The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller (37 page)

     "Computer?" asked Francis.

     Wynton explained the IBM card punch system. "I did a little research on that, too."

     "You're talking about this person your son thought he was in a former life?" Francis asked.

     Wynton surveyed the priest a moment before responding. "All due respect, father, but that's the only reason I can come up with as to why my son was kidnapped. There's been no ransom demand, so unless . . ." He visibly shuddered. "Unless he was taken by some pervert . . ."

     "Wynn-Three's abduction was too well-planned to be executed by some random sex criminal," Lang said reassuringly. "The fact that there's interest in an obscure Austrian ski resort would support the treasure theory."

     "In fact," he added, remembering the ski shop owner's comment about the closed lift and an old mine shaft, "I think I might have a good idea where it would be."

     "'It'?" Francis asked.

     "The place where the treasure, if there is any, might be."

     Wynton's eyes sparkled with eagerness. "Then that's where we might find Wynn-Three. Or at least whoever took him. We can alert the local police. Paige and I . . ."

     Lang raised a hand, indicating him to stop. "Uh, I'm not sure involving the local cops is a good idea. It's more likely to scare off the very people we want to find."

     Wynton looked puzzled. Like so many who had never had extensive dealings with the authorities, he saw them as the solution instead of the problem. It was a symptom of watching too many TV shows in which justice invariably prevailed. "You can handle it yourself?"

     "I can try."

     "I want to come with you. Paige will, too."

     Lang took a deep breath. Having two emotionally charged amateurs along was not going to help. "Let me tell you what happened."

     And he did, editing out the more violent details. Francis and Wynton listened, enthralled, their dinners untouched.

     When Lang finished, Wynton asked, "You think the two men you met in Cracow were from the Vatican, then?"

     Lang picked up his hamburger, the bun soggy with grease. "If not from the Vatican, hired by."

     Wynton seemed surprised to find his salad and the two small bottles,
oil and vinegar, in front of him. "And the other guy, the one you met at Auschwitz and in Oberkoenigsburg?"

     Lang almost smiled at the word
met.
"I'm not sure but I got the idea he—or someone—definitely didn't want me poking around."

     "So, when we go to Oberkoenigsburg, you think this guy will give us trouble?" Wynton asked.

     Lang took a bite from his burger to give himself time to compose a tactful answer. He was not surprised to see no pink in the middle. "I'm fairly certain we won't be bothered by that particular person, but I still don't think it's a good idea for you and Paige to come along. Things could get rough."

     "I'll have a hard time explaining that to Paige."

     Lang put the hamburger down, wiping the grease from his fingers with a paper napkin. "I really think I can better accomplish this by myself. I don't need to be looking over an extra pair of shoulders."

     Pain and indignation flashed across Wynton's face. He started to say one thing, then changed his mind, and said, "You can understand why I want go with you. Anything beats just sitting around doing nothing."

     Lang shook his head. "You're not doing nothing. You're doing what you'd want a client to do: let you handle the matter the best way you know how and take your advice."

     Wynton managed a weak smile. "I never knew how difficult that could be."

     Lang and Francis finished most of their meals while Wynton merely rearranged the lettuce in his salad.

     The waiter brought the check and Wynton reached for it.

     Lang put a gentle hand on his wrist. "Not the way we do it. We flip."

     "But I owe you . . ."

     Lang shook his head. "It's the principle. For years, Francis and I have been dining here—if you can call it dining—and we always flip a coin. Statistically, you'd think we'd be about even. Truth is, the strongest evidence in the goods Francis sells lies in the fact that he has never lost. I'm not about to pass up the chance to start getting even."

     Lang paid once again.

A Few Minutes Later

L
ANG WAS WAITING FOR THE LIGHT
at the intersection of Highland and Ponce de Leon, about to turn left into the quirky "Ponce" neighborhood. "When Wynton showed up, you were saying you had heard rumors." Francis reached out to brace himself against the dash for the inevitable burst of acceleration when the light changed. "Rumors I saw no reason to share with him."

     There was a jolt as Lang floored the accelerator into the intersection.

     "You must spend a fortune on tires, making a drag race out of stoplights even when there's no one to race against. And then there's the wear and tear on my nerves."

     "
Timor mortis morte peior.
You can take MARTA next time." Lang shifted into second gear. "You were saying about the rumors . . ."

     "Facing certain death, loss of limb, or disfigurement almost made me forget. Steinmann is one of the very few who have unlimited access to the Secret Archives, the
real
Secret Archives, not the one that is occasionally opened to theologians and historians friendly to the Church."

     Lang stopped for another light, grinning as Francis braced himself again. "And?"

     "Entrance is high tech, retina scan recognition, I understand. But you have to sign in, too. Keeping the register provides a job for a few elderly priests, gives them something to do when they're too old to be active."

     "I'm delighted to know make-work projects aren't confined to our own government, but I confess a certain curiosity as to where that information leads."

     "I know one of them, a priest who does duty keeping the register. He was one of my instructors in seminary."

     "Don't keep me in suspense."

     "Most of the people who frequent the secret library are religious scholars. Steinmann doesn't have a reputation for scholarship, but he's suddenly become a regular nightly visitor to the secret documents according to my old teacher."

     Lang frowned. "So?"

     "There's no way to be sure, but the scuttlebutt is that he's found something that apparently really has his interest, supposedly some old scrolls written in what looked like an Oriental language. A few days ago, he got a call on his cell phone while he had one out, ran out of the library in such a hurry, left the scroll out of the shelves instead of replacing it. My friend says that's a real no-no, so he remembered it. He also left what looked like a Latin translation."

     Lang shot a look at a police car that had materialized in the lane next to him. The cop was giving the turbo Porsche a disapproving look. People didn't buy cars like that to obey speed limits. This time Lang made a smooth departure from the stoplight.

     "Do I have to cross-examine you or are you going to tell me what exactly Steinmann was looking at?"

     Francis shifted in his seat. His discomfort was not related to Lang's driving. "The keepers of the register of the Secret Archives are specifically forbidden to read any of the material."

     "A librarian forbidden to look at books? Come on!"

     Francis shrugged. "Even in a world where people change spouses more often than they do automobiles, a vow is still a vow to a priest. And all priests vow obedience to the Church."

     Lang relaxed slightly as the cop turned off Ponce de Leon. "Then, what you just told me isn't exactly helpful. And they say lawyers give totally useless advice."

     Unmiffed, Francis replied, "I'm only the messenger. For that matter, we have no idea if the good father's sudden interest in Church history has any relation to the child's disappearance."

     "But we
do
know he wants my help in finding Wynn-Three."

     Francis swiveled his neck to look at Lang. "We do?"

     "You read the letter."

     "Yeah, but he was offering assistance, not asking for help."

     It was Lang's turn to glance at Francis. "He's trying to find out if I know anything he doesn't about Wynn-Three's whereabouts. When's the last time the Vatican offered to 'help' in a purely secular matter?"

     "To them, the child's alleged memory of a former life isn't secular."

     Lang grinned. "'Alleged'? Now you're talking like a lawyer, too."

     Francis chuckled. "Associating with the wrong people, I guess. Still, I don't see anything but a possible mutuality of interest. Why not take Steinmann up on his offer and see what happens? You have better ideas?"

     "'Fraid not. Maybe he's learned something from the secret archives he's willing to share."

     "Don't bet on it. That he's willing to share, that is."

     They drove in silence for a few minutes, Lang thinking. "That slope in Oberkoenigsburg will be opening up tomorrow or the next day. I'd planned to be there, see who shows up."

     "Wouldn't it be wise to call in the cops? I mean, if the kidnappers are there . . ."

     "If he—or they—are there, a bunch of cops is going to spook them. I'd planned to go alone."

     Francis was staring at him. "With a stop in Rome?"

     "Francis, you know me too well."

     "Believe me, Steinmann is not going to reveal whatever he's learned from the secret archives."

     "I hadn't planned on asking him."

     "Then how . . . ?"

     "Francis,
ad ignorantiam.
"

     Besides, Lang wasn't sure how he was going to find what, if anything, the Jesuit knew. His biggest problem at the moment was getting out of town without Gurt insisting on coming along.

Schlosstrasse 44
Salzburg
A Day Earlier

H
EIM HAD FOUND A
GASTHAUS
WITH
a room far less expensive than a hotel. Better yet, it came without maid service, meals, or anything else likely to cause contact with other people. He wanted no questions about the young boy or why the child was asleep most of the time. He had originally planned on doing what he had come to do and leaving Oberkoenigsburg as soon as possible, but the shooting episode on the slopes had drawn too many police for comfort. Staying nearer the ski resort would have been desirable, but even the smallest rooms far exceeded his modest budget.

     Besides, there was the possibility Gratz and his friend might have heard Lena Rauch's story by now. Even those two could possibly do the arithmetic and deduce that the doctor had decided to cash in on whatever the child could recall.

     It had disturbed him to give his passport under the name Griff to the woman who ran the establishment. Names on guests' papers were routinely turned over to the police. If the two men in Rothenburg had given his name to anyone . . . He dismissed the idea. Gratz wasn't any more apt to go to the police than he was.

     He had left the stolen Renault on the streets of Salzburg. His gloves would prevent any fingerprints. Now he was faced with finding another means of getting back to Oberkoenigsburg. Transportation by bus or train was available. Public transportation, though, presented too many problems:
someone might remember the old man with the child, particularly when the little boy's body was discovered after Heim was through with him. So far, old Lena Rauch was the only one who could make the connection and he had plans for her, too.

     Renting a car seemed the only option. He mentally groaned at the anticipated expense. But if there was treasure at the end of this particular rainbow, it had to be done.

     He would rent the cheapest car available. There was no time to waste. Sooner or later, someone would find the abandoned and inoperable Volkswagen in the car park below the resort, run the license plate, and come up with his name.

     He intended to be far away by that time.

Via del Piè di Marmo

Rome

11:20
A.M.
Local Time

T
HE SIGHT OF THE PIAZZA DELLA ROTUNDA
had been like seeing an old friend after a long absence. Even with temperatures hovering in the low fifties, outdoor tables of its
trattoria
were full, even those of McDonald's, whose golden arches were tastefully shrunk so as not to detract from the ancient square. Lang had been tempted to stop long enough for a cappuccino at nearby world-famous Eustacia, but he had business to tend to.

     The urgency of his mission did nothing to diminish either his yen for a cup of espresso or his admiration of the Pantheon. Erected to honor all gods by the emperor Hadrian in
AD
125, it now served as a church, housing the remains of Raphael, Marconi, and several kings of modern Italy.

     Catty-corner to the southeast corner of the ancient building, he had passed Santa Maria sopra Minerva, Rome's only Gothic church. At its entrance, Bernini's comic stature of a small elephant with an Egyptian obelisk on its back always provoked a smile. Inside, Galileo had been tried for heresy, recanted, and retracted his recantation.

     Lang did not have time to admire the architecture today.

     He was focused on the small street, no more than an alley, along the south side of the church. Here was a shop that sold clerical attire: robes, surplices, even the red socks that went with a cardinal's robes.

     Lang had done business there years ago, during what he referred to as
the Julian Affair, a miasma of deceit and treachery, that had ended in the ancient Roman necropolis beneath the Vatican. Just as the previous time, he made his selections, had them wrapped, and paid, no questions asked. He supposed, had he the inclination, he could have purchased a bishop's robes and miter.

     Maybe even a new Popemobile.

     Back on the street, he checked his watch and questioned if he would be better off taking a cab. He decided against it and set off at a brisk walk to the east, stopping only at a small shop selling housewares. For three euro, he bought a can of black spray paint and duct tape that he added to the package containing his previous purchases. Within minutes, he was crossing Tiber on the statue-lined Ponte Sant' Angelo with the pope's ancient fortress, originally the mausoleum of the Emperor Hadrian, brooding on the far side. To his left, St. Peter's filled the sky. He trod his way carefully between the displays of sunglasses, African art, handbags, and the other miscellany peddled by tall, black men.