
Lang sank back into the softness of the first-class seat. Manna. As in, from heaven—god-given food for wandering Israelites. What could the people of Exodus have to do with a fossil-fuel substitute?
***
The Book of Jereb
Chapter Three
1.
And the Israelites were at the base of the mountain forty days while Moses returned to speak with the one God. But they again murmured among themselves, saying, "We have naught to eat, for the cattle we brought out of Egypt have long been consumed, as has the wheat, and we shall surely starve without meat or bread."
2.
And Joshua quieted their fears, saying, "Has the one God brought you out of Egypt to perish here?" And the Israelites mocked him, saying, "Does the voice of the one God speak in your ear?"
3.
Upon the morning the ground and bushes where the golden calf had been burned were covered with manna*, whereupon Joshua said unto them, "This is the bread your God has given you to eat." And the Israelites likened the manna unto honey, it was so sweet, and they feasted upon it until Moses returned from the mountain.
4.
And Moses bade them to gather up the manna of which they had a thousand bushels and carry the same with them.
*The Egyptian word mfkzt is used. The first-century Roman historian Falvius Josephus, a converted Jew, says the Israelites awoke to find the mysterious substance and thought it had snowed, although how people, generations of whom had lived in Egypt without the benefit of film or television, would even know of the existence of snow is anyone's guess. The Hebrew word man-hu means, "What is this?" It is more likely the term was introduced when the first drafts of what we know as the Old Testament were written, perhaps in the sixth century B.C., during the so- called Babylonian captivity. The same query comes from the Egyptian Book of the Dead, which depicts the pharaoh being served "schea food" for enlightenment and asking, "What is this?" or, "Mfkzt." Manna, then, likely had its origins in Egypt.
Peachtree Center
227 Peachtree Street
Atlanta, Georgia
Two Days Later, 9:21 a.m.
Lang had written the day off as a total loss before he got out of bed. He would not be disappointed.
He planned to spend the morning returning phone calls and e-mails before wasting an afternoon giving what he hoped was an entertaining if not informative CLE lecture at the former Federal Reserve Building, now owned by the Georgia Bar Association.
All thoughts of the bar disappeared the minute Lang entered his office to see the former mayor sitting in the reception room.
An accusatory glance in Sara's direction only elicited an almost imperceptible shrug.
The mayor was mocha-skinned, heavy on the cream. A fringe of cropped white hair framed premature balding. He displayed a pencil-thin mustache, also gone white. As always, his suit looked as though it had never seen a wrinkle, and the crisp white shirtfront was evenly divided by a designer tie. The mayor's shoes memorialized at least one alligator.
Lang made a mental note to ask him to let Wal-Mart supplement his wardrobe before appearing before jurors, most of whom didn't make as much in a week as his tie cost.
The mayor stood, straightening out to the six-foot height he had used to advantage in towering over a jury box in the days when he had been a trial lawyer rather than a politician. He extended a hand before Lang could think of an excuse to get him out of the office. "Thanks for seeing me without an appointment."
Before Lang could reply, his client was in his office.
"I wanted to discuss trial strategy for a minute or two."
Lang suppressed a sigh of resignation. Lawyers in trouble with the law always wanted to handle things their way, frequently the way that had gotten them in trouble in the first place.
Lang shut the door, more to discourage Sara from offering coffee or anything else that might prolong the visit than for privacy.
"I think we need to make the jury understand that this whole witch-hunt is racially motivated," the mayor said.
Lang plopped down behind his desk. "Racism" had been the mayor's excuse for everything that had gone wrong during his administration, and that was a long list. Anyone, no matter his color, who had opposed him had been Ku Klux Klan or an Uncle Tom, including the majority-black city council, the governor, most of the legislature, and the chamber of commerce.
The spots had just about worn off that deck of race cards.
"An idea," Lang said in a neutral tone. "Problem is, three of the objects of the feds' corruption investigation are white. All three have already pled guilty to charges of bribing you."
The mayor leaned forward, demonstrating the megawatt smile that had looked so good on television. "But that's it, don't you see? White economic power structure, black mayor. Hell, this is no more'n an ol'-fashioned lynching."
Lang had heard it that before, too. Despite Lang's strong advice, the mayor insisted on giving impromptu news conferences whenever he was in the city.
"Yeah, well," Lang observed, "Atlanta has had one black mayor or another since 1975. None of them has even been charged with a traffic violation."
"One of 'em's dead," the mayor said defensively.
There was a rap on the door. Without waiting for a reply Sara stuck her head in. "Important call, Mr. Reilly."
Custer could have found her useful at Little Bighorn.
Lang picked up the one line that was blinking. "Excuse me."
The mayor was annoyed but had no choice.
"Reilly."
"Morse, Detective Morse."
This time Lang made no effort to stifle his sigh. The day was spiraling downhill faster than he had anticipated. At this rate he'd have notice of an IRS audit before lunch.
He started to ask if he could call the policeman back, but realized he would only be encouraging the mayor to stay on and said, "What's up, Detective?"
"We tested that white powder," Morse answered. "An' you ain't gonna believe what we found. Or, rather, what we didn't find."
Lang was beginning to wonder if there was a conspiracy afoot to waste his whole day. "And your tests are important to me because ...?"
There was a pause.
"Guess I did'nt 'xactly start off right, Mr. Reilly. State crime lab tested that stuff an' came back with nothin' but craziness. Wonderin', your foundation's so generous to Georgia Tech an' all, maybe you could get 'em to look at this stuff."
Being asked a favor by the man who had arrested him for one killing he didn't commit and suspected him of another had a certain sweet irony. "You telling me the state lab people are incompetent?"
The mayor was impatiently crossing and uncrossing his legs.
"Not a'tall, Mr. Reilly. It's just that this ain't like anythin' they ever tested for before. They ain't got the equipment."
Lang's curiosity was piqued. "Exactly what did the tests they did do show?"
"Like I say, crazy. The stuff's weight keeps changin'. Hold on." There was the sound of rustling paper. "Iron, silica, and aluminum."
"So?"
The mayor was making a display of checking the diamond-encrusted face of his gold watch, apparently forgetting that he had time to spare that, quite possibly, would expand into years.
"So?" Morse repeated. "That's the part that don't make sense. Stuff wouldn't dissolve in acid."
The significance was lost on Lang, who realized that he didn't know enough chemistry to know what made sense and what didn't. "Tell you what: I'll call Tech, get the name of somebody who'll use their equipment."