The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller (36 page)

The assets that could be put at your disposal include,
but are not limited to, a worldwide network.

It is my fervent hope you will avail yourself
of the opportunity to work together to restore
this child to his home and parents. If so, please
contact me at the number below.

     The letter was signed, "Heinz Steinmann, Society of Jesus."

     Lang reread the letter. Perfect English. No doubt run past some legal department. "Include but are not limited to" was lawyerese in any language. Regret any "discomfort?" Was he kidding? Lang had never known a Jesuit who was. A humorless lot. If not, though, why would he entrust
delivery of his message to a couple strong arms that would scare a professional fighter? Hardly the Peace-on-Earth, Goodwill-toward-Men types. Society of Jesus? A Jesuit, those guys described as the Pope's Commandos?

     Painful and near-fatal experience had taught Lang to beware religious societies. He had been lucky to escape the Pegasus organization in Portugal, managed to thwart a homicidal cult of fanatical Jews in Israel, and had to mount a strike against the Knights of Malta in Rome. He knew he had to be on his guard.

     He drove to the edge of town, found a spot from which he could see in all directions, and stopped long enough to check in with Gurt.

     Manfred answered the phone, an annoying habit he had acquired lately, by which he would dash for the ringing phone, answer it, and insist on a brief conversation before surrendering the instrument. At first, it had been amusing. Telemarketers and political pollsters were confounded. Today, however, he was costing his dad time and money. Promises of gifts untold were sufficient ransom for the child to hand the phone over to his mother.

     "I'm leaving Oberkoenigsburg," Lang informed her. "Should be home by tomorrow morning."

     "You found what?" she wanted to know.

     "That several parties are interested in the place but no Wynn-Three."

     "Parties, what parties?"

     "I'm not sure. I'd rather tell you about it when I get home."

     "And?"

     "And I went skiing."

     "You had time to ski?" A hint of suspicion.

     "Wasn't exactly my choice."

     "You have luck not to break a leg."

     If she only knew.

     Next, he e-mailed Francis on his iPhone. He had no intent of making common cause with Steinmann until he knew more.

     In the meantime, he had a hearing in Atlanta, and the place he really wanted to take a look at, the top of the closed slope, would remain closed for a few days anyway.

Rothenburg ob den Tauber

Earlier the Same Morning

G
RATZ AND OTTO WERE DESPERATE. THE
child was nowhere in the little town and the falling snow had obliterated whatever tracks he might have left. They quickly realized that someone might have found the child and taken him in off the streets. It required little imagination to conjure up the scene: an attentive policeman taking notes as the child described how he had been hauled away from his parents in the States. The boy leading a well-armed contingent to the
Gasthaus Schelling.
Old
Frau
Schelling confirming the child had been there, kept by two men. An expanded search for the two kidnappers, followed by a very long time in a very unpleasant place.

     The two were hurriedly packing what little they had brought from Munich. "You think
Frau
Schelling can tell the police enough to identify us?" Otto asked, expressing the very question that had been pounding against Gratz's skull for the last few hours like a headache.

     "No way to know. We just need to get out of here."

     "How about the man you had in Oberkoenigsburg, shouldn't you call him, tell him the thing is over?"

     Gratz thought about the money he had promised and was not going to be able to deliver. "He can take care of himself."

     Otto stopped packing, a sweater in his hand. "The doctor!"

     "What about him?" Gratz snorted. "He's in this as deep as we are. He isn't going to talk to anyone."

     "No, no. I was just thinking: if you found a child in the snow, perhaps suffering from the cold, what would you do?"

     Gratz would leave him where he found him. It had been his experience that children were expensive, selfish, and generally ungrateful. But he saw where Otto was going. "Take him to the nearest doctor?"

     Without an answer, they both hefted their suitcases and made for the door.

     Minutes later, they were standing in front of the small cottage outside the town walls that housed both the doctor's office and, above, his residence. Gratz's aged BMW was parked at the curb and he was ringing the bell for the third time.

     "You would think the damn bell would be loud enough to wake him," Gratz observed.

     "Not if he's not here." Otto pointed to the street in front. Where, in contrast to the rest of the area, a large rectangular indentation had just begun to collect snow. "I'd say the doctor drove off in his car."

     Gratz turned to let his eyes follow the tire tracks, by now mere traces. "He could walk to any place here in town. Why take his car?"

     "Because he was going someplace further than this town?" Otto offered.

     Both men stared at each other.

     "You don't suppose . . . ?" they asked in unison.

     They both made a dash for the aged car.

     "A map in the glove box," Gratz said, turning the ignition key. "Find the quickest way to Oberkoenigsburg."

Excerpt from the Scrolls of Issa

M
ANY BROUGHT THEIR CHILDREN TO ISSA
, who cured them of their illnesses and Issa spent many days in Ladakh.

     And when Issa was but twenty-nine, the Supreme Spirit called him back to the land of Judea and the people wept to see him go.

Father Francis Narumba

Manuel's Tavern

602 North Highland Avenue

Atlanta

7:48
P.M.

Two Nights Later

M
ANUEL'S TAVERN IS KNOWN AS A
favorite watering hole for Atlanta's liberal establishment. The polar opposite of a fern bar, it caters to students and faculty of nearby Emory University, as well as politicians, political aides and consultants, and other government careerists. But, in reality, its customers come from all sectors of Atlanta society. Its clientele is eclectic, the bizarre is accepted, and the food is execrable. Lang and Francis, longtime patrons, fit right in.

     Lang pulled the Porsche into the parking lot behind the building as he continued the conversation that had begun minutes before. "So, I've got one unhappy client."

     Francis undid the seat harness. "How much time is this Hall person, Felony Phil, facing, assuming he's convicted?"

     Lang climbed out of the car. "If he's lucky, he'll be out of prison in time for his hundred and first birthday."

     Francis grunted as he squeezed out of the Porsche's door. "I look forward to the time you grow up and get a real car."

     "Maybe by your hundred and first, too."

     Francis stretched as though the ten-minute ride had cramped every muscle in his body. "Can't say as I blame the federal magistrate for denying bond. Looking at spending the rest of his life inside looking out, I'd guess Hall would present a flight risk.
Fugere est triumphus.
You really pick some slimeballs for clients."

     "All God's children, Francis, or so you teach. But, yeah, fleeing would be a triumph for old Felony Phil." Lang was holding the tavern's back door open. "Slimeballs like him pay the overhead."

     No one paid the slightest attention to the black priest and the man in drab lawyer attire as they made their way to the back section of tables that at one time had constituted the entire establishment. Wooden booths scarred by five decades of carved graffiti ran along a wall opposite a massive bar. Autographed photos of local and national Democrat Party superstars, past and present, beamed down upon the room. Several of these pictures included the iconic founder, Manuel Maloof, dead but far from forgotten.

     Seated, Lang signaled a waiter for a pitcher of beer. He looked around the familiar room before picking up a menu he could have recited from memory. "Don't know why we keep coming here. The food never improves."

     But the service—at least for beer—was prompt.

     
"Usus est tyrannus
," Francis replied, filling his glass from the newly arrived pitcher. "Surprised Gurt didn't join us. Couldn't get a sitter for Manfred?"

     "Her book club meets tonight—our house. That's why we're here drinking beer instead of
there
drinking scotch. I asked Wynton to join us. His wife will be at my house, too. You remember Wynton?"

     Francis sampled the beer. "How could I forget? I can only imagine the pain he's in, worrying about his son. Did you find out anything while you were gone?"

     Lang helped himself to the pitcher. "Wait till he gets here and I'll fill you both in. In the meantime, what did you find out?"

     Francis looked around as if anyone could hear over the general hubbub. "Not a whole lot. Heinz Steinmann has a reputation of being the hatchet man on behalf of orthodoxy. He operates at the edge of what the Church allows. Some say he crosses the line. My sources in Rome were pretty tight-lipped when his name came up. That's unusual. The Vatican, like any other small town, is full of gossip."

     "With vows of chastity, what else is there to do?"

     Francis was studying the menu, ignoring the comment. "But I did get some interesting rumors."

     "Like what?"

     Francis started to answer, then stood, hand outstretched. "Good to see you again, Wynton."

     Lang turned and tried not to stare. His next-door neighbor looked as if he had aged ten years in the few days since Lang had last seen him. Formerly full cheeks were gaunt, his skin the color of old parchment. He was in need of a haircut and had not shaved that day. The intelligent sparkle Lang had seen in his eyes had departed, leaving the dullness that strain brings. His dress shirt and pants hung on him as though he had purchased a size too large. Unemployment combined with constant worry was extracting its price.

     He slid into the booth next to Lang, a forced smile flickering across his face. "Thanks for letting me join you guys. First time I've been out since, since . . ." He ran a hand across his eyes. "Since Wynn-Three . . ."

     He looked as though he might break into tears.

     "Good for you to get away for a few hours," Lang said quickly. "I understand Paige is at the neighborhood book club tonight anyway."

     Wynton nodded his thanks as a waiter placed an empty glass in front of him. "Yeah, I had to practically shove her out the door. She's afraid if she leaves the phone . . ."

     Lang poured the rest of the pitcher into his neighbor's glass and motioned to the waiter for a refill.

     Instead of drinking, Wynton stared into the amber fluid like a fortuneteller into a crystal ball. "I don't mean to be rude, but all I'm interested in is hearing what you found out about the people who took my son."

     Lang leaned back in the booth. "Not much, I'm afraid. What I did learn was that at least two people or two groups were very interested in what I was doing in Oberkoenigsburg." He reached into his jacket pocket and slid the fax over to Wynton. "One of them would seem to be legitimate."

     "Oberkoenigsburg," Wynton said. "That's the place this Mustawitz person was taken to." He read the sheet of paper and gave what Lang guessed might be his first genuine smile in a long time. "Wow, the Vatican's interested! That's the sort of help we need!"

     Lang wished he shared his friend's optimism. "It won't hurt."

     He hoped.

     "You said there were two persons or groups. What about the other?"

     Lang shook his head. "I'm afraid I've, er, lost contact with them for the moment. But the key is Oberkoenigsburg."

     The waiter was fidgeting at tableside. "Have you made a choice, gentlemen?"

     Wynton looked surprised that the subject of food would have come up. He looked from Lang to Francis. "What's good here?"

     Lang and Francis exchanged amused glances before the priest said, "It's all pretty much equal."
Sotto voce
, "Equally bad."

     "I'll have the cheeseburger," Lang volunteered, "medium, i.e., pink center. Burned center and it goes back."

     Obviously inured to threats concerning food preparation, the waiter collected Lang's menu and turned to Francis. "And you,
padre
?"

     "Salmon. And I'm not looking for sushi."

     The waiter made an exaggerated effort to mark his pad. "So noted. And you, sir?"

     Wynton scanned his menu uneasily. "I, I guess I'm not very hungry. The garden salad, perhaps?"

     The waiter tapped his pad impatiently with his pencil. "You tell me."

     "Okay, the salad. Oil and vinegar."

     The waiter swept up the two remaining menus and bolted for the kitchen as if fearful the three might change their minds.

     "So," Wynton turned to Lang. "You think whoever took Wynn-Three is after treasure instead of ransom."

     Not a question.

     "Treasure?" Lang asked.

     Wynton stared at Lang as though the subject were obvious. "Treasure, stuff the Nazis stashed away in one of the mines."

     Suddenly the circling bird had decided to feed.

     Lang mentally slapped his forehead for not seeing what had been in front of him.

     "Those mines, salt mines around Oberkoenigsburg, played out in the late 1800s," Wynton said almost apologetically. "I haven't had a lot to do lately but research on the computer. With no mining activity, why would the Germans transport someone with what amounted to early computer skills all the way to Austria to a place where there were mines sunk into the mountains, mines where stuff was being hidden that needed to be indexed by what was the closest thing to a computer that existed back then."