The Sinai Secret

by Gregg Loomis

  "I'm not, but thanks," Lang hastened to say. "I'm calling about one of your agents, a Charles Witherspoon. Guy seems to be investigating a murder, and I see no federal connection. I don't mind cooperating but—"

  "Who?"

  "Witherspoon, Charles Witherspoon."

  There was such a long pause, Lang feared the connection had been severed.

  "Mr. Reilly, you sure this Charles Witherspoon is with the Atlanta office of the bureau?"

  "I'm sure he said he was."

  "You asked for ID?"

  Lang was getting a weird feeling somewhere around the bottom of his stomach, like maybe something he'd eaten was about to seek revenge. "He showed it. Looked okay to me, and I've seen a lot of 'em."

  "I'm sure you have."

  Another pause.

  "Mr. Reilly, I'll come straight to the point. No Charles Witherspoon works out of this office."

  Lang barely heard the other man ask for a description and request an immediate call if the mysterious Mr. Witherspoon reappeared.

  He spent a full minute staring at the phone after he had hung up.

  * * *

  Book of Jereb

  Chapter One

  1. And after the death of Amenhotep III the son of the king became pharaoh until Moses was cast out of the house of pharaoh and sent into Sinai, where he remained for seven years. And on behalf of the Israelites, he pleaded with the new pharaoh to free the Israelites.

  2. But Pharaoh's heart was hardened against Moses, and he said unto him, "Why do you seek to take from me my people, who are the makers of brick and harvesters of wheat?" And Moses answered, "It is the will of the one God." Whereupon Pharaoh became angry and would not permit Moses to look upon him again until great misfortune had befallen all of Egypt.

  3. Then Pharaoh called Moses unto him and said, "Give me proof your single god can lift from us these afflictions which our gods will not." Whereupon the priests of Pharaoh cried, "Lord, the god of the Israelites is but one while ours are legion. Tell us, how can one god defeat all others, for are they not all gods?"

  4. Moses said unto them, "Show me that power your gods hath given you and the one God shall be mightier than all of them." Whereupon Pharaoh's priests threw down their staffs, which became serpents of great size so that Pharaoh cried out, "Have you brought vipers unto me so that I might perish?"

  5. But Moses feared not but threw down his staff also and it became a serpent smaller than the others, but it devoured each of them in turn until none was left before Pharaoh.

  6. And Pharaoh had seen what had happened and said to his priests, "Is not the god of Moses more powerful than your gods? Are not those of our people who worship this god made powerful thereby? Should we not do as Moses asks?" And the priests had no answer.

  7. And so Moses said to the Israelites,"Gather your children and your wives. Take with you your asses, sheep, and other animals, for God has granted us Pharaoh's mercy and we shall leave Egypt."

  8. But when Pharaoh saw how many Israelites were to depart Egypt and saw the labors that thereby would be undone, his heart became as a stone and he sent soldiers to stop the Israelites from going forth. And Moses came to him, saying, "You have decreed that the Israelites may go forth from Egypt but now you say not. "And Pharaoh answered, I do as does a god, for is not Pharaoh a god also?" And Moses went away angry but there was naught he could do.

  9. And Moses went forth into the desert for forty days, during which time he spoke with the one God. And the one God directed him to a mountain where the Egyptians and their slaves labored both day and night to make great wonders with gold, some of which Moses took with him and returned to Egypt to again plead with Pharaoh.

  10. And Pharaoh heard Moses and let the Israelites go forth into the desert before he again hardened his heart against the Israelites.

  EIGHT

  Peachtree Center

  227 Peachtree Street

  Atlanta, Georgia

  11:40 EST

  Lang had a lunch date.

  Since Gurt's departure he had resisted the overtures of the predatory single women in his condo building. Divorced, they uniformly decried the size of their alimony checks and the injustice of their prenups while refusing to seek gainful employment. Instead they prowled Buckhead's better spas, restaurants, and social events like coyotes at the edge of a campfire. They searched endlessly for lifestyle support systems in the form of eligible men. No wealthy male was exempt. Age or infirmity of the prey was no detriment, as both potentially shortened the wait before inheritance. Many of these ladies had been trade- ins on newer models, another cruel twist of fate, but one that had paid dividends in increased settlements.

  Lang was that most desirable game: wealthy, and without the inconvenience of greedy heirs.

  Lang had withstood the siege like a well-fortified castle.

  A week ago he had met Alicia Warner, and cracks had appeared in the wall of the keep.

  A recent addition to the U.S. Attorney's staff, she had moved to Atlanta from Denver and what she minimized as an "unpleasant" divorce.

  Were there pleasant ones?

  A person was more likely to enjoy a root canal.

  Lang pressed for no details and she did not reveal any. They had started with sharing a coffee break at the federal courthouse and met for drinks after work.

  She was refreshingly cautious; he was in no hurry.

  He was busy; she was more interested in her career than in a second husband.

  They were circling each other like two animals claiming the same turf.

  Lang was going to make his move today: He would ask her for a real, no-kidding, adult-type date, like going to a real restaurant, where, perhaps, they would discuss something other than the criminal justice system.

  Lang was not timid by nature, but the possibility of facing rejection from this woman filled him with more dread than did the several attempts that had been made on his life in the last few years. Of course, in the past he hadn't had time to brood before an assassin appeared with a knife, or a shadow government's bomb destroyed his car.

  He checked his watch and pushed back from his desk. He went down the hall to the men's restroom, where he combed hair that was already in place, ran a hand over cheeks still smooth from the morning's shave, and grimaced for the mirror, checking teeth that had touched nothing since being brushed.

  Although he had never served as a regular in ops, the Agency had preached to its agents to check their equipment, recheck it, and then check it again.

  Training or nerves?

  He straightened an already perfectly centered tie, shrugged on his tailored suit jacket, and headed for the elevators.

  Other than fast-food chains and hotels, downtown Atlanta could boast of few places to have lunch. Once the office workers fled to the suburbs, the streets became the domain of druggies and beggars, the first unsightly and the second overly aggressive. Other pedestrian traffic consisted of hotel guests with great courage or greater ignorance of the city and the few hardy urban pioneers who insisted on going about their nocturnal business even if they had to step over sleeping bodies in doorways and ignore loud and accusatory panhandling.

  The homeless and the needy, as termed by the politically correct, were, however, voters and therefore impervious to efforts to remove them.

  Understandably, most restaurants were located in somewhat more upscale areas.

  One of the few brave eateries was located in Underground, a section of the city that had been bridged by a succession of viaducts over the late nineteenth-century railroads, leaving the first floor of many old buildings subterranean.

  In the late sixties and early seventies, a village of unique restaurants and bars had moved in, bringing a nightlife downtown had never seen before. Ever watchful of possible revenue, the city had subsequently taken over, with a predictable decline into low-end apparel and tacky souvenir shops, a succession of chain restaurants, and an equally foreseeable black hole of taxpayer money.

&nb
sp; Former habitues stayed away in droves.

  But the place was within walking distance, roughly between the federal building and Lang's office, and the day was warm and sunny. He stepped out with a brisk walk, futilely hoping to outdistance persistent street people. He ignored the hands shoved at him as mercilessly as microphones jabbed by the press at a celebrity or newly bereaved relative of a disaster victim.

  Most of the beggars had cell phones on their belts.

  Was there a panhandlers' network, exchanging the time, place, and description of easy marks?

  One kept pace with him, insisting he had been robbed and only needed bus fare to get home. The story would have been convincing had the same mendicant not made the same pitch last week. It would also have helped had the man's breath not reeked of MD 20/20. At $2.75 a half pint, it was downtown Atlanta's most popular fine wine.

  Lang reached the Five Points MARTA station, its entrance transformed into a shabby North African bazaar. Stands displayed everything from fresh fruit to pirated rap CDs. Two tall, suited black men preached from the pages of the Bibles they held. Passengers streamed by, unconcerned that the end was at hand and damnation certain.

  As Lang turned left to enter Underground, he noticed one stand's potential customer, a man in an overcoat and watch cap who seemed occupied with an arrangement of fruit juices.

  Although Lang had left the Agency almost two decades earlier, its training had become habit, as natural as sleeping or eating. Anomalies were like a missed note in a symphony: a scruffy car in an upscale neighborhood, someone running away from, rather than toward, the sound of a burglar alarm.

  The day was far too warm for the coat and cap.

  Possibly the man had already scored enough cash to feed whatever pharmaceutical demons he snorted, smoked, or shot up. He could well believe he was in an arctic winter.

  But Lang didn't think so.

  Addicts tended to move at a less animated pace, if they moved at all. This man appeared to be in a lively argument with the stand's owner..

  Lang was fairly certain the man had been among those who had pounced with demands for money as soon as

  Lang had reached the sidewalk in front of his building. He was the only one Clothed against cold weather in late April.

  Lang watched as the discussion broke off and Overcoat headed toward him. Their gaze met briefly. Lang did not see a rheumy-eyed, slack-jawed face of society's jetsam. Instead Overcoat stood erect, without the slump of an ordained loser. He was young, his beard stubble no more than a day or two old at most,

  Lang had the impression that the man was going to say something to him. Instead he veered off and turned a corner.

  Not surprisingly Lang had his selection of tables at the restaurant. He chose one looking down the street of old facades decorated with the carvings popular in the 1890s. He could also see two bag ladies and a street vendor of indeterminate sex who seemed to be selling used clothes.

  Alicia waved to him as she arrived at the maître d's stand. Lang stood and pulled out a chair.

  "Glad you could make it," he said as she straightened her skirt and sat.

  She smiled up at him as he returned to his own chair. "Now, why would I miss charming company and an enjoyable lunch?"

  "You've obviously never eaten here before."

  "That bad?"

  "Depends."

  She looked over the top of her menu. "On what?"

  "Whether you order anything that requires more culinary skill than throwing something on the grill." He glanced at his own menu. "I don't remember any complaints about the lunch salads, either."

  "Burger or salad. You really know how to fill lunch with excitement."

  He had forgotten the sarcasm that characterized her conversations.

  Lang looked up, anticipating the waiter's approach. Instead he saw Overcoat striding across the restaurant floor.

  "Look here," the maître d' sputtered. "You can't—"

  Overcoat turned, taking something metallic from his pocket.

  Lang could not see the object, but when the officious maître d' made a dive for the swinging kitchen door, he could easily guess what it was.

  Even more easily could he guess where Overcoat was headed. There were no other diners.

  The gun came up in Overcoat's hand, its muzzle a black hole staring directly at Lang.

  Later he remembered thinking the weapon was huge. But then, almost any gun grew in size when pointed directly at the observer.

  Before the pistol could be fired, Lang moved.

  In a single motion he slammed his shoulder into Alicia, knocking her out of her chair, clearing their table, and propelling both of them under an adjacent one.

  Two shots filled the dining room with ear-pressing roars. Lang was only marginally aware of the thump of bullets on the tabletop between him and the gunman, of the acrid smell of cordite and a scream from somewhere in the direction in which the maître d' had disappeared.

  He was completely aware of footsteps retreating at a deliberate pace. He took a cautious peek over the table top. Overcoat was gone.

  He extended a hand to Alicia. "You okay?"

  "Yeah, fine."

  She stood on legs that seemed none too stable, ruefully contemplating a run in her hose and a stain on her skirt that indicated the cap on some condiment on the table had not been screwed on tight. "Next time I make a wise-ass remark about lunch being filled with excitement, wash my mouth out, will you?"

  Confident that all danger had passed and the police had been summoned, the waitstaff appeared in a solicitous group.

  "Lunch is on the house," the maître d' announced.. "You're gonna have to stay here until the cops arrive, anyway."

  Lang looked at Alicia. "How 'bout it?"

  "Since we have to wait, we may as well."

  Lang had expected Morse. He got two bored uniforms. Apparently near misses weren't worth the detective's time. One cop carefully filled in a form that Lang knew from experience covered everything from murder to auto theft and would soon vanish into the department's clerical maw, where it would be filed away or lost, forgotten in either event. He was not surprised when one of the officers found an overcoat and watch cap in the alley outside; nor did he have any trouble identifying them as the ones worn by the assailant.

  When the police had filled out every line on the report and left, lunch arrived.

  Lang sampled his chicken Caesar salad. "Maybe this place's not as bad as I recalled."

  Alicia grinned, showing perfect teeth. "Not bad, but I wouldn't recommend the floor show. That guy a former client? Must be real unhappy. Would have been easier to go to the state bar and complain."

  "My former clients are either satisfied or in jail. I've never seen that one before."

  She toyed with her fork as if trying to summon an appetite. "Then why would he want to kill you?"

  He didn't, Lang almost said. At that range he could have effortlessly done so. Overcoat was simply delivering a warning.

  But about what?

  NINE

  Peachtree Center

  227 Peachtree Street

  Atlanta, Georgia

  1:42 p.m. EST

  Lang's day deteriorated further.

  He suspected it would as soon as he entered his suite of offices and saw Sara's face.

  "Louis deVille called from Brussels. The Belgian police contacted him to confirm that Benjamin Yadish worked for us. He was murdered in Belgium last night," she announced.

  It took Lang a moment to recall the name. "Isn't he one of the physiochemists working on the foundation's alternatives-to-fossil-fuel program?"

  "That's him. He was in Brussels to meet with the European project manger. Apparently he decided to drive to Bruges for some reason. That's where he was shot."

  "Any information, like who or why?"

  "None yet."

  Lang had never met the man, but his credentials were emerging from his memory. "Lived in Amsterdam, didn't he?"

  Sara had a
file open in front of her. She nodded. "Wife, no children."

  Lang put down the stack of pink callback slips he had picked up from her desk. "He's the one who has a degree from just about every university in Western Europe, right?"

  "That's the one."

  Lang went into his office and closed the door before he reached for the phone and punched 011 for international, 32 for Belgium, 2 for Brussels, and seven numbers for the person. He checked his watch as the line bleeped and peeped. Well after 1900—seven p.m.—on the other end of the line, but he was calling one of the few remaining European countries where employees worked with both eyes on the task at hand rather than one on the clock.

  "'Allo?"

  Relieved, Lang sat back in his chair. "Louis, it's Lang Reilly."

  The voice, heavily French accented, sounded pleased to hear from Lang so soon. Perhaps deVille had forgotten Americans had no aversion to work, either. "Oui, Monsieur Reilly. Your secretary has told you of the terrible thing that has happened, no?"

  Louis deVille was in charge of the foundation's European research and operations. An administrator rather than a scientist, he had the ability to unwind the varying degrees of red tape spun by individual countries. He also had a talent for recruiting the better minds in whatever field the foundation sought at any given time. Since Brussels was the seat of the European Union's economic and political arms as well as the site of the European office of hundreds of multinational corporations, locating the foundation's overseas office there had seemed natural.

  "Sara said he was in Bruges and was shot. What else can you tell me?"

  "The police have told me nothing more."

  "Okay, get hold of his wife in Amsterdam, find out if we can be of any help, maybe expedite the return of the body, funeral expenses, any cash shortage, stuff like that."

  Lang thought for a moment, dark clouds forming a pattern he could see only vaguely. "And I'll be in Brussels no later than the day after tomorrow."

  First Yadish, then Lewis, followed by a clear threat. The foundation's research was making someone unhappy. Very unhappy.