The Elizabethan Secret (Lang Reilly Series Book 9) (16 page)

36.

427 Lafayette Drive

Atlanta

At the Same Time

(11:30 am Local)

Gurt noticed the van parked across the street. “Reliable Plumbing,” read the lettering across the side.

It had been there three hours ago when she had loaded Manfred into the Mercedes ML 320 CDI to take him to school. Manfred duly delivered and out of the house, Gurt had easily made it to her weekly nail appointment, dawdled through a pair of women’s apparel shops at upscale Phipps Plaza, and did the grocery shopping.

But the van was still there three and a half hours later.

The western edge of Ansley Park, one of Atlanta’s older subdivisions, abutted a section of Peachtree Street occupied by midrise  office buildings and condominiums where parking was at such a premium  the Park’s association had struggled and finally succeeded in having the City require a sticker to restrict daylight parking on the neighborhood’s streets lest the residents themselves be without space for those cars that outnumbered garages.

Put that together with the fact that Lang and Gurt’s home was across the street and uphill from a park that sat in a hollow and the obvious conclusion was that, rather than block a customer’s driveway, the plumber had elected to park on the sloping edge of the park despite the ”parking by permit only 8:00 am-6:00 pm” signs. 

But obvious conclusions were something she avoided. Her Agency training and years of experience sent her antenna up at any deviation of the norm. A commercial vehicle willing to risk being towed aroused her curiosity.

Leaving the Mercedes in the driveway, she carried a load of groceries to the kitchen door and set them down on the steps while she fished in her purse for the key.

“Need some help?”

Leon appeared from around the house, a pair of hedge clippers in hand. Little or no chance the hedge needed trimming this early in the year but the man was adept at making himself seem indispensable even when there was little for him to do.

Still, Gurt gratefully indicated the bags next to the door. “Thanks. You can unload these onto the kitchen counter. There are more in the car.”

With a turn of her wrist, the door yielded to the key and she stepped into the kitchen. Grumps greeted her, tail at maximum wags per minute.

The dog gave her an idea. “Leon, do you know where the dog’s leash is?”

Leon set an armload of groceries down, shook his head and ran a hand down his shoulder-length dreadlocks. “Don’ know if I ever seen a leash. Dog, he do his thing in the yard, come back inside.”

True. Grumps was not a lover of the great outdoors. Heat in the winter, air conditioning in the summer. In and out of any precipitation as quickly as possible.

Gurt was equally opposed to spending time looking for objects whose existence was questionable. She left the kitchen, went upstairs and retuned with one of Lang’s belts which she looped around the dog’s neck. “Come, Grumps. We go to walk.”

The dog surveyed her with non-comprehension. He sat, unwilling to participate in this new game.

“Come!”  Gurt was tugging on the belt.

Grumps was just as determined, whether from pure stubbornness, an offended sense of canine dignity, or a disinclination toward leashes in general was impossible to say.

Gurt dropped her end of the belt and stood facing the recalcitrant animal, uncertain what to do with the normally compliant Grumps. No sooner had she relinquished her end of the belt than Grumps stood, tail wagging merrily.

Woman and dog went outside through the still-open kitchen door, the former muttering something about the old saw about the female gender being the ones impossible to understand. The latter was perfectly happy dragging the belt behind him.

Gurt took up the belt. Grumps was either too busy checking the pee mail from the neighboring dogs to notice or had forgotten his objections to the device.

She crossed the street and sauntered across the back of the van, a woman taking her pet for a walk. Hardly unusual even at this time of day in an affluent neighborhood like Ansley Park.

Chevrolet Express 2500 Cargo van, Clayton County tag.

Why would someone summon a plumber from, what, twenty miles or more when there were probably a hundred or so closer? She memorized the license plate and turned right so as to pass by the driver’s side. Tinted windows, including a vent window cracked open.

Tinted windows on a commercial van?

She stood as Grumps anointed the left front tire. Was that tobacco smoke she smelled? More specifically, cigarette. Moving closer to the front of the vehicle, she held out a hand. There was no heat coming from the engine compartment. The van had not been cranked for some time, confirming it had been sitting here during her absence.

Whatever plumbing problem had brought the van here, it must be a serious one to occupy its occupants’ attention for what must be at least four hours by now. But the cigarette smoke would indicate at least one of them was inside the van.

Crossing the street back to her own house, Gurt released Grumps from the makeshift leash as she passed through the kitchen. Under the stairs was a former broom closet now occupied by a rather uncomfortable chair next to a small table on which was a computer monitor and keyboard, Lang’s home office.

Squeezing between chair and table, she sat and waited for the computer to boot. The screen saver, a photograph of Manfred aged two, came to life. She called up a web page of the State Department of Motor Vehicles and scrolled down a list of dates until she found what she was looking for. She was hardly surprised to learn the van across the street had been “last seen” yesterday afternoon, presumably stolen.

She sat staring at the wall on the other side of the table for perhaps a full minute before she nodded as if agreeing with an unseen companion. Cell phone in hand, she eased out of the claustrophobic space and took up a position just beside one of the living room windows with a view of the van across the street. The van’s tinted windows prevented her from being certain but she thought she saw a flash of something, perhaps a light colored shirt, inside the vehicle.

She entered 911.

Gurt did not have long to wait.

A navy blue police cruiser, rack of blue lights flashing, slid in behind the van. Gurt could see its single occupant, his face reflecting light from the onboard computer’s screen, presumably verifying the license plate information she had just phoned in.

The cop’s attention to the computer apparently distracted him from noticing the brief jet of exhaust that betrayed the engine’s start.

The officer was just getting out of his car, hands adjusting his utility belt, when the van lurched forward, wheels spraying divots from the grassy edge of the park’s slope.

The cop jumped onto the pavement of the street, one hand outstretched, stop, the other groping for his weapon.

He might as well spared himself the effort.

Tires shrieking now against pavement, the van made a U-turn, sending the uniformed officer diving out of its path. There were serial metallic crunches as the larger vehicle smashed into the police car, backed up and hit it again. The second impact sent the cruiser edging, then tumbling down the bank as the van sped off in the direction of Peachtree Street.

The entire scenario had taken place in less than a minute.

By the time Gurt reached the chagrined officer, he was speaking into the Motorola handy-talkie attached to his uniform shirt. He gave a numerical code which she guessed best described what had happened and then a description of the van including the fact its front right side was “likely to be beat up” before addressing her.

“Any idea who that was driving?”

Gurt shook her head. “None, other than it was probably not someone from Reliable Plumbing.”

Not quite true.

She might not know the name of the driver or any other occupant but she was pretty certain of a number of things: Whoever was driving was anything but a plumber and his being there was not random. His most likely purpose had been surveillance, probably of the Reilly residence. Equally likely, it had to do with that thing Lang had bought at auction.

The only real unknown was, what is the police code for a trashed squad car?

38.

Split

The sound of footsteps slowed as they neared the top of the bell tower. By now, Lang was almost certain more than one person was on the stairs.

For the second or third time, he surveyed his position: alone a hundred or so feet up confined in an open space of no more than fifty square feet at best, once again cornered far above a Croatian city. Perhaps he should give up heights or develop a severe case of acrophobia.

Unlike Dubrovnik, there was no chance of escaping downwards. That left only. . .

Up.

He stared into the shadows of the tower’s peak at a huge brass bell, green with age and spotted white by the excreta of generations of resident pigeons. There had to be a mechanism for ringing, an electrical system, a lever. . .

A rope.

A plain, old fashioned rope the diameter of Lang’s wrist and fastened to what looked like some sort of gearing which he could see was then attached to the single bell.

Slinging the strap to his new bag across a shoulder, Lang grabbed the end of the rope, playing out what might be insufficient slack as he climbed onto a ledge between columns. He was no Quasimodo but, then, the bell ringer didn’t need to be.  

Things happened in what he would remember mostly as a blur: A face emerged from the darkness of the stairway. The bell’s peal was deafening as Lang pushed off, swinging Tarzan-like across the small confines of the chamber on the bell rope. He felt as well as saw his feet collide with a man’s chest, sending him sprawling backward into the man behind and both stumbling, tumbling down the narrow, winding stairs. Feathers of frightened pigeons flapped angrily against his face as though assaulting whoever had disturbed their peace. Nearly deafened by the sound of the bell, he was unsure if he heard a scream as at least one man pitched over slender bannisters into the well of the stairs and into the darkness that ended nearly a hundred feet below.

Lang was quite clear he made a dash for the stairs, felt the steel rail skid through his fist as he quickly spiraled downward, his feet seeming to barely touch the stone. He stumbled, nearly falling, as he collided with someone cursing in Russian, someone who grabbed at Lang’s feet, disengaging only when Lang delivered a kick to what he hoped was a jaw. Wherever the blow landed, it produced a muffled grunt and the grip around his ankles slacked enough for Lang to free himself and continue his rush downward.

At last he reached the bottom and melted into a curious crowd staring upwards into the murky dusk of the tower. He heard half a dozen languages, all interrogatory in tone. He edged his way across the sanctuary against the tide of the curious, all of whom seemed intent in viewing the remnants of whatever had gone on in the bell tower.

Lang was reminded of motorists slowing down to view a wreck on the expressway. The more grisly the accident, the slower the passing cars.    

That said something about the human animal but Lang had scant time to ponder exactly what. 

The blue lights of a police car were slowly making their way across a cobbled plaza whose builders had never contemplated motorized traffic as Lang stepped into sunlight and walked as slowly, calmly as he could toward the quay.

It was time to depart Split.

38.

Kim Il Sung Square

Pyongyang

Democratic Peoples Republic of Korea

10:00 pm Local Time

Kwack Pum Ji, Director of the Reconnaissance General Bureau, stood at the picture window on the top floor of one the featureless buildings surrounding the highly illuminated square. Scattered piles of smog- blackened snow resembled some gigantic skin rash. At the moment, the huge space, designed for the massive military parades for which the country was famous, was occupied solely by a pair of roller skaters. They wore only light jackets despite a temperature that had hovered only slightly above freezing all day.

              Across the square, chunks of the ice that clogged the River Taedong half the year gave back the reflection of the lights. On the other side of the flow, the needle-like spire of the Juche Tower stabbed the underbelly of dark clouds that would probably bring late spring snow. Flood lights gave the structure the color of ivory.

              Kwack scowled at the thought of a winter that knew no retreat. It would be months before it was warm enough to enjoy the beach house in the newly developed area of Wonsan. Of course, as his wife pointed out, they could vacation now at the country’s first and only ski resort.

              A ski resort indeed! North Korea did not even have a single stop light and Kim Jong un builds a ski resort with multiple slopes, luxury hotels, spas and even an indoor swimming pool while peasants starve. And just who does he think is going to . . .?

              The director looked over his shoulder as though someone might be reading his thoughts, thoughts which, if verbalized, could provide a one way ticket to the camps. After all, the Great Leader had stood a senior general in front of a firing squad for drinking liquor during the period set aside for mourning his father in 2012.

              The door opened silently and a man in the uniform of enlisted rank in the Korean People’s Army saluted before dropping a single piece of paper on the highly polished surface of Kwack’s desk and departing as quietly as a ghost.

              Thoughts of peasants and ski resorts vanished as he scanned the decoded message. The team he had sent to Dubrovnik had failed. Reilly had escaped by car. This was not news the director wanted to deliver when he met the Great Leader tomorrow. Like so many who had inherited power rather than earned it, the North Korean president was intolerant of failure, frequently equating it with disloyalty. There were rumors of beheadings and burnings.

              Trying with only moderate success to dismiss such thoughts, Kwack sat at his desk, tapping on a computer keyboard the code that would allow him access to Google, access available to very few citizens of the Democratic People’s Republic. As he waited, he opened a desk drawer, shuffling papers aside. Hs efforts produced a package of Wrigley’s Spearmint
chewing gum. He had tried the reactively tasteless
Unbangui,
the local product, in an effort to stop smoking with no success.

              As his taste buds enjoyed the burst of flavor, he could not help himself from reflecting on the disapproval with which the Great Leader would view his smuggling in the American product. Never mind Kim Jong-un’s love of Western automobiles, films, and basketball, others were denied such pleasures.

              A map of Croatia appeared on the monitor.

              Now, if he were making a hasty departure from the country and wished to attract minimum notice, how would he go about it? A few more key taps informed him Dubrovnik had no rail station and there were limited departing flights to Zagreb, Frankfurt, and a few other destinations. Possible the American Reilly had sufficient false passport and supporting identity to get him on a flight under another name but unlikely. Such documents took time and Kwack guessed the American would be in a hurry.

              Back to the map.

              The highway seemed a likely choice. Dubrovnik to Split and then the ferry to the Italian mainland. A few coins in the right (Italian) hands and Reilly’s name drops from the ship’s manifest.

              No way to be sure but Kwack was an experienced gambler. After all, what is the intelligence business but making an educated guess what one’s opponent will do based on the most information available?

              The Democratic People’s Republic did not have embassies and consulates in every country. The one in Rome was the closest to the situation at hand. He could have a couple of teams in Split in an hour or two.

              For what?

              Kwack’s hand drew back from the old-fashioned rotary dial phone on his desk.

              A live Reilly might be able to explain the use of the mysterious object. But did he know? If so, why had he left it with the Georgia Tech professor from whom it had been stolen? No, the most probable scenario was that Reilly had been seeking the answer to the riddle.

              But once in the hands of the Russians, a live Reilly could inform them he no longer had possession of the object, thereby ending a waste of Russian resources in what the Americans described as a hunt for wild geese, whatever that meant. Also, Kwack had to assume Moscow was as adept as Pyongyang in reading other people’s mail. Should they discover the object’s disappearance, the simplest cipher analyst could connect the frequent mention of Reilly’s name and the theft.

              That would bring the usual Russian condemnation of international banditry, hooliganism by the Democratic Peoples’ Republic, and the rest of the hypocritical criticism designed to draw attention while the Russian bear gobbled up bits and pieces of Eastern Europe. Odd that The Great Leader cared what Russia or anyone else said about a regime described by the world as “secretive” and “isolated.” But he did care. His staff carefully culled from the international press anything disparaging of Kim Jong-un, lest he fly into an irrational rage.      

              Conversely, should the American meet with an unfortunate accident,  chances were that neither Russia or anyone else outside the People’s Democratic Republic would ever know who had possession of the device or what its purpose was.

              He reached for the phone and dialed three digits.