The Elizabethan Secret (Lang Reilly Series Book 9) (6 page)

13.
 

L
aw Offices of Langford Reilly

Peachtree Center

227 Peachtree Street

Atlanta, Georgia

March 24, 2014             

              Lang’s first day back in the office was every bit as hectic as he had feared even though he had been away for only five days. Clients were rarely happy that he insisted only the most urgent matters be referred to him while on Foundation business or vacation. Otherwise, he might as well have stayed home and saved some pretty steep roaming charges. Now those clients wanted answers to questions, most of which Sara had handled in his absence.

              When was the next court date? Any word on a shorter sentence in exchange for a guilty plea? What sort of a deal could be made if the client turned state’s evidence?

              Some questions Lang had answered multiple times for the same client and were poorly disguised attempts at reassurance. People facing jail time tended to be insecure.

              All of his clients were-–or were about to be--facing criminal charges. Lang defended mostly swindlers, con artists, embezzlers, and a garden variety of people who lusted after other peoples’ money with an occasional old-fashioned thief or other general malefactor.

              No dope dealers, sex criminals, or violent crime. Ponzi schemes, mail and wire fraud, counterfeit checks, and the like filled his days.  

              He had learned that your average violent felon was relatively indifferent as to whom he hurt. Disarming and subduing a dissatisfied client got old with the first one, a pistol-packing pimp who stood accused of performing plastic surgery with a switch blade on those members of his harem whom he believed to be withholding part of their earnings. Lang had had bad feelings the instant a well-meaning if overly optimistic magistrate had granted his perfunctory motion for bail. Not only ungrateful for his freedom, albeit temporary, the pimp was convinced Lang could have gotten a lower bond set.

              The matter had terminated with the client, somewhat worse for the wear, being hauled off to Grady Hospital in handcuffs with additional charges of assault with a deadly weapon added to those already pending.

              Lang was allowed to withdraw as the man’s counsel.

              Thereafter, Lang limited his practice to so-called “white collar” criminals, those who used trickery, usually electronic, rather than violence to steal from their victims. At least twice, he had defended public servants accused of using their positions for personal profit rather than the public good. One, Atlanta’s mayor, had gone to prison on tax-evasion charges after being acquitted on multiple bribery counts. The other, the city school superintendent, had walked away from charges of having some thirty-five teachers, assistant teachers, administrators, and principals change test scores over a period of nearly a decade. Her motivation had been the large bonus specified in her contract if she could lift Atlanta public schools’ abysmal national CRCT scores significantly.

              A large part of Lang’s business came from other lawyers, attorneys whose practice did not include criminal defense. It had taken a few years for Lang to realize how many clients of silk-stocking firms needed his services.

              He was terminating a conversation with an acquaintance, a partner in a two-hundred-plus-lawyer firm with offices in a dozen cities and four countries.

              “Fred, I don’t think I can help you. Insider trading is pretty specialized. I’d think you guys are big enough to have someone who does SEC work.”

              “Yeah, I know the Securities and Exchange Commission doesn’t do criminal prosecutions but they do the Justice Department’s investigations.”

              Lang strongly suspected the big, high prestige firms simply didn’t want their names connected to criminal cases. At the same time, they didn’t want to abandon lucrative clients who, if acquitted, might continue to send them business.

             
Eating one’s cake and having it too?

              How would one put the old saw into Latin, he wondered, as the voice on the other end droned on.
Nec platena consmere
. . . 

              Fred signed off with a pleasantry. No doubt the conversation was taking more time than he could bill.

              The door to his office opened. Sara stood there, an apology on her face as two men brushed by her.

              “I’m sorry, Lang. I tried . . .”

              The two were as near twins as a pair could get without having the same parents. Identical hair cuts, one gray suit, one blue, matching cordovan lace-ups polished to near spit shine.

              Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee.

              Lang stood. “In case your momma never told you, busting into a room without knocking is considered rude. Also, I see people by appointment. Now, do you leave or do I call the cops to throw you out?”

              The two smirked at each other and produced wallets in unison as though choreographed. Each bore a photograph and was clearly some form of official ID.

              “Office of Naval Intelligence,” the one on the right said.

              Why did Lang have the feeling the other man would have said the same thing had he not been beaten to it?

              Lang said nothing, waiting for further explanation. His visitors took in the pair of walnut Louis XV
Fauteuils
upholstered in red and gold
Toil de Jouy,
separated by a small period commode barely large enough to support a foot-high, fanciful Fratin bronze animalier, a dancing bear wearing slippers and a night cap. The desk was inlaid Boule and at a right angle to the Georgian breakfront through whose wavy, hand-blown glass a collection of antique, leather-bound books with gilt lettering was visible. Besides a genuine love of fine antiques, Lang’s intent in assembling the collection was to furnish his office so that even the least educated could recognize expensive taste, an advantage, he believed, when negotiating a fee.

              “You made a purchase at Christie’s auction in London last week,” the one on the left, the one Lang determined as Tweedle Dum, blurted, shoving the wallet back into a coat pocket.

              Lang sat slowly and deliberately. “Do either of you have names? I believe it is customary to begin with real introductions, not shoving plastic in one’s face.”

              “Now, look here, Mr. Reilly. . . .” Tweedle Dee blustered.

              Lang held up a hand, stop. “No,
You
look here,” he said in that soft tone Gurt said he used when very angry, “I don’t give a damn what federal bureaucracy you’re from, unless you have an appropriate warrant, you have no right to burst into my office like some drug raid on TV. Now, we will start with introductions.”

              He stood, hand extended, “My name is Lang Reilly.”

              The two, still standing, exchanged glances. It was obvious they weren’t used to being treated as ill- behaved children.

              “You saw our ID,” Tweedle Dum said sullenly. “Our names were on them.”

              “Too small to read from across the room and hardly an appropriate introduction. Now, shall we begin?”

              Both the federal agents studied the muted colors of the Yazd carpet before Tweedle Dum held out a reluctant hand, “George Semitz.”

              Lang leaned across the desk and shook. “Lang Reilly. Why don’t you have a seat, George?”

              He turned to the other man expectantly.

              “Rodgers, Sam Rodgers.”

              Rodgers sat in the remaining chair as carefully as though it might be made of glass.

              Lang dropped into his desk chair. “Fine. Now, you were saying something about an auction at Christie’s?”

              Semiz leaned forward. “You purchased an item there. What was it?”

              Lang leaned back, making a steeple with his fingers. “What interest does ONI have in what I may or may not have purchased?”

              “That’s classified,” Rodgers snapped.

              Lang gave a dry chuckle. “OK, so is whatever I may have won at auction.”

              Semiz’s hands were on his knees. “Mr. Reilly, you were employed by the Agency for several years, served in Intel. Surely you of all people can understand the national security necessity for keeping some things secret.”

              Irked, Lang came forward so suddenly both men winced. He put elbows on the desk. “I understand ‘classified’ is bullshit ninety percent of the time, ‘national security’ about as much. Half of that means the secret will embarrass whoever is keeping it, another thirty percent means ‘I don’t know.’ Hell, when I was with the Agency, we got our typewriter paper from the States rather than buying it locally because the amount used was classified. You and I both know the thing most often replaced in the office of any intelligence agency is the ‘Classified’ rubber stamp.”

              There was a pause as Seimz and Rogers looked at each other again, each expecting the other to reply.

              “Puts us in a bind,” Seimz finally said. “Our orders are to find out what you bought. Hell, no one told us why, just do it.”

              “Been there, done that, got the T-shirt,” Lang said dryly. “Truth of the matter, I’m not sure what it is other than there’s a good chance it belonged to the Elizabethan John Dee.”

              “As in Queen Elizabeth I?” Rogers asked.

              “Yes. Anyway, I bought it for a friend who’s interested in stuff like that. I might be able to help you if I knew why it’s important.”

              “Any chance you’d loan it to us, to The Office, let us determine what it is?” Rogers wanted to know.

              Lang grinned. “As you said, I spent some time with the Agency. One thing I learned: Never trust the government, particularly government spooks.”

              Seimz stood. “I take that as a ‘no’.”

              “Good guess, George.”

              There was a moment of silence.

             
This conversation has more stops and starts than a MARTA bus.

              Lang nodded toward the door. “On your way out, you might apologize to the nice grandmotherly type at the reception desk.”

              The pair got to their feet. Lang was not surprised they did so at the same time.

              “Mr. Reilly, you are being less than a patriotic American,” Rogers offered.

              Lang favored them with a smile that had little humor in it. “Since when did ONI become the official arbiter of patriotism? Not only did I serve my country, I deem it unpatriotic as well as stupid to mindlessly submit to government requests no matter how unreasonable they may be. Tyranny thrives in direct proportion to the erosion of individual liberty. My opinion is we have gone too far down that road already. But so much for my somewhat antiquated beliefs. Have a nice day, gentlemen.”

              Neither made any effort to apologize to Sara.

              She stood in the doorway as Lang related what had happened.

              When he had finished, she shook her head, “Maybe you should have given them the thingamajig. I never had a pleasant experience with government.”

              Lang thought about it. Neither had he, at least not since he had resigned from the Agency.

              He sat back down at his desk, thinking. The Russians wanted the, the. . . whatever it was. He guessed Naval Intelligence (a true oxymoron, in his opinion) had somehow picked up on the fact without knowing exactly what it was.

              He frowned before pushing the old-fashioned intercom on his desk.

“Sara, would you please get Dr. Abram Wildstein on the phone for me?”

14.

Physics Building

837 State Street

Georgia Tech Campus

4:15 That Afternoon

              The physics building was an unmemorable modern red brick edifice totally at odds with the 1888 Victorian tower that appears on the school’s logo. Unlike much of the campus, its profile was softened by a grove of trees and a rare swath of grass littered with students taking advantage of today’s sneak preview of spring.

              Lang checked the note he had left on his iPhone and pushed his way through glass doors. A short way down a hallway was Lecture Room 5, featuring stadium-style seating. At the center, leaning over a table stacked with papers was Dr. Abram Wildstein.

              Perhaps by coincidence but more likely by careful cultivation, Wildstein bore no small resemblance to Albert Einstein. Same unruly halo of white hair, same drooping mustache. The sweater with the blown out elbows was missing, however, as were the wrinkle-furrowed forehead and sleepy looking eyes. He wore an Oxford cloth button-down, tie at half-mast, khakis that might remember a crease and some sort of moccasin-type shoes with no socks. A rumpled linen jacket was folded (or tossed) over a lectern.     

              Lang had met him during the aftermath of the murder of a Tech professor in connection with what Lang referred to as the Sinai Matter. Lang had hired the professor to do some electrical experiments and he had been killed by the people seeking the same answers Lang had been trying to find. Lang was unsure of Wildstein’s place in the academic hierarchy, but the professor had made a nuisance of himself as far as the police had been concerned by inserting himself into their investigation.

              Whether or not he would be more useful now was a moot point. He was the only person Lang knew in Tech’s physics department.

              The professor looked up as Lang shut the door. “Ah!” he exclaimed as though making a great discovery. “Mr. Reilly!”

              Lang walked down the rows of seats, each a step. “Professor.”

              “Good to see you again, Mr. Reilly. Even more so without the, er, unfortunate circumstances of last time.”

              Even better since the professor no doubt knew of the Foundation’s several donations to research at Tech. There is nothing more obsequious than an academic in the presence of large sums of money.

              He stuck out a hand for Lang to shake. “And what do you need with a professor of astronomy?”

              Lang had had no idea what the man’s specialty was. He shook hands and then produced the object from his coat pocket. “I’d like to know what this is.”

              Wildstein turned it over in his hand, found the catch and opened it. “Tell me about it.”

              “Not much to tell. It supposedly belonged to the Elizabethan John Dee. Not sure if you’re familiar with him.”

              Wildstein smiled. “There are few serious scientists who aren’t. He dabbled in just about every field known to the science of those days.”

              “For all I can figure out, it could have been his pocket watch.”

              The professor frowned, still turning the object around. “Don’t think so. Watches, as opposed to clocks, were just appearing in the mid-sixteenth century, but they were heavy, bulky, drum-shaped. People wore them on chains around their necks or pinned to a garment.”   

              Lang suppressed a grimace. Academics, like lawyers, were good at giving answers to question other than the one asked.

              “Your guess as to what purpose it served?”

              Wildstein hunched his shoulders, more a flinch than a shrug. He extended a hand holding the opened object. “I’m speculating there was something attached to the brass pin in the middle of the face.”

              “Like a compass needle?”

              A nod of the head. Or was it a shake? “Elizabethan compasses weren’t like this. They consisted of a magnetized needle fastened to the underside of a card on which the thirty-two points of the then compass were marked eleven point two five degrees apart.”

              “Looks like there may have been markings on the face there.” Lang pointed. “They’re pretty faded.” 

              The professor squinted. “Looks like one is water. Another is fire.”

              “The four elements of antiquity: Fire, water, air and earth?”

              A definite nod this time. “Perhaps. But I don’t get the other two. Looks like a tree or plant and maybe human figure. I don’t see them representing air and earth. I . . .”

              A sound at the back of the hall.

              Both men looked up at the tiered seating where a young woman wore collegiate sloppy: jeans and a T-shirt proclaiming, “MIT, the Georgia Tech of the North” was making her way down. Ebony, shoulder-length hair rippled with each step. Only at the last moment before she reached them did Lang note she was one of the many Asians who would be taking American education and technology out of the country upon graduation.

              “Professor Wildstein?

              “Ms. Kim?”

              She proffered a manila envelope. “The sunset observations from last week.”

              “Thanks.”     

              She bobbed her head, gave a curious glance at Lang and started back up the stairs. 

              “Trouble with teaching,” Wildstein muttered softly, “is dealing with the students.”  

              “What about that object in your hand?” Lang asked.

              The professor blinked twice, remembering the interrupted conversation. “Let me have it for a few days, run a test or two. You have a card?”

              Lang handed him one, wondering about the wisdom of putting in his hands something the Russians wanted badly enough to rough someone up or worse for. Not to mention the United States Navy’s somewhat more gentle interest. Lang knew that could change in an instant if a certain element were given orders to retrieve it.

              He also pondered the advisability of mentioning any of that. He decided the chance of anyone knowing the Dee object, as he had come to think of it, was here at Tech was small.

              Instead, he shook Wildstein’s hand. “Thanks, professor. I’ll hear from you in few days?”

              The professor pocketed the object. “If I can’t figure it out by then, there’s not a lot of hope I can at all.”