The Pegasus Secret (32 page)

He left the room to see if anyone else was awake.

In a small kitchenette off the main salon, he found a tall black woman in a shiny emerald dress. The garment’s deep neckline and high hem told him she had just come in from a night’s work.

“Hullo,” she said, her voice husky with a West Indian accent. “What cat dragged you in?”

“Nellie let me spend the night.”

She turned to face him, her back to a gurgling Mr. Coffee. A sculpted eyebrow arched. “I hate to think what that cost you, honey.”

“And I need to get to Manchester,” Lang added as though it were an afterthought.

She twisted her long body to fill a mug with steaming coffee. She had to bend over so that her already short skirt rose another six inches. Lang didn’t think the effect was accidental.

“Manchester?” she repeated. “You a long way from home, sweetie. Yo wife sho gonna know you gone ’fore you gits home.”

“I’ll pay for the ride,” Lang said.

“I ain’ no taxi service, dahlin’. Jes’ got in mysef. You gonna have to take the train like everbody else.”

But she seemed to be thinking it over as she sipped from the mug.

“Too bad,” he said, making a disappointed face. “I’ll have to hire a car. I’m sure Nellie knows a service. . . .”

Eyes the same color as the coffee contemplated him over the mug. Lang felt like a heifer being appraised at a county fair. “You some kinda special friend o’ Nellie’s?”

He couldn’t resist the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Seeing a cup on the counter, he held it out. “Mind?”

Her head gave a slow shake without her eyes leaving him. “Hep yo’seff.’

He filled the cup with the remainder of the pot. “Known Nellie a long time.”

She emptied her mug and set it on the counter, smacking her lips as though tasting something particularly good. “How much you gonna pay somebody, drive you to Manchester?”

Lang shrugged. “What’s it worth, coupla hundred?”

She treated him to dazzling white teeth. “Lovey, for two hundred quid, I’ll make it the most fun ride you evah, evah had.”

Lang never doubted she could have, but he just wasn’t in the mood. It didn’t seem to bother her at all when, several
hours later, untouched, she dropped him off at the British Airways terminal in Manchester. It was only after she had driven off that Lang realized he hadn’t asked her name, nor she his. In fact, she had exhibited a professional lack of curiosity the whole way, saying nothing when he asked her to stop on a bridge where he could toss the Beretta into the river below.

Using the Heinrich Schneller identity and credit card was too chancy. Lang had to assume the umbrella he had left in Jenson’s shop had been traced, but he had insufficient cash for the ticket. Since his destination was an EU country, he didn’t need a passport, but he was going to have to have something identifying him as a U.K. resident.

He watched a newsstand and chose his victim carefully, a man about Lang’s age and build who purchased a
Guardian
and stuffed his wallet into a jacket pocket. A slight nudge, a polite apology and Lang was Edward Reece, the name on his victim’s driver’s license. Wearing a pair of newly purchased sunglasses over a face missing Herr Schneller’s moustache, Lang picked the busiest counter. Any ticket agent would expect to see his face match that on the license while Lang demonstrated no more than the usual passenger impatience as he shifted his weight and checked his watch.

He tried not look particularly relieved when the pretty woman handed his ticket across the counter. “Enjoy your flight, Mr. Reece. When you arrive in London, ask the agent at the gate for directions to the flight to Toulouse-Blagnac.”

Lang slid into the seat with a combination of the apprehension flying always brought and satisfaction that he had pulled it off so far. At Gatwick, he would change from the domestic to international gates without having to pass through security and the scrutiny of the police he was sure were looking for him. He could even use Schneller’s Visa
card. That was the reason for this specific flight: He wanted to avoid Heathrow, whose configuration would have required he enter the international area through metal detectors, observant cops and cameras.

London, Gatwick International Airport
0956 hours

Lang was inconspicuous among the business travelers shuffling along the concourse. Many, like him, carried no baggage.

He might have been a little suspicious had he seen a passenger behind him duck into a restroom rather than continue towards the waiting flights for destinations all over Great Britain. The man entered a stall, shut the door and sat, only to flip open a cell phone.

“He’s on the way,” the man said.

London: Mayfair
1102 hours

Gurt sat in front of the monitor, nodding as though expressing agreement. The Visa card had provided an irresistible source of financing for Lang’s quest just as she had known it would. She congratulated herself. Men were nothing if not predictable.

Toulouse-Blagnac? Somewhere in the southwest of France, the Languedoc mentioned in those papers Lang had told Jacob about, the ones at Oxford. Apparently Lang thought he would find Pegasus’s secret there, the secret
that had almost gotten him killed. Maybe he had right,
was
right, she corrected herself. Had right or was right, he was likely to be in trouble.

She stood and exited the smoke-sensitive computer room, pausing under a “No Smoking” sign in the corridor to light a Marlboro. She needed to call in a few more favors, go see the guys in the Second Directorate, Science and Technology, although what she needed wasn’t particularly scientific nor was it exactly high-tech.

But first a phone call on a secure land line. Ignoring the glares of the health-conscious, she kept her burning cigarette as she rode down on the elevator. Outside, a brisk walk brought her to an Underground station and a bank of public phones.

She dialled a number, inserting coins when the other end answered. “You were right,” she said without preamble. “He’s headed to France. In fact, his plane should be landing about now.” She listened for a moment. “Fine, I’ll meet you.”

Toulouse-Blagnac International Airport
1142 hours

As an arrival from a European Union country, there was no customs, no immigration, no reason for the two airport gendarmes near Gate Seven to notice Lang. They were far too intent on the young lady disposing of the morning’s breakfast croissants behind the small cafeteria counter. She was living proof of the unfairness of life as evidenced by the diversity manufacturers offer in bra sizes.

Lang had disembarked into a large, modern terminal that, absent the multilingual signs, could just as easily have served Birmingham or Peoria. His companions from the
flight dispersed quickly, none exhibiting any interest in him. Departing passengers were herded aboard quickly, the aircraft reloaded with baggage and in minutes Lang was the only traveler left in the gate area. It didn’t look like he was being followed.

The bathtub at Nellie’s had been more spacious than the Peugeot Junior he had reserved before leaving Gatwick. Good thing he had no luggage; there would have been little room.

It was the only thing Euro Car had, so Lang presented Mr. Reece’s license, signed the rental agreement, paid a cash deposit and wedged himself in. He was fairly certain that when Reese discovered his wallet missing, he would notify the appropriate parties of the loss of credit cards long before his driver’s permit.

Once Lang found the road, he headed through identical modern high-rises, wondering why modern European multifamily housing was uniformly ugly. Signs led him to the
centre de ville
, or downtown. Medieval stone and plaster replaced contemporary cookie-cutter.

He noted at least one advantage to the car’s size as he shoehorned it into a parking place between an aging Deux Cheveux and a Renault. Over the top of the Renault, he could see the pink brick tower of the Basilique St-Sernin, all that remained of an eleventh-century monastery, according to the guidebook he had picked up at the airport.

Although the Peugeot fit into the parking place, there wasn’t a lot of room for Lang to open the door and squeeze out. He managed, and walked a block to the town square, which featured the cathedral ubiquitous to European towns. This morning the square itself had been transformed into a small marketplace. Temporary stalls displayed a surprising variety of vegetables for so early in the spring. There were flowers, too, in almost every color,
their fragrance mixing with the odor of fish, crustaceans and mussels shining on trays of shaved ice.

Women held small children and haggled with vendors. As in Rome, there were few men in sight.

He left the square and walked down one of the narrow cobbled streets, looking for what he needed. He passed a charcuterie with feathered fowl and unskinned game hanging in the window above fat sausages. Next was a patisserie, its pies and cakes freshly baked along with long loaves of bread. Habit made him check the glass display windows for anyone else on the street. There was no reflection but his.

He found a shop that had camping supplies and a small tent in the window. From its location, he guessed the store had mostly a local clientele.

The Languedoc was, after all, a small, largely rural province pushed against the shoulders of the Pyrenees. From what Lang had seen so far, it attracted few tourists. When people spoke of the south of France, they usually referred to the Languedoc’s neighbor to the east, the summer playground of the wealthy, the Riviera. Cannes, Nice and Cap d’Antibes were world-famous. In contrast, few people outside of France could name a town in the Languedoc other than Rochefort, home of the blue-veined cheese.

The nearby foothills and mountains did attract local rock climbers and campers, vacationers very different from those of the Côte d’Azur. The out-of-doors types were typically young, adventurous and unable to afford a trip to the more distant and prestigious Alps.

All of that might have accounted for the proprietor’s surliness. That and the fact he was French. Lang didn’t look as young as he guessed most customers would be and he hoped he looked a little wealthier. Lang was sure he didn’t appear to enjoy the grime, insects and unpredictable weather of the great outdoors, either.

But he did know what he wanted: hiking boots, Mephistos. Best in the shop and certainly the most expensive, judging from the shopkeeper’s sudden enthusiasm in showing them. Lang picked out a felt hat with a prestained leather band that Indiana Jones might have favored, a halfliter plastic canteen in a carrying case, two thick cotton shirts, two pairs of jeans, and other equipment any hiker might need such as a compass, a collapsible trenching tool and a flashlight with extra batteries. Finally, he selected two coils of rope, the strong, light-weight fiberglass variety favored by serious mountain climbers. By the time Lang paid for such a large order, probably equal to a week’s sale, all trace of French disdain had been replaced by a regular bonhomie.

Two doors down the street, he bought a cheap camera complete with flash capabilities, several rolls of film and a cardboard suitcase for his purchases, acquisitions that he struggled to fit into the Peugeot’s limited storage space.

Leaving town, Lang headed south towards Limoux on the D118, two narrow lanes writhing through terrain that was different from any he had ever seen. Green hills alternated with sharp spikes of bare white rock like giant bones reaching from the earth. To his right, the Pyrenees were as ephemeral as a dream in the distant haze.

He had the road mostly to himself, seeing more tractors than cars. He passed vineyards, budding vines defying what looked like rocky soil. Sheep were like cotton on the hillsides. Sunflowers and tobacco were little more than fields of green buds.

The further south he drove, the more ruins he saw, remains of once-mighty fortresses and castles bleaching under the same sun that had warmed Pietro seven centuries before. The thought was spooky, as though he was regressing in time.

Limoux went by. According to the map that came with
the car, it was the last place large enough to be depicted as a town before the coast. Suddenly Lang was winding along the lip of a deep canyon with water sparkling far below. Also below were red tile roofs of villages he hoped were Esperaza and Campagne-sur-Aude. The Spanish-sounding names made him remember something he had read, that this part of the Languedoc had been part of Catalonia before one of those endless wars that had redrawn Europe’s boundaries for two millennia.

If there was a sign announcing Rennes-les-Bains, Lang missed it. His first notice he had arrived in the tiny village was a cluster of plastered, tile-roofed buildings that crowded the highway. The place was too small for a cathedral or even a square but he did have to slow to a crawl as he came up behind a tractor. Both driver and machine had seen better days.

Despite clouds of greasy diesel smoke, Lang saw the sign to the Hostellerie de Rennes-les-Bains in time to turn onto a dirt drive lined with flowering fruit trees. In front of him was a pink-washed building on a slight rise. According to the guidebook, it was the only hotel within miles.

He replaced the moustache before leaving the car. The entry was into a limestone-floored foyer. Dark paneling extended to the gallery of the second floor. A rustic, wagon-wheel chandelier hung directly above his head. He was facing a country French desk, its simple pine holding a brass banker’s lamp, leather register and polished brass bell. From his left, daylight streamed through an arched doorway, beyond which he could see the hotel’s small dining room with a single picture window overlooking the Aude Valley.