The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) (11 page)

24.

8
th
Floor

Fulton County Justice Center

Ten Minutes Later

              The outer offices of the Fulton County District Attorney resembled any other supported by the tax payers. A half dozen faux wood and Naugahyde chairs were filled with a general slice of Atlanta’s victims: subjects of domestic abuse, assaults, robberies. Most awaited a meeting with the prosecutor handling their case. Lang supposed one or two of the better dressed and less battered might be lawyers here to try to work out a deal for their clients.

              Across a worn blue rug, a woman with hair in corn rows sat behind a desk, alternately pecking at a keyboard with a vigor that suggested anger and answering a phone that never seemed to be silent. The plaque on the desk suggested she might be named Kisha Hopkins.

              Lang stood in front of her for a full minute before she looked up inquiringly.

              “I’m here to see Mr. Hamilton,” he said.

              She regarded him with undisguised curiosity. “You got an appointment?”

              Lang reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, produced a gold card case and handed her an engraved card. “If you tell Mr. Hamilton, I’m here, I’d be grateful.”

              She studied the card before putting it down on the desk. “You needs an appointment to see the District Attorney.”

             
Why do politicians go to such efforts to insulate themselves from the very people who elected them?
              But Lang put on his sincerest smile, the one he usually saved for minimizing the prosecution’s case in front of a jury. “Believe me: Mr. Hamilton will see me.”

              She watched him with skeptical eyes as she punched four numbers into the phone’s key pad and swiveled her back to him as she murmured into the receiver.

              When she put it down, she faced him again, her surprise evident. “He say to come on in, you know the way.”

              Lang doubted she would get the sarcasm but tried anyway. “Thanks for your help.”

              He stood by her desk until he heard the snap of an electric lock. Considering the quality of the people who passed through that door, the District Attorney had made one of his rare wise decisions.

              David Hamilton, Fulton County District Attorney, rose from his desk as his secretary ushered Lang into a spacious corner office. The wall behind the desk was paved with the usual certificates, diplomas, pictures of group photos and handshaking with celebrities, athletes and local politicians and framed newspaper clippings. Prominent by its absence among the latter were last year’s issues of
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
relating the District Attorney’s use of forfeiture funds for sports tickets, elaborate staff parties and a $18,000 security system for the DA’s home. Only a lack of specific statutes directing the use of money from the sale of assets seized from drug dealers had allowed the man to avoid criminal charges himself.

              Hamilton was a tall man with a fringe of hair a semi-circle around his skull. A pair of glasses gave him a professorial look, although, given his record of legal miscues, Lang doubted he could have secured tenure in teaching high school civics. He possessed the politician’s ability to divert the attention of a sufficient number of voters from his record and to the fact he served as the county’s first (and only) black DA.

              Lang knew he would be received not because of any bonds of friendship or even professional courtesy. He would be received because Hamilton had learned from bitter experience that Lang did not make social calls. If he was here, he had business to discuss and it would behoove the DA to listen.

              On their first encounter, Lang Reilly had been an unknown at the criminal bar, one hardly worth the county prosecutor’s time. A bored assistant had hardly listened to the young lawyer’s plea for a dismissal of fraud charges against his client. Six months later, the trial had ended abruptly upon Attorney Reilly’s motion for dismissal on the grounds the indictment clearly named a Charles E. Steward whereas the man before the court, also Charles E. Steward, was not the same man. As shown by certified copies of his military discharge papers, Lang’s Mr. Steward had been in the Air Force stationed on Okinawa when a series of elderly citizens had been sold worthless securities by a well-dressed, sincere young man earning his tuition through theology school. The result, in addition to the acquittal, was an ass-chewing of Olympic proportions by the chief judge for the prosecution’s waste of the court’s time.

              Adding greater insult to the District Attorney’s office was Lang’s successful defense of the actual culprit on the grounds both of the expiration of the statute of limitations and double jeopardy, the indictment–named Charles E. Steward having been acquitted. The latter was shaky ground and the prosecutor was almost certain it had been sustained as a result of judicial pique rather than sound precedent.

              And those were only the first two incidents. They were followed by two more acquittals and, worse, a contempt citation Hamilton was certain Reilly had intentionally provoked him into.

              No, the DA had no love for Lang Reilly but he would have been a greater fool than Lang had proved him to be by ignoring him.

              The two men sat, Hamilton behind a desk that was anything but government issue, Lang in a comfortable reproduction of a Martha Washington.

              After the obligatory few minutes exchanging queries after each other’s health and families, about which neither man cared, Hamilton leaned forward, both hands on the highly polished desk top. “I assume this is not a social call.”

              Lang shook his head, “No.” Reaching into his briefcase, he produced several sheets of paper, stood and slid them across the desk. “I wanted to personally hand you a copy of my Notice of Appearance in the Rountree case as well as few discovery requests.”

              Hamilton peered over the top of his glasses, scanning the papers. “Her interview with the Atlanta Public School System’s attorney? That’s privileged and work product as well.”

              “Work product” were the notes, statements research, personal observations created by the attorney. An area rich in disputes, there was a fine, sometime indistinguishable line between “work product” and discoverable evidence. A statement given by a party to the opposing side before being represented by counsel was a clear exception. 

              “Not if the prosecution intends to use it or anything learned from it. Matter of fact, even if it’s privileged or work product, which it isn’t, she’s entitled to a copy of it.”

              The District Attorney shook his head. He disagreed. “And the interviews of the other thirty-three indictees? Forgetaboutit! If not privileged, which they are, they’re work product and not subject to discovery.”

              Lang was standing. “A prosecutor’s work product in a criminal case? Particularly by some lawyer representing the School System rather than this office? I think you’re the one who needs to forget about it.” He turned for the door. “But thanks for your time!”

              “Reilly?”

              Lang stopped, hand on the door knob.

              “You really picked a client this time. That scum not only cheated the taxpayers, she cheated the children in the school system for her own enrichment. I don’t see how you sleep at night.”

              Lang gave him an icy smile. “Since you ask, very well, thank you. Last time I looked, the Sixth Amendment to the Constitution doesn’t exempt scum from the right to a trial by a jury of their peers. Maybe you ought to read it sometime.”  

              Lang had hardly expected agreement from the DA’s office or the DA himself. He had expected to learn the man’s position on what was going to be a crucial bit of evidence. In this he had succeeded.

              He also had succeeded in shaking the bum with the expensive sneakers, although he suspected only temporarily.

              Maybe, upon the man’s near certain reappearance, Lang could find answers to a list of questions: Did the man intend for Lang to spot him? If not, why wear something that would make him as obvious to a trained observer as a stripper at a preachers’ convention? And, most important, who would want to know Lang’s whereabouts and why?
              From experience, he knew those answers would come. The larger questions were when and at what costs?

25.

Cavanaugh House

East Anglia

Near Kings Lynn

England

At the Same Time

              The two men strolled through the two acres of carefully pruned rose bushes, the gravel of the pathway crunching beneath their feet. Behind them was the backdrop of Cavanaugh House. Red brick, lined with local limestone, a Jacobean mansion of well over a hundred rooms. At the corners, domed turrets stood silent sentinel over the dozen or so double chimneys. Six evenly spaced third floor bay windows reflected the frail afternoon sun.

              In slacks and an open shirt, Jacob Annulewicz, hands behind his back, was admiring his surroundings. “Very kind of you to see me, Marquess.”

              His companion was attired in country shabby: a cardigan with moth holes, faded pants stuffed into nearly knee high Wellingtons. “Marty Golden is a good friend. Any friend of his and all that. He said you were writing a book.”

              Jacob changed the subject. “How many acres?”

              “About five thousand,” his companion replied. “But much reduced from the nearly twenty-five thousand the original Marquess Cavanaugh bought from the Boleyn family.

              “As in, Henry’s second wife?”

              “The same. But Cavanaugh bought the place before either of the two Boleyn girls were born. Around 1608, the then current Marquess began construction of what you see now. By 1908 an eldest son had run up astronomical debt for the time from hunting and gambling. He sold off quite a bit of the acreage and then the last bit on which the house and out buildings sit, sold it to Rufus Isaacs, First Marquess of Reading. Been in the family ever since.”

              The two men turned off the pebbled path, heading toward a precisely placed grove of pear trees. White petals created small snow storms with each gust of a fitful breeze.

              “Fortunate you could hold on,” Jacob observed. “What with the taxes on estates this size.”

              Isaacs nodded toward the house’s massive entrance where a line of people shuffled slowly forward. “We wouldn’t have been able to were it not for the paying tourists. Eighteen quid for the house, another five for the gardens and deer park. Plus the tea room and luncheonette in the old stable building.”

              “Must be a bit of bother, people tromping through your home.”

              “Not really,” Isaacs said. “The family live in quite generous apartments on the second floor. Modernized with heat and AC, all the conveniences even if it can be a bit drafty in winter. Our visitors want to see bits like the great hall: Thirty foot Baroque ceilings with nude cherubs dancing about, a library about the size of a cricket pitch and a dining hall with places for forty or so guests. All heated by fire places in which a man could stand up. Not really suitable for today’s living, y’know.”

              The two stopped to watch a herd of the estate’s specially bred white deer, each no larger than a German shepherd, graze its way across manicured grass.

              Jacob’s host continued, “And then there’s the fruit orchards and the tenant farmers. All and all, we get by.”

              “Well,” Jacob said, “getting by rather well, I’d say. I’m particularly interested to see such an estate owned by members of the tribe, by Jews.”
              His host smiled. “Considering we were deported from England by Edward I in 1290 and, with few exceptions, not allowed to return until Cromwell needed Jewish financing in 1657, I’d say we Jews have made a bit of a comeback. With voting and property restrictions only removed in, what, the 1840’s? I’d say we’ve made remarkable progress. But then, you already know all about that, enough to be writing a book on the subject of Jews among British nobility.”

              Jacob stopped and faced Isaacs, time to fess up. “I fear our mutual friend Goldman made a slight misrepresentation.”

              He had the other man’s attention. “Oh? How so?”

              “Well, he was quite right that I was seeking information. He might have stretched it a bit to say I was writing a book.”

              Isaacs eyes narrowed. “Information? What sort of information?”

              Jacob had rehearsed this bit on the drive up the M 3 from London. “Do you have any idea what Goldman did for a living?”

              Puzzled, Isaacs shook his head. “He was already retired when I met him.”

              “Well, let’s say that, in addition to his job with Her Majesty’s Foreign Office, he had an additional employer.”

              “Who was?”

              “You are perhaps familiar with the practice of the Israeli intelligence agency to use Jews of the diaspora, those residing in countries other than Israel, as intelligence resources?”

              “Mr. Annulewicz, I was with MI6 until I retired two years ago. I was well aware of the practice. Are you telling me Goldman was an Israeli spy?”

              “Not as such, no. He never passed along anything detrimental to his country, the UK.”

              Whatever trace of good humor Isaacs had earlier displayed was gone. “Why are you telling me this?”
              “Because I need information.”

              “Other than about titled Jews, no doubt.”

              The sarcasm was heavy.

              Jacob ignored it. He could have really used a puff or two on his pipe but Golden had warned him the Marquess was a steadfast if not violent opponent of any form of tobacco since his younger brother had died from some nicotine related cancer. “We--certain people and I--have reason to believe there may be a military arm of British intelligence, an ultra-nationalistic group not subject to any control other than their own. For instance, this lot may have actually been responsible for the death of Dianna.”

              Isaacs shook his head. “What other conspiracies are you into, man? The Lady died in an automobile accident.”

              “There are those in the know who don’t think so. Diana aside, I’m looking to track them down before they kill again.”

              Isaacs snorted his disbelief. “Who this time, Prince William?”

              “Look,” Jacob pled, “Be reasonable. Whether or not you believe the Diana bit, have you any knowledge of anyone, or a group of people in the intelligence community who might be avid enough to take matters into their own hands?” 

              Isaacs’s chin was in his hand. “If there was such a group, there would have to be a corresponding group of military, specialized military.”

              Jacob nodded. “If we find one, we find the other.”

              “I can’t be sure. All I ever heard were rumors. If they are even partly true, we are risking our arses even talking about them. My days of involvement this sort of thing are past.”

              Jacob grinned. “Tell me what you heard and I’ll forget your name before I’m off your property. As one Jew to another.”

              “Give me a day or two. I have a lot of memories to search.” He checked his watch. “In the meantime, join me for tea and I’ll show you something most visitors here don’t see.”

              Jacob started to protest that he had to be getting back to London but thought better of it. The stronger bond he could form, the more likely he was to get the information he sought.

              “I’d be delighted.”

              In silence, the two men retraced their steps until Isaacs took a left turn toward the eastern or right side of the main house. Following the gravel path, they were almost to the rear of the mansion when the Marquess stopped abruptly and pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, crossed over the grass, inserted one into a small wooden door with iron fittings and pulled it open. From the size of the space Jacob could see, he would have guessed he was looking at a maintenance closet, a place where garden equipment or the like was stored.

              The Marquess beckoned. Just as Jacob reached the open door, an inner  wall swung open, leaving him gaping at a spiral stair.

              “Leads to a priest hole,” his host said as if that explained everything.

              “Priest hole?”

              “During Elizabeth’s time and even into the Jacobean era, being a practicing Catholic was a distinct liability if not a danger. Celebrating the mass could subject the participants to serious forfeitures. A second offense lead to prison. Attempting to convert a Protestant to Catholicism could and did get priests hung. So, the Catholic nobility built small hidden rooms in which the priests who secretly conducted masses might hide. This priest hole is just off my study two floors up. The carpenters found it only ten years ago while repairing what we thought was a leak in the frame of a window.”

              Closing the door behind them, the two men groped their way upward in darkness until Isaacs opened a door and the staircase flooded with a mixture of light and shadow. At the top was a small room, perhaps ten by ten.

              “Would have been difficult to celebrate mass in these close quarters,” Jacob observed.

              “They didn’t. Best we can tell, the secretly Catholic Cavanaugh family actually worshipped in a room up under the eaves, one that could easily be stripped of the iconography. The priest, the implements of the sacraments and his robes could all be hidden here.”

              Isaacs turned a latch and the far wall, swung open, a wall lined with shelves containing folded linen. It opened into a room fifty by twenty. The ceiling was, by Jacob’s estimate, at last thirty feet with the Virgin or some saint ascending into what looked like a brilliant sun. Two walls were lined with book cases, the third being floor to ceiling windows. On the fourth was mounted a rosette of arms: Pikes, halberds, cuirasses and swords stretched out from a single armored breastplate like flower petals. Surrounding the martial display were pistols and muskets, a collection of matchlock, wheel lock and flint lock.

              Isaacs pointed proudly. “All used by guards here.”

              Jacob shook his head. “And you don’t let the tourists see this?”

              His host grinned. “In the first place, the display isn’t original to the house. My father’s decorator did it when we found all this stuff in the attic. Can you imagine the liability issues if, say, one of those pikes fell on someone?” He gestured toward a rather modern desk and a series of file cabinets. “Besides, I rather fancy having this room to myself. Now, about tea. . .”

              Jacob was giving closer inspection to the arms. He picked a bell-barreled flintlock musketoon from the hook that held it, weighing it in his hands. “Looks more like a musical instrument, a trumpet, than a weapon.”

              His host nodded. “But deadly at short range. Most people traveling by carriage had a coachman on top with one of those, sort of like your Old West shotgun on a stage coach. Same reason, to discourage highwaymen. The thing would be loaded with old nails, rocks, whatever was available. Could bloody well cut a man in half at twenty feet.”

              Jacob was checking it out. “Do you realize this blunderbuss is loaded?”

              “Wouldn’t be surprised. Would take a conscious effort to set it off, now wouldn’t it? Between that and the age of the powder, a miracle would also be required.” He indicated a pair of wing chairs. “Have a seat. I’ll ring for tea. Sugar or lemon? Cream or no?”