The Julian Secret (Lang Reilly Thrillers) (9 page)

Then, as though he had made a decision, he, too, slipped into his harness and began to descend.

Beneath the Vatican
January 8, 1941

Monsignor Ludwig Kaas was the financial secretary to the Reverenda Fabbrica, the organization charged with the day-to-day administration of the Papal State. Today, instead of pen, paper, and adding machine, he held a kerosene lantern, casting flickering shadows across what, in another setting, could have been the crown frame of a Roman dwelling. Next to it, several more, somewhat less elegant, were visible above the clay.

“Mausoleums,” the priest stated, careful in his movements lest he slip in loose soil. “Roman tombs along a street in a necropolis. If we dig, below there should be a road between the buildings.”

The lantern’s light reflected off Pope Pius XII’s glasses, making it appear that the man had fire for eyes. “But that would require the desecration of Christian graves.”

“I fear so, Holiness.”

The monsignor knew better than to wait for an answer. The Pope carefully weighed even simple decisions. This was far from simple. Easy enough to keep the pontiff unaware that these events were being described daily to Kaas’s friends in Rome’s German Embassy, difficult to explain to them the delay, friends who were keeping very close track of the events in the Vatican grotto.

“I shall have to seek guidance,” the Pope said, “God’s advice.”

The longer you wait, the monsignor thought, God will have less to do with it than Goebbels’ Ministry of Propaganda. The thought of the club-footed cripple made Kaas’s skin crawl as did most Nazis, a most un-Christian feeling. Unlikable as they were, though, Hitler and his henchmen knew the real enemies of the Church: the Communists and their Jewish allies.

As a mere functionary in the bureaucracy of the Holy See, Kaas kept his opinions to himself. It was not by advocating politics he had been transferred here from Germany nor would he achieve his purpose by speaking out.

Sometimes, though, silence was difficult.

Atlanta, Georgia
7:42 p.m. (the present)

Lang stepped out of the shower in a swirl of steam and walked into the bedroom. He was surprised to see that Gurt wasn’t dressed. Unlike many women, she considered time an absolute, a deadline to be met. Like most Teutonic people, tardiness was a form of disorder, and disorder led to chaos.

And chaos was enjoyed only by Italians.

She was sitting on the bed, reading a text message on her BlackBerry.

Lang rummaged through his underwear drawer. “More spam?”

Gurt had naively given the number of her supposedly totally secure, Agency-issued, state-of-the-art wireless phone to a cosmetic mail-order house to obtain a products list. She had immediately been flooded with solicitations for everything from sex aids to discount baby
products. The government’s technology was no match for the ad world’s. Lang wondered how much e-junk the President would have to go through to receive a message of an impending 9/11-style attack.

Gurt shook her head. “No, Jessica. The police have done nothing.”

Lang pulled on a pair of boxer shorts before he responded. He had promised Jessica not to drop the matter, but once back in the States, the futility of trying to solve a murder an ocean away was very clear. “Have you tried that guy in Heidelberg?”

“Blucher? No—not since we got home from Spain two days ago.”

Two days and Spain was already a dream, a memory shrinking around the edges, as was Lang’s enthusiasm for further involvement. As things had worked out, Mr. Wiley had become anxious to resolve both the criminal and civil cases the day Lang had returned to the office. Sixteen months to serve and a promise of restitution had made both problems go away. Although it was certain Wiley would duly serve his time as a guest at one of the government’s more posh Club Feds, giving back the money was dubious at best. Wiley had far too many bank accounts in places Lang had never heard of to voluntarily part with his hard-earned, if ill-gotten, fortune.

In any event, Lang had a lot more time on his hands than he had anticipated. “Should we go back to Spain?”

Gurt slipped a dress over her head, backing up to Lang to operate the zipper. How did women who lived alone get dressed?

“You are the one who wanted to go in the first place.”

Hardly a helpful answer.

“Keep trying what’s-his-name in Heidelberg. Let’s see what he has to say.”

Gurt was inspecting her hemline in the mirror. “How
can you ‘see’ what someone says? I will never completely master this language of yours.”

You and several million Americans, Lang thought, but he said, “You do just fine.”

In fact, she was doing better than fine; she was prospering. The American lifestyle, Lang suspected, had done more than he had to convince her to extend a two-week visit into a year’s leave of absence from the Agency. She loved the American malls and supermarkets, both of which were just now emerging in Germany. And she had made friends, finding an inexplicable commonality with several of the single women in the building. Lang mentally referred to most of them as “The Wet Cat Society,” on the theory that nothing is unhappier than a drenched feline. Divorced, these women’s raison d’être was not the job descriptions of residential real-estate salesperson or interior decorator. Instead, it was frantic man-hunting, a desperate seeking for a replacement for the husbands who had traded them in for newer models. They were intent on finding men who would relieve them of their pretense of work. As far as Lang knew, none had succeeded. Each had continued to observe as her personal Day of Infamy the day an unjust court system had upheld her prenup, leaving her only the uniformly insufficient alimony and the condominium that had been part of an unfair and unconscionable settlement.

Lang was as much at a loss to understand Gurt’s relationships with such women as he was to understand why she could spend hours at a mall purchasing nothing. Both seemed pleasant, if pointless, activities but were part of why she was still here.

He hoped she never went back. She represented a fresh love, the first since the death of his wife, and a chance at having children of his own. But Gurt had changed the
subject every time the question of a more permanent arrangement had come up.

Except the one time she had made it clear that marriage presented her with more problems than she wanted. “If it is not disrepaired, fixing it does not need” was how she had characterized their relationship.

Inertia, a powerful ally, was on her side.

Gurt was putting on a watch. “What time are we reserved?”

“Eight, and you recall we’re only going across the street.”

Catty-corner across Peachtree was an undistinguished low-rise condominium. In the basement was La Grotta, a northern Italian restaurant where the service was almost as good as the food, the geniality of the proprietor as sunny as his native Tuscany, and the prices almost reasonable. The convenience was hard to beat, too. Still, Lang missed the funky surroundings, wretched food, and collegiate atmosphere of Manuel’s Tavern in Atlanta’s quirky Virginia-Highland. The gathering place of such intellectuals, real and imagined, as Atlanta had to boast, it had been there he and Francis had shared a dinner twice or so a month, a place a black priest and a white lawyer speaking in Latin went unnoticed. Gurt had liked it, and Lang was unsure why they didn’t go there anymore. It was, he supposed, just one of many inexplicable changes that take place in a man’s life when a woman enters it.

“We are driving?” Gurt wanted to know.

“Across the street?”

“My new heels are not so good for walking.”

Lang was becoming used to things like expensive footwear that were meant more for display than walking. Gurt wore clothes that emphasized the curves her height
already magnified. Whatever the practical shortcomings of her wardrobe, entry into La Grotta would be heralded by dropped plates, spilled drinks, and women’s catty remarks.

Lang loved it.

He was buttoning on a shirt, having decided he would not be wearing a tie. “So try another pair of shoes. It’s a beautiful evening for a walk.”

As they went out the door, Lang was conscious of the black fur ball that was Grumps. The dog’s resentment at being left alone would be replaced by joyous tail-wagging upon their return, particularly if a tasty morsel personally wrapped in foil by the head chef was tendered as a peace offering.

They had just stepped out from under the building’s porte cochere when a streak of lighting split the night, followed by a roll of thunder that Lang could have sworn made the ground tremble.

Gurt gazed up. “I think your beautiful evening may not be so good. I think perhaps we will swim to the restaurant.”

As though staged, the skies opened with the comment, drenching Lang. Gurt had ducked back under shelter.

“Shit!” Lang stepped back also. Although exposed to the downpour for only a second, he looked as though he had just gotten out of a bath with all his clothes on. He reached into a pocket and handed Gurt car keys. “Have ‘em bring up the Porsche while I change.”

Lang customarily parked and retrieved his own car. The temptation for the young carhops to test the acceleration of the Porsche was too great. Lang had heard the protesting squeal of tires as the accelerator of some other resident’s auto was pushed to the firewall. Tonight, he’d take a chance. A glance at his watch told him they
were already late, and he knew the restaurant’s popularity made it difficult for them to hold reservations.

He stood in front of the bank of elevators, shivering from the lobby’s aggressive air-conditioning. There was a dull thud and the building shuddered, lights blinking off before the condominium’s generators cut on. For a second, Lang assumed lightning had struck. Then he heard screams from outside.

Instinctively, he ran for the doors through which he had just entered. He was so intent on looking for Gurt that it took him a second and third step to realize he was walking on a carpet of shattered glass. A woman was leaning against a dark car, a Mercedes, weeping uncontrollably, and there was the smell of something other than the ozone odor of a close lightning strike.

Still not seeing Gurt, Lang’s eyes followed a number of people running from his right to left, toward the parking lot and underground-parking entrance. A small crowd had gathered around flames that seemed to be fueled, rather than extinguished, by the sheets of rain—rain Lang no longer noticed. Another flash of lightning showed Gurt, a head above most of the others, silhouetted by the fire.

Lang was running, his sense of smell telling him there was a scent that had no rational reason to be here, a mixture of transmission fluid, plastic, and rubber.

And burned nitrogen sulfate.

He stopped beside Gurt, at first unsure of what he was seeing. A flaming mass of twisted steel sat on four wheel rims, resembling newsreel footage of Baghdad. Mercifully, whatever was left of the carhop was so burned, so disfigured, that it was indistinguishable from the charred remains of the car. Only by looking closer, seeing the tiny shields imprinted on the wheels, was Lang able to tell that he was looking at what had been a Porsche.

His Porsche.

The Porsche he had always parked and fetched himself.

The Porsche he was supposed to have been in when it blew up.

Without turning around, Gurt slipped an arm around his waist. “They are perhaps back?”

“They” could only mean Pegasus, the international criminal cartel Lang had encountered.

“I don’t think so,” he said quietly, unable to tear his eyes away from flames that were beginning to diminish as they exhausted the supply of fuel. “They know if anything happens to me, they’ll be exposed.”

It was the agreement with the devil he had made a year ago. Revelation of Pegasus’s secret would have destroyed the organization, but it also would have destroyed a great number of innocents. Extortion to fund a foundation honoring two of its victims had seemed the only reasonable compromise.

The wail of emergency equipment enveloped them as Gurt and Lang turned to go back into the building, dinner forgotten.

Lang was not surprised when the doorbell rang forty-five minutes later. Standing in the hall was a thin black man in a rain-splattered suit.

Lang swung the door wide. “Come in, Detective Rouse. I’ve been expecting you.”

It was the same Atlanta detective who had investigated an attempt on Lang’s life the year before. The would-be assassin had jumped from the balcony rather than be captured. Lang remembered the policeman as having a slow, ethnic drawl that belied a very quick mind.

The detective looked around the room, nodding to Gurt. “Evenin’, ma’am.” Turning back to Lang, he nod
ded.”I ‘spect you was. Ever’ time there’s death ‘n’ destruction ‘round here, you seem to be involved, Mr. Reilly. You care to ‘splain that?”

“Lucky, I guess.”

Rouse shook his head. “Still smart-assin’, I see. I swear, I’m ‘plyin’ for a transfer outta Homicide to Sex Crimes. You a one-man crime wave. Why wasn’ I surprised that it was your car got blown up?”

“You’re good at guessing. Maybe you should try the lottery.”

“I hit th’ lottery an’ I never see you agin, Mr. Reilly. Now, why don’ you tell me why somebody want to blow up a ‘spensive car like that with you in it.”

Lang shrugged. “Maybe I blew the doors off their SL 500 leaving a stoplight.”

Rouse looked around and chose a chair. “Sit down, Mr. Reilly. I think I’m gonna be here a while, until I gets some straight answers.”

Lang sat. “All I know is that Gurt and I were headed to dinner. I got caught in that frog-strangler of a downpour and came back to change. Gurt gave the keys to the carhop. Next thing I knew, KA-BOOM!” Lang frowned. “I don’t think I even knew the poor kid in the car.”

Rouse looked at Gurt for confirmation before turning back to Lang. “Afta we went at it las’ year, I did some checkin’, Mr. Reilly. You told me you were retired Navy SEAL. Turns out you were with some spook organization.”