The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller (23 page)

     "Nothing perhaps," Lang said gently. "Perhaps a lot. It's a rock worth turning over. May I hear it?"

     Fifteen minutes later, he put down a set of earphones and turned to the senior FBI agent. "I suggest you have someone contact the airlines, see if someone bought tickets to anywhere in Germany, particularly . . ."

     "Munich," Gurt furnished.

     "To Munich, someone who had no reservations, possibly paid in cash, and had a small child with them, probably a child who appeared to be sound asleep."

     "That's pretty wild speculation," the Bureau man observed.

     "You have a better idea?"

     The man left the room to mutter into his cell phone in the hall. Morse looked around for the overcoat he'd thrown over a chair. "Well, I ID'd my vic an' looks like the Hoover Boys have ever'thin' else unner control." He turned to Lang. "You need me, counselor, you knows where to find me."

     Lang was watching the policeman make his own way out, unaware Wynton was right behind him. "Sounds like you and the detective are old buddies. He in some of your cases?"

     "You could say that."

     Wynton waited a beat for an explanation that was not forthcoming before the FBI man on the cell phone approached. "Good guess, Reilly! Delta had a German national pay cash for two tickets for this afternoon's flight to Munich, was carrying a small boy who seemed asleep. No baggage. Odd enough for the ticket clerk to remember him."

     The three other agents joined them. "Where is he now? The local cops alerted? Have you had the concourse sealed?"

     "Is he all right, the child?" Paige asked in a quavering voice.

     "No reason to think otherwise, ma'am," the woman agent assured her. "We'll have him sleeping in his own bed tonight."

     Wynton exhaled for what seemed like the first time that day. Calling Lang Reilly had been a good idea, a brilliant inspiration. He owed him a lot more than a bottle of fine champagne. The unanswered questions about his next-door neighbors, the martial arts, the accent recognition, the close connections with the FBI and governor's office. None of the above mattered any longer.

     The only dampener on his spirits was Lang himself. The man clearly wasn't sharing in the general relief everyone else felt. From somewhere deep down, some place Wynton didn't even want to think about, he feared Lang was the only person who really knew what was happening.

International Concourse

Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport

Thirty Minutes Later

W
YNTON HAD GRIPPED THE DASH OF
the Porsche with one hand while he held the armrest in a death hold with the other. He didn't dare glance at the speedometer as Lang Reilly smoothly dodged around traffic on I-75/85 South. In addition to the governor's office, the man clearly had connections with the local police. Had Wynton driven at these speeds, he would have faced ten years in the electric chair.

     Even so, it still seemed an eternity before Lang exited the expressway and stopped in the traffic caused by the airport's current runway construction project, an enterprise many Atlantans suspected to be the city's equivalent of the weaving of Penelope's tapestry: intentionally endless. A policeman waived them on. Parking was not allowed in front of the terminal and stopping was severely discouraged.

     "Move it!" The cop was standing in front of the Porsche.

     Lang rolled down the window. "We got an emergency!"

     The cop couldn't care less. "You gonna have more n' emergency, you don' move that car outta here."

     This was, after all, the same police force that had literally knocked a grandmother to the pavement for not moving her vehicle fast enough to suit them. The Atlanta constabulary, at least those at the airport, would have compared poorly in the sensitivity department with Genghis Khan's Mongols.

     A man in a suit emerged from the crowd, reaching into a coat pocket. He flashed a badge at the policeman and said something to him. The uniform shook his head and stood his ground until another man appeared, sartorially identical to the first. The cop shook his head again. Without further discussion, each man took one of the policeman's elbows, lifting him to the side.

     One of the men stuck his head in the window. "Mr. Charles, come with me."

     Lang gave Wynton's arm a reassuring pat. "Go on. I'll catch up later."

     Wynton had thought he was familiar with Hartsfield-Jackson, but he had never seen the warren of passages, hallways, stairs, and elevators that bypassed the airport's check-in and security areas. His companion said little, only identifying himself as Special Agent Whittier of the Atlanta FBI office.

     "Did you find my son?" Wynton asked, straining to keep up.

     "We found someone matching the description," Whittier said laconically. Beyond that, he ignored Wynton's questions.

     Passing through a steel door, Wynton was led to the bottom of the escalators by which passengers descended to the tram to all concourses. An electric golf cart was waiting with a driver in the airport security uniform. As soon as Wynton and the FBI man were aboard, it sped down the corridor that connected the various concourses, coming to a stop in front of an unobtrusive and unmarked door. An Atlanta police officer in SWAT regalia stood on either side, each holding what Wynton guessed were automatic weapons.

     Behind the door was a short hall with two more doors on each side. Whittier's knock on the first on the right brought a grumbled response. The FBI man followed Wynton inside.

     Wynton took one look and almost choked on his disappointment. Seated in one of six cheap plastic chairs ringing a table was an old man, his clothes rumpled with travel. Next to him a small boy sat, the double-eared Mickey Mouse cap of Disney World on his head. Instead of the smile associated with the Magic Kingdom, snail tracks of tears streaked his cheeks.

     It was not Wynn-Three.

     Two men occupied chairs across from the forlorn pair, eying Wynton expectantly.

     "It's, it's not him," Wynton said in a dispirited near whisper.

     "My grandson and I," the old man said in a tremulous voice, "we come to America to see New York, Washington, and Disney World. We hear it is better than Disneyland in France. We come and now we are treated as criminals."

     "The hotels in New York, Washington, and Orlando check out," one of the anonymous men said, tossing a pair of passports on the table. "
Herr
Herman Fest, sixty-two, and Dormer Fest, age five, both of Munich. He bought his tickets in cash."

     The elder Fest's eyes switched between the two men like a cornered mouse watching a pair of cats. "Please, I meant no harm. I did not want to invite the attention of the German tax authorities by a large credit card balance. I promised for his birthday my grandson . . ."

     Wynton felt even worse than he had. Not only was his son still missing, but this old gentleman and his grandson had also been thoroughly terrorized for nothing.

     Both the men across the table stood.

     "Okay,
Herr
Fest. We're not the equivalent of the German IRS. People on this side of the pond screw the tax man, too."

     The old man glanced at the door. "We may leave?"

     The other man smiled. "As you wish. If you hurry, you may still make your flight."

     "There's a cart outside. Why not let them use it to get to their gate?" Wynton suggested.

     Wynton couldn't see Special Agent Whittier, but the two government men who were in his view exchanged glances that told him they had given no thought as to the consequences of their mistake.

At that moment, Delta Flight 607 received instructions from ground control to taxi into position, hold on runway Two-Seven-Left, and await clearance from the tower for takeoff. The 757 was destined for Miami International, where it should land about an hour before a Lufthansa flight departed.

     Near the rear of the tourist section, Friedrich Gratz settled back into his narrow seat after carefully strapping the seat belt around his small, sleeping
companion. It should be at least another hour before he had to administer another dose of the drug. He patted a pocket containing the small eyeglass case holding the hypodermic needle.

     Things had gone well, exceptionally well. It had been pure luck that his lookout in Atlanta had seen the Department of Family and Children Services markings on the car in the Charles's driveway. Five hundred dollars had found a woman, a prostitute, who had been more than willing to use the dead agent's credentials. He regretted killing them both. It had been necessary, but good things had never come easily to him. His careful and speedy planning had been the key: a German passport for the child had initially presented a problem until he found a skilled forger who had prepared one, assuring them that, if the child stayed asleep, it was unlikely anyone would wake him to check the photograph too closely. Cash was raised in advance so that the return flight could be made in two legs, each unconnected to the other by a paper or electronic trail. He idly wondered if the authorities had put things together quickly enough to detain poor Herman and his grandson. Either way, both had enjoyed a vacation at the expense of Friedrich and his friends back in Munich.

     Yes, things had gone well. Now came the harder part.

480 Lafayette Drive

That Evening

W
YNTON WAS TRYING TO KEEP PAIGE'S
mind occupied, thereby keeping his own mind from the terrible emptiness his child's absence had created. It was like a huge black hole in his very existence, sharp-edged loneliness, despite the fact that at least two FBI agents were upstairs monitoring the phone and Lang and Gurt had accepted his invitation to join them for Chinese takeout. Manfred seemed to be the only one enjoying the meal.

     "I understand the longer it takes to find a kidnapped child, the less chance he'll be found at all," Paige said morosely as she picked at her egg foo yong. Although she was no longer sobbing, an endless stream of tears had been coursing down her face.

     Lang's thoughts were clearly not on his bowl of sizzling rice soup, which he stirred endlessly. "That depends on whether the child was abducted by, say, a family member, maybe a noncustodial parent, or by ransom seekers. Someone looking for money would likely wait until they were secure in whatever hidey-hole they might have set up before making contact. I think we're all in agreement we're not dealing with a domestic situation."

     Wynton studied Lang. Was he hearing experience or feel-good bullshit? Lang Reilly didn't seem a purveyor of the latter.

     Lang continued. "I talked to Detective Morse just before we came over here. The cops heard back from Interpol. The guy Gurt took down in the park name's Schmidt, Hans Schmidt. German national. Has a record in
the Federal Republic for small-time stuff, stole a car, got caught trying to rip auto parts off from his former employer, the BMW factory in Munich. Nothing major like a kidnapping."

     Wynton pushed the General Tso's extra-spicy shrimp away. "It seems a stretch: petty larceny to kidnapping."

     "Obviously he had help," Lang observed. "And planning."

     He saw the curious look on both Paige's and Wynton's faces and held up a finger. "One, someone was obviously driving the van. They knew what kind of vehicle they wanted before they stole it." Second finger. "They knew about the DEFACS people and knew they would need credentials." Third finger. "And they were professional enough not be carrying the papers they would have needed to get into or out of this country, assuming more than one of them was foreign. They had to leave those somewhere to be picked up later."

     Paige started to ask a question and choked back sobs instead.

     Wynton guessed what she was about to say. "Why would people from Germany come over here to kidnap someone? Wouldn't it have been easier and safer to take some child in Europe?"

     Lang nodded. "Assuming ransom was the motive."

     "And you think it isn't." Wynton was stating a fact, not a question.

     Lang shrugged and took a spoonful of the soup. "No way to be sure. We'll know in a day or two when we either hear from the kidnappers or not."

     "But if not for money . . ." Wynton's voice trailed off, the thought too cruel to contemplate.

     "I—we—can't wait that long," Paige moaned. She raised her eyes toward upstairs where the FBI agents were monitoring the phone. "Can't they, somebody, find out where they've taken my child?"

     "I understand the FBI is checking the manifests of every international flight out of Atlanta. If whoever took Wynn-Three left the country, we'll know where he went," Lang said.

     "Unless they left from somewhere else," Gurt spoke for the first time.

     There was silence, an indication no one had thought of this possibility.

     "Mommy, can we go home now?" Manfred looked up from a coloring book.

     Gurt gave him a silencing glare. "Also, if ransom they want, why take the child so far away?"

     "She's right there." Lang pushed his bowl away and stood to take it into the kitchen.

     "I'll get that," Paige said, eager to do anything rather than simply sit, waiting for a phone call that might not come.

     "Makes sense," Wynton said. "If they intend to exchange Wynn-Three for money, they wouldn't take him out of the country. That means . . ."

     Paige's hand was shaking, the remainder of Lang's soup in danger of winding up on the floor.

     Lang took the bowl. "We don't know they took Wynn-Three anywhere. It just makes a lot of sense to check that possibility while the trail's still hot since the men who nabbed him might be foreign nationals. At least one of them is. For all we know, they could still be right here in Atlanta."

     Paige took the bowl back, seeming to be at least partially comforted. "Wherever they are, let's pray they haven't hurt him."