The Sinai Secret (3 page)

A wandering Jew, he liked to joke.

He rounded a corner, thankful to exit an alley so narrow he could have touched opposing polished doorknobs by stretching out his arms. He breathed deeply in relief.

Relief from what?

He was unsure. He was aware only of an anxiety that had no rational basis. Hardly an emotion to which any scientist would admit.

He crossed the Burg, a pleasant cobbled square consisting of several small restaurants, all closed at this hour. Now he could see the Markt, a thirteenth-century market square lined by tall, stair-step gabled houses, many with brightly painted facades. For reasons he also could not have explained, he was thankful to reach the most brightly lit place in town. Only now did he realize how claustrophobic he had felt in the confines of twisting streets and alleys too narrow for vehicular traffic.

Nonsense, he told himself. He had never feared confined spaces any more than he had standing at the roof edge of tall buildings.

The glances over his shoulder were totally unnecessary.

There was, though, something sinister about this whole trip. The unexpected phone call demanding he bring the CDs containing the protocol of his most recent experiments, a meeting at night in a strange city. Had the call come from anyone else, he would have thought he was speaking to a lunatic.

He settled at a table in one of the few bistros on the square still serving at this hour. A waiter silently materialized, and Benjamin ordered a Brugse Tripel beer. He would have preferred coffee, but caffeine at this hour would keep him awake all night.

Night.

Well after 2200.

The waiter set the beer bottle next to a glass. As was customary for such places, he also left a slip of paper on a small tray, the bill, which Benjamin could pay anytime before leaving. The waiter scurried back to the lights inside. Benjamin poured slowly, intent on the building head of bubbles.

"If you tilt the glass, you will get less of a head."

A man sat down across from him, speaking accented English. He was positioned so that his face was dark while limned by street lamps.

Benjamin squinted, unable to make out more than a featureless dark blur. "I don't recognize your voice. You're not..."

The head shook. "No. I am to take you to him. You have what he requested?"

Benjamin patted his inside jacket pocket as he lifted his glass. "Of course. As soon as I finish. You?"

"No, thanks."

Benjamin emptied the glass and held the tab up to the light from the street. Guessing rather than seeing, he left two euros on the table and stood. "I've spoken with him often, but we met only once. At the beginning. Why now? Why here instead of in Amsterdam, where he can personally inspect what I'm doing?"

The other man either did not hear or, more likely, ignored the questions. He was already hurrying west down Steenstraat. Benjamin caught up, curious as to the need to rush. Perhaps all would be explained shortly. A left turn down Mariastraat past the Welcome Church of Our Lady, its spire, the tallest in Belgium, stabbing the night as it glowed in beams cast by lights at its base. Right turn along the east-west canal. The steep-gabled, tall town houses had given way to modest two-story brick buildings whose steep eaves had sloughed off snow for over five hundred winters.

The man stopped and pointed to a bench under a tree with roots running down to the canal. Across a narrow street was a house with a depiction of a swan on it. A small hotel. That made sense. It was the type of accommodation the man Benjamin had come to see might choose: both luxurious and inconspicuous.

"Wait here."

Benjamin started to protest, then thought better of it and sat facing water so still that the warm light from the hotel's windows swam on the surface. On a spring night like this, sitting outside was comfortable. Perhaps the man feared some sort of listening devices might be in the walls of the hotel. Benjamin could fully understand why the man would want whatever he had to say not to be overheard. The project was best kept quiet until completed. There would be those who would very much like to see that it never was.

Benjamin heard footsteps and started to rise.

He felt something cold and hard against the base of his skull, cold and hard like steel.

Like a gun's barrel.

But why?

He heard a puff, a mere whisper, and brilliant lights exploded from somewhere behind his eyes. He felt no pain, only the firmness of the earth beneath him.

And someone's hand groping his inside jacket pocket.

Then all went black and he felt nothing.

FOUR

Manuel's Tavern

Highland Avenue

Atlanta, Georgia

8:30 p.m. EST

The Same Night

The original part of Manuel's Tavern dated back to the early 1950s. It consisted of stools along a bar and wooden booths, now time-worn and inscribed with graffiti from generations of students. Then, as now, it was a rendezvous for local Democratic politicos, university intelligentsia, and those who would like to become any of the above. Manuel had chosen wisely, locating his establishment across the street from the border of the Southern Methodist/Baptist-controlled county in which Emory University was located. The bar had been an oasis of beer and free thought on the edge of a Sahara of proclaimed abstinence and intolerance Never mind that the greatest amount of liquor tax collected in the state at that time came from those purveyors of the devil's elixir just across that same line, stores that supplied unmarked grocery bags and boxes to conceal the potables their customers hauled back into forbidden territory.

As racial and economic diversity blurred old and perhaps outdated values, even when alcohol became legal across the street Manuel's remained quirky. While gracious lots with lovely homes were subdivided into new look-alike neighborhoods of "affordable housing," the bar remained a bit risqué, a reputation subsequent owners had done little to alter. As the years passed, it had morphed into a watering hole for not only the left-of-center but also the social contrarian and the downright funky.

A black man wearing a clerical collar and a white man in lawyer camouflage of dark suit and power tie drew no special attention. They were steady customers, always taking the same booth, continually arguing and complaining, frequently in Latin, about the poor quality of food for which Manuel's was famous.

"Corruptio optimi pessima,"
the priest said, reaching for a half-empty pitcher of lukewarm beer.

"No doubt corruption of the best is worst, Francis," the white man agreed, signaling to the waiter as he emptied the pitcher. "But the mayor is entitled to a defense just like anyone else.
Cor illi in genua decidet."

"You can bet it was fear that brought him to his knees. It certainly wasn't prayer." Francis snorted.

Francis Narumba, formerly of one of West Africa's more corrupt, poverty-stricken, and disease-infested republics, had attended Oxford on scholarship, then had been sent to seminary in the United States. Either by his wish or that of a higher power, he had been assigned to minister not to the hellhole of his origins but to Atlanta's growing number of African immigrants.

As his dinner partner, Langford Reilly, described it, they were both victims of a liberal arts education and therefore unfit to do anything requiring any real skill.

Like, maybe, become a plumber.

Trapped in their own schooling, Francis had pursued a career in the church, and Lang law school. Lang's sister had been one of Francis's few white parishioners: Although tragic, her murder had brought priest and lawyer together. Before long they had become fast friends. Lang's lack of faith and, in his view, Francis's overabundance thereof provided an endless source of amicable debate.

In private, each would admit that the other, no matter how misguided, was probably the brightest mind he had known.

Lang watched their entrees' approach with interest. Regardless of what had been ordered, surprises were frequent at Manuel's. "Fortunately, the former mayor disagrees with Ovid.
Estque pad poenas quam meruisse minus."

Lang could see the curiosity on his companion's face replaced by suspicion as he looked at the plate set before him. The "medium-rare" filet had a very burned look to it. He sighed as the waiter shoved Lang's hamburger and fries onto the table and retreated hastily. "Fortunately?"

Lang tried to suppress a smile as Francis surveyed the cremated remains of his steak. "Fortunately for me. If, he believed it better to suffer punishment than deserve it, he wouldn't pay me an outrageous fee to defend him."

Francis shook his head, reaching for a bottle of steak sauce. "I'm surprised he doesn't... What is it the crime shows say?"

"Plead guilty?"

"Hoc sustinete maius ne venial malum.
Cop a plea."

"He says he's innocent."

Francis snorted again. "His chief administrative assistant, the head of the city contract board, five others—"

"Six others."

"—have either pled guilty or rolled over on each other for corruption, bribery, racketeering, tax evasion, et cetera. What else could they charge him with?"

"Parking overtime?"

Francis sampled the first bite of his steak, chewing thoughtfully. "I'm surprised you'd take the case. For sure you don't need the money."

Lang shrugged, a tacit admission that Francis was right. "Managing a huge charitable foundation isn't my idea of fun. Trying white-collar criminal cases is."

Francis was adding more steak sauce in a losing battle to cover up the flavor of burned meat. It had become a point of honor for neither man to admit during the meal just how bad Manuel's food could be and often was. "I still don't see why you'd want your name tied to a crook like that."

Lang wiped his face. The blood of his nearly raw hamburger—ordered medium—was running down his chin. "I seem to remember someone who spent his days with a prostitute and died between two thieves. Something to do with who should throw the first stone, as I recall it."

"You know far too much scripture for a heretic," Francis growled good-naturedly before changing the subject abruptly. "Hear anything from Gurt?"

Lang put his burger down to let it soak in its own juices, mostly blood and grease. "Not a word."

Francis started to say something, thought better of it, and renewed his assault on the steak.

"Don't expect to hear. It's been over a year now since she left, went back to Europe to work with the government."

A euphemism Francis understood to mean the Agency. Although the priest had not pressed for details, the gap between Lang's college education and his law degree indicated he had spent several years in some sort of employment. His long-standing acquaintance with Gurt Fuchs gave a clue as to where. Gurt had been the first woman in whom Lang had shown any romantic interest since the death of his wife from cancer several years before the priest and the lawyer had gotten to know each other.

"Capistrum maritale,"
Francis said with a smile, trying to make light of the matter.

"Fine for you to bewail the woes of matrimony. Not like that's a problem you'll ever have."

Francis reached across the table to lay a hand on his

friend's arm. "I'm sorry she left, Lang. I really am. You know how much I liked that woman."

"You and Grumps. I feel for both of you."

Lang was referring to the dog he had inherited when his sister and nephew died. He had not been able to part with what was arguably the world's ugliest mutt. The animal was the only part of his family left.

The waiter was removing the remnants of dinner. He must have been a recent hire or he would have known better than to ask, "All done? How was it?"

Francis simply gave him a blank stare.

"As always," Lang said. "Overcooked steak, raw hamburger. And I just love those limp, extra-greasy fries."

"Glad you enjoyed it." With the hand not holding the plates, he deposited the check on the table. "I'll take that when you're ready."

Lang picked it up. "I suppose we may as well follow the ritual."

The two men routinely flipped a coin to determine who would pay the tab. Lang could not remember ever winning. What were the odds of that?

Maybe Francis was right: There was a greater power.

Instead Francis reached for it. "Let me get this one."

"No, no. We'll toss for it. Always
post prandium."

Lang lost.

Francis grinned."
Manus e, nubibus.
A lucky break."

"I think the literal translation better describes it: A hand from the clouds'. The consistency with which you win is enough to convert most heathens."

"Including you?"

Lang handed the bill along with a credit card to the waiter. "I have faith, just not one that's centered on a pope."