The Sinai Secret (7 page)

A recent addition to the U.S. Attorney's staff, she had moved to Atlanta from Denver and what she minimized as an "unpleasant" divorce.

Were there pleasant ones?

A person was more likely to enjoy a root canal.

Lang pressed for no details and she did not reveal any. They had started with sharing a coffee break at the federal courthouse and met for drinks after work.

She was refreshingly cautious; he was in no hurry.

He was busy; she was more interested in her career than in a second husband.

They were circling each other like two animals claiming the same turf.

Lang was going to make his move today: He would ask her for a real, no-kidding, adult-type date, like going to a real restaurant, where, perhaps, they would discuss something other than the criminal justice system.

Lang was not timid by nature, but the possibility of facing rejection from this woman filled him with more dread than did the several attempts that had been made on his life in the last few years. Of course, in the past he hadn't had time to brood before an assassin appeared with a knife, or a shadow government's bomb destroyed his car.

He checked his watch and pushed back from his desk. He went down the hall to the men's restroom, where he combed hair that was already in place, ran a hand over cheeks still smooth from the morning's shave, and grimaced for the mirror, checking teeth that had touched nothing since being brushed.

Although he had never served as a regular in ops, the Agency had preached to its agents to check their equipment, recheck it, and then check it again.

Training or nerves?

He straightened an already perfectly centered tie, shrugged on his tailored suit jacket, and headed for the elevators.

Other than fast-food chains and hotels, downtown Atlanta could boast of few places to have lunch. Once the office workers fled to the suburbs, the streets became the domain of druggies and beggars, the first unsightly and the second overly aggressive. Other pedestrian traffic consisted of hotel guests with great courage or greater ignorance of the city and the few hardy urban pioneers who insisted on going about their nocturnal business even if they had to step over sleeping bodies in doorways and ignore loud and accusatory panhandling.

The homeless and the needy, as termed by the politically correct, were, however, voters and therefore impervious to efforts to remove them.

Understandably, most restaurants were located in somewhat more upscale areas.

One of the few brave eateries was located in Underground, a section of the city that had been bridged by a succession of viaducts over the late nineteenth-century railroads, leaving the first floor of many old buildings subterranean.

In the late sixties and early seventies, a village of unique restaurants and bars had moved in, bringing a nightlife downtown had never seen before. Ever watchful of possible revenue, the city had subsequently taken over, with a predictable decline into low-end apparel and tacky souvenir shops, a succession of chain restaurants, and an equally foreseeable black hole of taxpayer money.

Former habitues stayed away in droves.

But the place was within walking distance, roughly between the federal building and Lang's office, and the day was warm and sunny. He stepped out with a brisk walk, futilely hoping to outdistance persistent street people. He ignored the hands shoved at him as mercilessly as microphones jabbed by the press at a celebrity or newly bereaved relative of a disaster victim.

Most of the beggars had cell phones on their belts.

Was there a panhandlers' network, exchanging the time, place, and description of easy marks?

One kept pace with him, insisting he had been robbed and only needed bus fare to get home. The story would have been convincing had the same mendicant not made the same pitch last week. It would also have helped had the man's breath not reeked of MD 20/20. At $2.75 a half pint, it was downtown Atlanta's most popular fine wine.

Lang reached the Five Points MARTA station, its entrance transformed into a shabby North African bazaar. Stands displayed everything from fresh fruit to pirated rap CDs. Two tall, suited black men preached from the pages of the Bibles they held. Passengers streamed by, unconcerned that the end was at hand and damnation certain.

As Lang turned left to enter Underground, he noticed one stand's potential customer, a man in an overcoat and watch cap who seemed occupied with an arrangement of fruit juices.

Although Lang had left the Agency almost two decades earlier, its training had become habit, as natural as sleeping or eating. Anomalies were like a missed note in a symphony: a scruffy car in an upscale neighborhood, someone running away from, rather than toward, the sound of a burglar alarm.

The day was far too warm for the coat and cap.

Possibly the man had already scored enough cash to feed whatever pharmaceutical demons he snorted, smoked, or shot up. He could well believe he was in an arctic winter.

But Lang didn't think so.

Addicts tended to move at a less animated pace, if they moved at all. This man appeared to be in a lively argument with the stand's owner..

Lang was fairly certain the man had been among those who had pounced with demands for money as soon as

Lang had reached the sidewalk in front of his building. He was the only one Clothed against cold weather in late April.

Lang watched as the discussion broke off and Overcoat headed toward him. Their gaze met briefly. Lang did not see a rheumy-eyed, slack-jawed face of society's jetsam. Instead Overcoat stood erect, without the slump of an ordained loser. He was young, his beard stubble no more than a day or two old at most,

Lang had the impression that the man was going to say something to him. Instead he veered off and turned a corner.

Not surprisingly Lang had his selection of tables at the restaurant. He chose one looking down the street of old facades decorated with the carvings popular in the 1890s. He could also see two bag ladies and a street vendor of indeterminate sex who seemed to be selling used clothes.

Alicia waved to him as she arrived at the maître d's stand. Lang stood and pulled out a chair.

"Glad you could make it," he said as she straightened her skirt and sat.

She smiled up at him as he returned to his own chair. "Now, why would I miss charming company and an enjoyable lunch?"

"You've obviously never eaten here before."

"That bad?"

"Depends."

She looked over the top of her menu. "On what?"

"Whether you order anything that requires more culinary skill than throwing something on the grill." He glanced at his own menu. "I don't remember any complaints about the lunch salads, either."

"Burger or salad. You really know how to fill lunch with excitement."

He had forgotten the sarcasm that characterized her conversations.

Lang looked up, anticipating the waiter's approach. Instead he saw Overcoat striding across the restaurant floor.

"Look here," the maître d' sputtered. "You can't—"

Overcoat turned, taking something metallic from his pocket.

Lang could not see the object, but when the officious maître d' made a dive for the swinging kitchen door, he could easily guess what it was.

Even more easily could he guess where Overcoat was headed. There were no other diners.

The gun came up in Overcoat's hand, its muzzle a black hole staring directly at Lang.

Later he remembered thinking the weapon was huge. But then, almost any gun grew in size when pointed directly at the observer.

Before the pistol could be fired, Lang moved.

In a single motion he slammed his shoulder into Alicia, knocking her out of her chair, clearing their table, and propelling both of them under an adjacent one.

Two shots filled the dining room with ear-pressing roars. Lang was only marginally aware of the thump of bullets on the tabletop between him and the gunman, of the acrid smell of cordite and a scream from somewhere in the direction in which the maître d' had disappeared.

He was completely aware of footsteps retreating at a deliberate pace. He took a cautious peek over the table top. Overcoat was gone.

He extended a hand to Alicia. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine."

She stood on legs that seemed none too stable, ruefully contemplating a run in her hose and a stain on her skirt that indicated the cap on some condiment on the table had not been screwed on tight. "Next time I make a wise-ass remark about lunch being filled with excitement, wash my mouth out, will you?"

Confident that all danger had passed and the police had been summoned, the waitstaff appeared in a solicitous group.

"Lunch is on the house," the maître d' announced.. "You're gonna have to stay here until the cops arrive, anyway."

Lang looked at Alicia. "How 'bout it?"

"Since we have to wait, we may as well."

Lang had expected Morse. He got two bored uniforms. Apparently near misses weren't worth the detective's time. One cop carefully filled in a form that Lang knew from experience covered everything from murder to auto theft and would soon vanish into the department's clerical maw, where it would be filed away or lost, forgotten in either event. He was not surprised when one of the officers found an overcoat and watch cap in the alley outside; nor did he have any trouble identifying them as the ones worn by the assailant.

When the police had filled out every line on the report and left, lunch arrived.

Lang sampled his chicken Caesar salad. "Maybe this place's not as bad as I recalled."

Alicia grinned, showing perfect teeth. "Not bad, but I wouldn't recommend the floor show. That guy a former client? Must be real unhappy. Would have been easier to go to the state bar and complain."

"My former clients are either satisfied or in jail. I've never seen that one before."

She toyed with her fork as if trying to summon an appetite. "Then why would he want to kill you?"

He didn't,
Lang almost said. At that range he could have effortlessly done so. Overcoat was simply delivering a warning.

But about what?