The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) (19 page)

39.

The Forum

Norwich

              As best he could, Lang kept as many of the mall’s patrons between him both of the men as he worked his way across the mezzanine. Their appearance here was frightening not only because it presented an immediate threat but because the efficiency and speed with which they had tracked him down implied not a few random renegades in MI6 or Special Air Services but a conspiracy much larger than he had suspected.

              The latter was not the issue at hand, however. Escape was.

              Clearly, he wasn’t going to slip by them.

              So. . .

              Stepping from behind two women inspecting a stack of scented soap, he waved to the man at the top of the escalator.

              From the man’s expression, it was clearly an unexpected maneuver.

             
If you liked that, watch this.

             
As calmly as though marching up a church’s aisle, Lang walked over to the down escalator only a few feet from the up where the man stood.

              “I do love this place. Reminds me of the malls back home,” he said in a conversational tone as he stepped onto the moving staircase.

              Lang was pretty certain neither of these guys would try anything in public. More likely they would keep him in view until an opportunity arose.

              Pretty certain but he was betting his life on it.

              But then, what were the other options?

              At the bottom of the escalator, Lang broke for the hallway where he had seen the man/woman silhouettes indicating the WC, a facility not available on the mezzanine.

              As anticipated, neither the man from the escalator nor his partner, just arrived on the scene, had expected the fast move. For an instant, as he rounded the corner, Lang was out of their sight.

              He threw his weight against the door to the women’s and shoved it shut once inside.

              There was a row of five stalls, another of two sinks beneath a mirror. A grandmotherly type’s reflection glared at him as he dashed for one of the stalls. The word ‘pervert’ was unspoken but perfectly clear.

              Lang slammed the stall’s door shut. “Men’s is full up, mum.”

              She might alert the two rent-a-cops he’d seen but Lang couldn’t count on it. Instead, he took out his iPhone and keyed in 999, praying he remembered the proper English prefixes. The phone, after all, thought it was still in Atlanta.

              Maybe not such a smart phone after all.

              “Nine nine nine,” a woman’s voice answered on the second ring.

              Lang was not sure how you pronounced a number with a British accent but she did it.

              “The mall, er, the Forum in Norwich. There are two guys here with guns.”

              “Guns?”

              “Pistols. I saw one under the man’s jacket.”

              With typical British calm, she could have been taking down a weather report. “Could you describe them, please?”

              Lang did.

              Now he could only hope the police responded before his two pursuers figured out where he had gone.

              No time to wait in hopes of a speedy arrival by the law. Lang slithered under the divider between his stall and the next, latched that door and moved on to the next. Fortunately, none were occupied. Within a minute, all were locked.

              He had had no extra time. He had no sooner slipped the latch on the last stall when he heard the WC’s door open and two sets of foot steps. The water was running while a person circulated the room, presumably looking for male feet under the closed doors.

              Lang was standing on the commode seat when he heard the pulsing wail of sirens. The people outside the stalls must have heard it also. They left in a hurry.

              Lang waited a good ten minutes, during which two women entered, expressed their displeasure at finding latched doors, attributed them to some “bloody fucking delinquent’s idea of a prank” and left, presumably for more hospitable facilities on the upper floor.

              Once back of the Forum’s ground floor, Lang instantly spotted the men from whom he had escaped. Hands against the wall, feet spread, they were being patted down by a pair of uniformed constables while two more cradled automatic weapons in their arms and a curious crowd watched.

              As Lang watched, one of the uniforms removed a pistol from one of the men. Lang didn’t have to look closely to recognize it as Sig Sauer Cerakote.

40.

Klyne Aviation Centre

Norwich International Airport

Thirty-two minutes later

              Only five miles from the center of town by the A-140, Norwich International Airport hosts flights within Britain and the Chanel Islands, largely by discount carriers. KLM has a daily flight to Amsterdam and Air Malta to vacation spots in the Mediterranean during vacation season.

              Other than that, the airport is largely devoted to general aviation, which explained to Lang why the three story Klyne facility was newer, better maintained and almost the size of the commercial terminal.

              The pilot and passenger lounges displayed cheerful, light colors including red leather furniture, multiple TV screens and views of the single runway through tinted glass. The snack bar, however, offered the same bitter coffee, stale  crisps (potato chips) and vending machines of tasteless food Lang had found in FBO’s the world over.

              He was not here for food and drink although he already thought of the pizza abandoned at the Forum with nostalgia. He was using a paper napkin to wipe the remains of a sandwich from his fingers as he approached he approached a bank of phones. The taste of the ham and butter, a combination of which the English seemed unduly fond, lingered despite the can of tooth-itching sweet Barr Lemonade with which he had used to ease it down.

              He checked his watch. Jacob should still be en route back to London. There was little chance anyone could intercept conversations from the public phones here but Jacob’s cell was vulnerable. He would simply have to risk it or leave his friend unaware Timmy and broken Nose had been reincarnated.

              Jacob answered on the second ring.

              “Hi. The two gentlemen we met earlier today have friends,” Lang said without introduction, hoping Jacob understood the necessarily obtuse message.

              “Oh, do they now?”

              “Just met them here.”

              “That was speedy.”

              Good. Jacob understood the two men who had died at Cavanaugh House had almost immediately been replaced. He could take such measures as he saw fit.

              “I’m not sure of their employer,” Jacob continued.

              “Our host seemed pretty certain.”

              “Doesn’t mean they work where he saw them. Not that it matters. Same enterprise.”

              “Maybe you should pay the employer a visit.”

              “Easier said than done, lad. But I’ll give it some thought.”

              Lang was acutely aware the longer the conversation, the more likely it would be overheard. “Gottcha.”

              Now that he was forewarned, it was up to Jacob to make the next move.  

41.

472 Lafayette Drive

Atlanta, Georgia

The Next Day

7:23 pm

              In shorts and T-shirts, Lang and Gurt sat watching Leon and Manfred, in the pool, try to tempt Grumps into the water by tossing a tennis ball. Father Francis, in more conservative jeans, was half reclining in a lounge. From the speakers in the den, twenty-four year old Doris Day sang
Sentimental Journey
, 1945’s greatest hit, to the accompaniment of Les Brown and His Band of Renown.

              “I don’t think he’s gonna jump in,” Leon finally admitted.

              Francis drained his emerald green plastic cup. “Last time I threw a ball for that dog, he looked at me like he expected me to go fetch it.”

              “Not too eager to expend energy for something he can’t eat,” Lang added as he got to his feet, “but q
ui me amat, amat et canem mean.”

             
Francis extended his empty glass. “I do, in fact, love old Grumps, laziness notwithstanding. I note you aren’t eager to get in the water, either.

              Lang’s hand went to the bandage on his jaw. “Had stiches this morning. Doc said to keep it dry for a couple of days.”

              “And you did that how?”

              “Got my face stuck in a glass of scotch.”

              Though they were close friends, Francis knew when he stood only at the threshold of that life in the shadows Lang sometimes lived. It would be useless to pursue the matter. 

              Lang collected his guest’s glass and headed for the den.

              “Check the grill.” Gurt requested. “To overcook the
Geracherte Forelle
is not good.”

              She referred to the German method of smoking trout, a simple enough effort that yielded tasty results: Marinate in brine before smoking over handful of hickory chips. Using the aroma from the grill at the edge of the patio as a gauge, the process was well underway. The fish would be served sandwich-style on black bread with mild dill-horseradish sauce and sliced cucumbers along with a salad.

              As the days got warmer, meals at the Reilly household got lighter by order of its cuisine commander. Both Manfred and his father had given up complaining of the paucity of what they considered ‘real food’ during the summer months. Gurt firmly believed “heavy” meals such as beef and pork to be unhealthy in spring and summer. As guests, Francis and Leon were basically happy for the free meal. Lang suspected them to be clandestine patrons of the burger franchises nearby on Peachtree Street. Lang felt only mild guilt of his own weekday lunches which invariably included the
verbotten
red meats.

              His and Francis’s glasses in one hand, Lang used the other to crack the domed lid on the Weber. His effort was met with a cloud of eye-watering smoke. He set the glasses down and used the free hand to wave it away until he could see the thermometer.

              He checked his watch. “Ready to go in about fifteen minutes.”

              “Manfred, it is time for you to dry off,” Gurt said. Directions meant for Leon, too.

              The announcement was met with the usual grumbling from a small boy reluctant to leave play.

              Gurt insisted the family share at least one meal a day together. Since breakfast was usually eaten at different times depending on school, court or office requirements and lunch in different places at least five days a week, dinner was that meal, eaten in the dining room, gathered around the dining table or the redwood one beside the pool even if the fare was no more than what amounted to sandwiches.

              Swim attire was not allowed, most particularly wet swim attire.

              Leon was as reluctant, if less vocal, to head for the pool house to change than was his small playmate was to retreat to his room.

              Lang reached the den’s bar just as Gershwin’s
Rhapsody in Blue
as done by Stan Kenton began. He was almost glad there was no Braves’ game tonight; listening to the big bands was just as entertaining. And he didn’t have to listen to Gurt harp on the deleterious effect of watching TV while Manfred complained of the unfairness of his dad being able to enjoy baseball while he, Manfred, was prohibited from seeing
The Walking Dead.

             
The show, as far as Lang could tell, had as its sole plot the violent and bloody suppression of zombie-like creatures in the most gruesome manner possible by a band whose age, racial, ethnic and sexual diversity could hardly be coincidental. The blood (and brain) splattered series had been filmed in the Atlanta area but that hardly explained its popularity.

             
De gustibus non est disputandum

             
Manfred must have learned of the show via the grammar school telegraph, that source of R-rated adult information that inevitably leaks down into the basic grade levels. Although Lang was far less strict about what their son watched, this one came on too late and contained far too much gore and specific violence for a child of Manfred’s age.

              Lang supposed it oxymoronic that both he and Gurt tried to shield Manfred from the violence of the cinematic world when real violence had been so much a part of theirs. Just as an alcoholic might over react to a child’s first drink.

              The peal of the doorbell interrupted both Stan Kenton and his thoughts.

              Lang didn’t need to check his watch to know it was too late for FedEx or UPS. Besides, he was expecting no package. Few neighbors would have come to the front door when the sound of voices indicated everyone was outside.

              Lang pushed what looked like a light switch next to the bar. Instantly, an eight by ten section of the paneling slid open revealing a video screen. A black and white figure came into focus, standing at the front door.

              Female, rotund. . . 

              Celeste Harper.

              Closing the panel, Lang set down the two drinks he had been making and headed toward the front of the house.

              He had checked in with Sara immediately upon arriving back in the United States earlier today. She said Celeste had called twice, each time being told Lang would return her call upon his return to the office. The Gulfstream had cleared customs, a much shortened process since Lang had entered the GOES (Global Online Entry System) program. A swipe of a card, a touch of finger prints to a screen and the frequent hour long wait to present passport and custom declaration was avoided.

              Only government would address blatant inefficiency by creating a program to avoid the system that created it.

              Even with the time saved, Lang had decided the office could wait until tomorrow, a decision based in part on anticipation his jet-lagged brain would start getting fuzzy within few hours. More important, if he rushed home, he and Gurt would have two or three hours before Manfred returned from a friend’s house. Undisturbed time to roll about in the bedroom was precious as the parent of any small child knows.

              Lang was still glowing from the after effects when he opened the door.

              Whatever brought Celeste here must be, at least in her mind, too important to wait until the morning.

              He did only a modest job of keeping the annoyance out of his tone. “Evening, Celeste.”

              It must have been her reporter’s curiosity that made her crane her neck to see around Lang. That or a dubious concern she was interrupting.

              “Lang, I hate to bother you . . .”

              Lang did not detect a shred of contrition in the tone.               “Apparently not enough to wait until morning.”

              He made no effort to suppress a yawn. It was, what, after midnight in the UK? And, as noted, he had had a strenuous afternoon upon his return.

              Celeste took something out of her purse. “May I come in?”

              The question clearly on her mind was “What happened to your face?”

              Lang stepped aside. “Since you’re here, may as well.”

              The reporter had never been in Lang’s home. Both hands clutching her purse, her eyes darted around the formal living room just off the foyer, from the massive Georgian breakfront-desk with leather bound volumes visible through wavy hand blown glass to the oyster shell veneered Tompion case clock ticking way as it had for over three centuries. A six foot by four rare Reynolds landscape of Italy’s Lake Avernus, complete with lounging maidens, hung over the Eighteenth Century canapé upholstered with period-accurate gold thread.

              The art and antique collection had replaced the much more meager assortment that had been lost when Lang’s small condominium had been blown up in an attempt on his life that had cost him not only his possessions but painful months in the hospital. He suspected somehow the pride he took in the present collection was related to the loss or the agony or both, although he could never have explained the connection.  

              Like many homes of native southerners, the living room was more museum than accommodation, something to be admired rather than enjoyed. Actual living went on in the den.

              For reasons he could not have explained, Lang indicated the room and a pair of French wing chairs. Celeste, aware that almost any piece in here probably cost more than her and Livia’s condo, sat uncomfortably on the edge of her seat.

              Lang leaned back in his. “Relax. That chair survived the French Revolution, the execution of the king and the Reign of Terror, not to mention three invasions by Germany. Your derriere isn’t going damage it.”

              She stiffly pushed back into the chairs embrace, giving him a nervous smile.

              “Now, what’s so important it can’t wait till tomorrow?”

              She leaned forward, tendering a sheet of cardboard she removed from her purse. About eight by ten inches, half inch wide strips of varying lengths had been cut out of it at what appeared to be random intervals.

              “I was cleaning out Livia’s stuff and I found the purse she was carrying when we went into that museum. . .”

              Her lower lip began to tremble, a mimicry of a three or four year old Manfred about to burst into tears.

              Lang reached across, putting a soothing hand on hers. “That must have been tough, going through her clothes.”

              Celeste sniffed loudly, managed a weak smile and nodded. “It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, admitting finally to myself Livia is never coming home.”

              Lang held the sheet of cardboard up to the light. “Are you saying she stole this from the library there in Nassau?”

              His guest produced a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I didn’t see her take it, if that’s what you mean.”

              Lang frowned, annoyed at the evasion. “You didn’t come here to play games, Celeste. It either came from that exhibit or it didn’t. Which is it?”

              The hankie went back into the purse as she shook her head. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never seen that thing before, don’t even know what it is. Looks like someone cut holes the cardboard that comes in a new shirt.”

              “But you connect it with the library’s museum, the Windsor exhibit, or you wouldn’t have come over here tonight to show it to me.”

              Her expression told him he had guessed correctly. It was a reaction he had succeeded in provoking in court rooms for years.

              “So, what is it you don’t want to tell me?”

              Sighing, she fished in that purse again, producing folded piece of paper. “I’m afraid this
did
come from the exhibit. I can’t explain how it got in Livia’s purse unless she took it.”

              Lang reached for it. “I think I understand. Hard enough losing a loved one without implying she was a thief.”

              “She did love collecting articles connected to famous murder cases.”

              Lang unfolded the paper, a letter:

May 23, 1943

Your Royal Highness:

              Permit me to thank you for your recent kindness.

              In return, I have found the place the boat will arrive carrying the flowering vines you seek for the darkest part of your garden, the moonflower.

              I will obtain them and deliver to Government House at my first opportunity. Let me warn you, though, the plant is susceptible to the predations of the June beetle.

                                                  Yours faithfully

                                                  Axel Werner Gren

              “Moonflowers?” Lang’s forehead was wrinkled in thought. “Do moon flowers grow in the Bahamas?”

              “I Googled them,” Celeste offered. “Native to American tropics, related to the morning glory, except they bloom at night, attract the nocturnal insects needed to pollenate them. It’s the beetles thing that puzzles me. Far as I can tell, June beetles or June bugs are indigenous to North America. There aren’t any in the Bahamas.”