by Gregg Loomis
It would be obvious to his opponent that Lang was going to use the darkness for a rush up the steps.
Instead Lang, still on his back, threw the skull toward the opposite wall as hard as he could. Over the edge of the casket he saw the muzzle flashes of one, two shots in the direction of the skull's trajectory.
Jumping to his feet, Lang pumped two bullets into the area from which the gunfire had come. Two coffins exploded, emptying their contents. A third shot brought a scream of pain.
There was no return fire.
Weapon with the remaining round extended, Lang approached slowly, feeling his way with the hand not holding the Desert Eagle. His fingers touched something upright, cold, and smooth. A search of his pockets produced the slim matchbox he had taken from Mirabelle's.
He might be taking a chance, but if he couldn't confirm his adversary was down, using the stairs would be a greater risk. Holding the matchbook in the same hand as his pistol, he struck a match and pressed against the wall. The sudden glare in the deep darkness almost blinded him, but he managed to light the stub of candle his fingers had touched.
Ears attuned to the slightest sound of movement, he held the light aloft.
Beside the debris of old wood shattered by the shots, a man sprawled across the floor. The bottom half of his face was a bloody pulp, evidence of the damage a fifty- caliber Magnum round could do.
Lang stooped over and looked through the pockets of the man's windbreaker. He was not surprised to find them empty except for a full clip of ammunition.
He removed his own near-empty magazine and put it in a pocket before slamming the full one into his own gun. He was headed for the stairs when his BlackBerry beeped again.
"Yes?" he snapped.
There was the briefest of pauses before the voice of Sara, his secretary, asked, "Am I interrupting something?"
THIRTY-FOUR
Südbahnhof Police Station
Wiedner Gürtel
Vienna
0920 the Next Morning
In twenty-two years of service, Chief Inspector Karl Rauch had never experienced a night like the one just past. A former professor shot at the common entrance of his ransacked Sonnenfelsgasse apartment, an emergency call to the Stephansplatz, where a man had been raked with a glass bottle and two officers shot, one in serious condition.
Then, this morning, before the paperwork had been completed, a hysterical call from the sextant at the Michaelerkirche. Coffins ripped apart, the dead scattered across the crypt, and two very recently deceased among those who had reposed there for centuries. The man had been more upset about the violation of his charges' last resting place than the two additions.
More carnage than had ever taken place when Vienna had been the meeting place of East and West, the battleground of Soviet and Western spies. At least they had been tidy in their rare executions of one another.
Since the fall of communism, Vienna had been a relatively quiet place. No militant Arab emigres with their endless sectarian violence, no former African colonials demanding this and that. Oh, there were the pickpockets and the occasional fight in the Prater and problems in the nearby red-light district.
But multiple shootings?
To add to the mystery, no one had heard a single-shot—fifty-caliber shots. Rauch had not seen a fifty- caliber weapon since his mandatory military training in his youth. The two Polizei had been shot from two different guns, ballistics had told him. The two bodies in the church with a third, and the professor with yet a fourth. More slugs had been dug out of the bricks of the crypt but were too badly crushed to add a fifth gun to the melee. Handguns, judging by the several shell casings at the Stephansplatz and church crypt.
All from weapons like the two monstrous automatics found with the dead men in the crypt.
Who would want to lug around something that big?
The uniformity of weapons and the fact that no one had heard anything suggested silencers had been involved all the way around, again like the ones in the old burial ground. Professional assassins acting in concert. Professionals also judging by the total anonymity of the corpses in the church, men whose clothing had even been stripped of labels.
But to what end?
What did two professional gunmen have in common with a divorced university professor of...
Rauch pushed aside a stack of papers on his desk, sheets that included yesterday's newspaper, last week's reports, and, quite likely, the wrapper for the pastry that had been breakfast.
A tidy desk was symptomatic of a small, if not sick, mind.
He found what he was looking for on top.
A professor of chemistry, now in business as an archaeological chemist, whatever that was.
The investigating officers had found the professors apartment a wreck, obviously searched. He regarded his own office, where paper covered everything. Well, most likely searched, anyway.
For what?
The phone on his desk rang. It took two more rings for him to find the thing under—what else—a stack of papers on the credenza behind his desk. "Ja?"
He listened carefully. He might not waste his time with useless order in his office, but his investigations were not only orderly, they were organized and thought out. Already men were at the bank denoted by check stubs at the professor's apartment to look at deposits, ascertain who had paid Hen Doktor for what lately. The fingerprint crew was working on the shell casings, and the area around the church searched for anyplace a weapon might have been dumped. Even this early, one Of his men had found what might be a clue.
The inspector took his suit jacket from where he had tossed it onto a chair and headed downstairs.
In the basement he entered a windowless room with a table and four chairs bolted to the cement floor. The room stank of stale sweat and tobacco smoke, although no one had dared light up, in view of the inspector's feelings about cigarettes. Two unter inspectors were watching a third man draw on an easel as a fourth described a face. The two policemen displayed eyes rimmed with red, and beard stubble, testimony to being roused out of bed and given assignments in the small hours.
In front of each person was a paper cup containing a brownish liquid that passed for coffee at the station. Rauch was certain it was poisonous—or, at least, not proper Viennese coffee, which amounted to the same thing.
"Am Morgen," the younger of the two policemen murmured without enthusiasm as Rauch entered the room.
"This is Herr Jasto Schattner, the owner of the Koenig Bakery restaurant near the Stephansplatz. He knows— knew—Herr Doktor Shaffer. The professor had dinner there last night with someone."
Rauch nodded to the drawing pad.
"That's him, according to Herr Schattner, the man who had dinner with the victim last night. He spoke only English."
Rauch said, "See that a copy is circulated. If he is a foreigner, I am particularly interested in your taking it to the hotels."
Both younger inspectors slumped slightly. There must be a thousand hotels in and around the city.
Hans and Fritz, the inspector thought. The original Katzenjammer Kids, these two. Any assignment that involved leaving the meager comforts of the station house was greeted as a form of privation. "Not so glum, lads. Antiquated as we may be, we do have a fax machine."
The pair brightened noticeably.
"And the various Bahnhof und Flughof."
Even though there were only a limited number of train stations and one airport, the two returned to expressions of being imposed upon like a host whose guests wouldn't go home.
Rauch turned to go, stopped, and looked over his shoulder. "Danke, Herr Schattner."
Rauch was relieved to depart the stench and confines of the room.
THIRTY-FIVE
Peachtree Center
227 Peachtree Street
Atlanta, Georgia
The Next Afternoon
Lang Reilly scooped up a stack of pink message slips from his secretary's desk with the hand not holding his briefcase.
Without meeting Sara's eyes, he slunk into his inner office and shut the door, a warning that he was in a foul mood.
Pissed off and tired would have been a more accurate description. As he had made a hasty exit from the crypt of the Michaelerkirche, Sara had been explaining via BlackBerry why his presence was needed in Atlanta, a departure from Vienna that, under the circumstances, had a certain appeal. The real reason for his immediate return home was that Judge Adamson had chosen today for a hearing on those few motions in the mayor's case he had not already denied out of hand.
Lang had paused only long enough to wipe the Desert Eagle clean of fingerprints and deposit it in the first trash bin on his way back to the hotel.
As usual, he had arrived home in a state of sleep deprivation. This morning he had climbed into the Porsche and noted the odometer had mysteriously crept forward, no doubt a result of entrusting the keys to the condo's carhops.
He would have to remember to retrieve the extra set of keys.
His first stop had been at the federal courthouse, where his day took a decided turn for the worse.
Lang had never grown accustomed to the fact that a man could practice law for twenty years and, when, Christ-like, he ascended to the bench, chew out one of his former fellow practitioners for doing the same thing the judge had done for his own clients: filing a multitude of motions in hopes that denial of one or more might be grounds for a future appeal should trial not prove fruitful. Lang knew it was going to happen, had come to expect it, but a tongue-lashing from a man who, until a year ago, had been a mere mortal, one far less successful (if more political) than Lang, was not recommended as an enhancer of the spirit.
It was enough to ruin the disposition of a saint.
If any had been members of the Atlanta bar.
Lang's travails had not ended there. Before he could escape to his car, he had to endure the critique of his perpetually displeased client.
It was quite understandable that Sara peeked around the door rather than entering. "Don't forget tonight. You need to get your tux from the cleaners and pick up Ms. Warner at eight."
She disappeared before Lang could react.
Another item to try his soul: In his absence Alicia had called to invite him to some charity function, where the recipient foundation would receive some small percentage of the costs of drinks and dinner.
And no part of whatever the ladies spent on new gowns, coiffures, and manicures.
Somehow Alicia had enlisted Sara's connivance to search his calendar and confirm the date. Sara had always been protective of his personal life. It must have taken true advocacy to sway her over to Alicia's side.
He was secretly delighted he would see her again, but forced to feign outrage lest Sara commandeer his future social life.
Once the mayor finally departed, Lang walked to the door, opening it. "Sara, I'm taking the rest of the day off. If you really need me I'll be hying to overcome jet lag at home."
Hours later, resplendent in a shawl-lapeled tuxedo and alligator dancing pumps, Lang pulled the Porsche under the granite-sided porte cochère of Atlanta's oldest and most prestigious club, the Piedmont Driving Club. A bastion of father-to-son, male-only WASPs for over a hundred years, the club had finally relented to the social conscience only the rich could afford and admitted Jews, blacks, women, and people whose last names ended in vowels—even some whose ancestors might have arrived a bit late to serve under Bobby Lee during the War of Northern Aggression. Or worse, Yankees. So had political correctness slain another quaint and relatively harmless tradition.
The problem with a tardy rush to apparent diversity had immediately become apparent: The wealthiest of Atlanta's black community had already joined other formerly all-white organizations. The hefty initiation fees made becoming racial tokens multiple times less than attractive. A scramble by the more liberal members to find suitable new initiates finally produced a ratio of black members that, compared with other, lesser Atlanta clubs, was still minuscule.
When her door was opened by the uniformed attendant, Alicia alighted with more grace than most Porsche passengers by swinging both legs out simultaneously. Lang wondered where she had learned that.
They entered a marble-floored entranceway filled with what looked to be Federalist antiques. Three stair-steps at the end and to the right and they stood in a marble foyer. The baroque molding lining the twenty-five-foot ceiling could have stood up to any Lang had seen in Vienna. A massive crystal chandelier was a galaxy of diamonds overhead.
It was only as Lang and Alicia were following the sound of music down another marble corridor that he noticed how very well her gown fit. He had no idea of its brand name, but it was one of those jobs that was enticingly short on top and very long on bottom, a sort of sea green material that resembled spun sugar. A double strand of pearls draped just above enticing décolletage.
Ahead was the ballroom, the huge, high-ceilinged dance floor polished by the feet of the city's elite for generations. To their right was a small oak-paneled bar where a few hardy members clutched their bourbon- and-waters as talismans against the intrusion of the great unwashed.
The money the club made from rentals to groups like tonight's was received somewhat more graciously.
Several hundred people were seated around the ballroom's perimeter, while a band played from a stage at the far end. A tuxedo-clad maître d' showed them to their table and signaled a waiter who had a tray of champagne flutes.
Alicia was gazing around the room.
"Come here often?" Lang asked.
"Once or twice a year some organization I belong to has a party here. You?"
"I've been here before."
She was looking at the band. "But it's so ... so elegant. It was founded in 1889 as a place for members to drive their carriages. Piedmont Park next door was a part of the property. The club gave it to the city for the Great Cotton Exhibition in the 1890s. The president attended, had lunch here. So did John Philip Sousa."
Lang smiled. "You're certainly knowledgeable."
"Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh were entertained here after the premiere of Gone with the Wind."
"I'll bet Hattie McDaniel, who played Mammy, wasn't."
Alice looked at him disapprovingly. "Retroactive political correctness. It's unfair to impose our mores on yesterday's institutions."
"Like slavery?"
Ignoring him, she exchanged her empty glass for a full one from another champagne-bearing waiter. "It's one of the few places left in the city with any historical significance. Plus it's so ..."
"Elegant?"
"I think I said that."
"Elegant surroundings, impeccable service, abysmal food."
She treated him to bottomless green eyes. "Surely there's more to this place than food."
"Thankfully." He cocked his head as the band began a tune Frank Sinatra had made famous, one slow enough not to require terpsichorean exploits. "Dance?"
As they moved around the floor, he nearly stumbled over her feet as she insisted on trying to lead.
"Sorry I'm not Fred Astaire," he apologized sarcastically.
"I'm not exactly Ginger Rogers, either."
He gently tugged her in the opposite direction from that in which she was heading. "At least she let him lead."
She nodded. "Yeah, but remember: Everything Fred did, Ginger did backward."
"Feminist!" He sniffed.
"Okay, okay." She giggled. "Enough of the old movies."
He stepped back to lead her from the dance floor. "And enough dancing, before I break your foot."
When they returned to their table, an Asian woman of indeterminate age was placing salads at each place. She looked up with a wide smile. "Eve'n, Mista Reilly!"
Lang pulled Alicia's chair out and smiled back. "Evening, Lo Sin."
Seated, Alicia looked at the departing back of the waitress, then at Lang and back to Lo Sin as the light dawned. "You're a member!" It sounded more accusation than question. "You didn't te
ll me!"
Lang picked up his salad fork. "You didn't ask."
She regarded him quizzically for a moment and then burst out laughing. "Here I was touting this place and you belong here."
"I'm not sure I fit, let alone belong."
Mischief twinkled in those emerald eyes. "You mean you're not an heir of one of Atlanta's oldest families?"
He made quotation marks with his fingers. "I didn't go to the 'right' private school, either."
"Then how...?"
"Through absolutely no merit of my own, I became CEO of a large charitable foundation. Members here are mostly old money, a few new money. Best of all is lots of money. Or, at least, access to it. I was actually asked to join. It's a nice place to take clients for lunch, but I wouldn't want to eat dinner here."
"Clients? You mean those... those..."
"Criminals?"
"That's a polite word, yes."
"They aren't criminals until a jury says so."
"A fine point."
"No, the United States Constitution. Now, are we going to argue or are you going to finish your salad? Trust me, it's likely to be the best part of dinner."
It was.
Shortly after midnight Lang drove up the condominium's drive and, waving off the carhop, down the ramp to the residents' parking.
"Wouldn't it be easier to let the boy park your car?" Alicia asked.
Lang nodded as he pulled into the space where his unit number was stenciled on the wall. "Easier but not wiser."
She gave him an inquiring look, which he ignored.
Once they were upstairs, Grumps enthusiastically inspected the visitor, tail wagging furiously.
"You'll get dog hair on your dress," Lang cautioned as he poured from a Scotch bottle.
Alicia was squatting, bringing her eyes level with the dog's. "That's why dry cleaners are in business."
She stroked Grumps's long nose and began scratching his chin. "How did you come up with the name?"
