by Gregg Loomis
Lang watched him retreat inside without really noticing. Loyal. Sect. Zionist. It had happened before: silencing a member of the faction deemed disloyal. Once one was emboldened by one or two murders, killing as a means of silencing people who had no relationship to the group became progressively easier, a progression from warning shots in Underground Atlanta to permanently silencing someone.
Of course, the Essenes could be just one of many of the small and various types of Judaism, and Zwelk simply a thief or a very poor administrator.
Could be.
But Lang didn't think so.
The murdered scientists had not been killed because of what they were discovering, but because of what that discovery might include.
He was so deep in thought, he didn't notice the young boy park his bicycle at the curb, walk across the pub's lawn, and stop at the table.
"Mr. Reilly?"
Lang turned his head to see a redheaded, freckle-faced, pudgy child of eleven or twelve.
"Yes?"
The youth handed him an envelope. "This is for you."
Reflexively Lang reached for it. "From whom?"
The kid pointed to a dark Audi idling at the far curb. It drove off immediately, its tag too far away to read.
Lang opened the envelope. At first he thought it was empty. Then a ringlet of red hair fell out.
It was not the messenger's.
The emerald ring Sara had mentioned and Alicia's unexplained absence from work came together in a revelation that almost made Lang gag.
He grabbed the boy's wrist. "Who are the people who gave you this?"
The child struggled but could not break free. "I don' know, honest I don', they give me five quid and th' envelope, point to you. You're hurting me!"
Lang realized he was telling the truth and let go. The child was rubbing his wrist as he backed away, as though afraid Lang would seize him again.
Lang was on his BlackBerry when Jacob returned, no longer caring how many people tracked the call. "Sara? Yeah, it's me. Hate to bother you on the weekend. Listen: Monday, I want you to drop whatever you're doing. Call the DOJ, find out if Alicia Warner has been to work in the last week." He nodded as though his secretary could see him. "Yeah, I know, but use whatever pretext you can. Thanks."
Jacob slid into his chair. "A bit dodgy, y'know, using that thing. The Essenes, or whoever, could trace you here if they're still tapped into—"
"They already have," Lang said, shoving the envelope and its contents across the table.
FIFTY
New Scotland Yard
Broadway
London
At the Same Time
Inspector Fitzwilliam was trying to control the foul mood working on weekends always produced. He recognized as irrational his feeling of guilt as he had kissed his wife, Shan- don, good-bye as he left the flat this morning. He should have been disappointed at not being able to join her on the trip to Manchester to see the new grandchild. But then, squalling, projectile-vomiting, and excreting babies were not his favorite creatures, no matter how close the kinship. Let nannies, or even the parents, do the necessary. He preferred to wait at least a year, until the child had some semblance of humanity, to make the acquaintance.
Even more illogical was the hostility he was feeling for his assistant, Patel, the author of the morning's balls-up.
Patel, eternally bright smile dividing the dark face, reeking of curry, stood behind the two chairs that faced the inspector's desk. If giving up his weekend bothered him, he didn't show it.
For the third time Fitzwilliam glanced at the report, the single paper on the faux wood of the government-issue desk. "I don't understand how you could have lost him."
Patel shrugged. "He is cunning, sah. As you know, I was one of a pair observing the barrister, Annueliwitz. We saw him come out of his residence at oh-seven-twenty-one. Or at least, a person wearing a man's overcoat drove the man's vehicle out of the car park. Naturally, sah, we followed, followed all the way to Notting Hill, sah. When the vehicle stopped in another car park, a woman later identified as Rachel Annueliwitz got out. Naturally I called in, and two more men were dispatched to watch the Annueliwitz residence, sah. So far we have not observed Mr. Annueliwitz."
Nor is it bleeding likely you will, Fitzwilliam thought, recognizing the onset of a headache. He could be out of the country with the American, Reilly, by now.
He sighed in resignation. "Very well. Keep the observers in position and let me know if anything happens."
"Sah!"
Patel did a near-military about-face and headed for the door.
"And Patel?"
He stopped in midstride and looked over his shoulder. "Sah?"
"Next time, try having one man follow the family auto and one man stay in position. Or, better yet, call for backup."
Fitzwilliam was treated to that infuriatingly good-natured smile. "Yassah!"
The inspector watched the door shut before he began the search for the aspirin bottle he kept in a desk drawer. He was not looking forward to informing his counterpart in Vienna, Rauch, that Scotland Yard had lost contact with its only lead to Reilly.
He found the bottle and took a tablet before he picked up the telephone. As he waited for the connection to be completed, he wondered just how much of a furor he would incur if he transferred Patel to one of the Yard's more remote offices in London, Wapping, for instance. If the man were white, not a word would be said.
But he wasn't, and the diversity people denied the existence of incompetence unless it was wrapped in a white skin.
The inspector took another aspirin before a voice came on the line.
FIFTY-ONE
Bull & Rose Public House
Abington
At the Same Time
Jacob looked at the lock of hair, puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand."
Lang explained to him while the replacement for his empty glass finally arrived. He was gratified to see Jacob putting his pipe away along with its assorted impedimenta.
Jacob held his own empty glass up for the waiter. "I look forward to meeting your new bird."
"I hope you do. First we've got work to do. Obviously Zwelk and his people have her."
"If he's the heavy in all this. Either way, I'd guess you'll be getting some kind of a demand shortly."
Lang leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Why, do you suppose, didn't I get one with the envelope?"
Jacob pursed his lips for a moment and then pointed to the BlackBerry still on the table. "I'd venture they want you to use that thing, verify the chippie has disappeared, before they start making demands."
"But that means they'll have to keep me in sight."
"No, that means you bloody well will want them to keep you in view rather than lose contact."
Lang thought about that. "I suppose they're watching now."
Both men resisted the impulse to turn around.
"Doesn't mean we can't start," Jacob said, standing as he drained his glass in a gulp. "Come along."
Lang followed suit. "Where?"
"On a bleeding holiday, lad."
Minutes later they were strolling along the river's grassy bank. Shortly past the lock, Jacob stopped at a dock to which five or six gaily painted rowboats were tied, each with a tiny outboard motor bolted to the transom. A cloth banner overhead advertising boats to rent by the hour hardly moved in the still air.
"Ever cruised the Thames?" Jacob asked.
"No, never thought about it."
"Great pity. The fact that just above London it narrows into little more than a stream with a slow current makes it an ideal day trip or a week's excursion, depending on how far you want to go. Boats have the right to tie up anywhere along the banks, and you can cruise from Maidenhead all the way to the bogs in Hertfordshire. Great way to visit Hampton Court, Oxford, et cetera."
Lang was watching Jacob hand a credit card to the man on the dock. "I'll remember that."
He glanced around, un
able to distinguish anyone suspicious among the boaters, picnickers, or others out to enjoy a beautiful day.
Once on the river Jacob opened the little motor all the way, propelling the craft at what Lang guessed was slightly less than three knots. The river was as crowded as the lock. Racing hulls, rowboats, and other small craft, along with an occasional long, slender canal boat, all traveled at the same stately pace. Lang noted the number of houses along the water, as varied as the boats on it. A small cottage there, a Tudor mansion here.
From his seat in the bow, he turned to where Jacob was steering with one hand and talking into a cell phone held by the other. "This is swell, but I don't see how a river cruise is going to—"
Jacob took a hand from the motor's handle to wave him into silence. The little boat rocked dangerously.
Without speaking, Jacob made a sweeping U-turn and continued to retrace their course for a minute before turning back around. Lang was about to risk another near swamping when he realized Jacob was making straight for a willow-framed boathouse in front of a white-frame Georgian. The door swung upward and the rowboat's motor went silent as the little dinghy's momentum carried them inside. Immediately the door came down again.
Lang was letting his eyes adjust to the relative gloom that had replaced the bright sun reflecting from the river when Jacob spoke. "Guess you thought I'd gone round the bend, turning around out there."
"The thought crossed my mind."
Jacob was tying the craft to a cleat next to the slip. "Wanted to make sure our friends hadn't had the time to rent their own pleasure craft and crash the party." He climbed onto a wooden deck. "C'mon inside."
Lang did as he was bidden. "But I thought we wanted them to know where I Was."
"They'll find us soon enough once we return the boat. Come along, now."
Lang followed his friend along the tree line to the house. A door opened as though by magic as they approached. Inside, a man held the door open. Despite the warmth of the day he wore a tatty wool sweater. The white of the shirt underneath showed through a network of holes. Wordlessly he led Lang and Jacob along a corridor devoid of furniture or furnishings. The rooms were equally empty.
Safe houses all had a certain barren similarity, Agency or Mossad.
At the end of the hall their guide opened a door, revealing a flight of stairs. Halfway down a wave of cool air washed over them. They entered a room totally dark other than the flickering screens of banks of computers. In the murk Lang got only the impression of operators.
Jacob seated himself in front of one, motioning Lang to sit beside him. Their guide disappeared into the darkness.
Jacob began booting up. "Nice country estate, don't you think? Office extension for those weary of the city."
How a computer room in the English countryside differed from the one at Mossad's part of the Israeli embassy in London escaped Lang.
Jacob's machine flickered to life. Lang watched the screen. To his surprise Jacob called up the Internet just as anyone with the capability might do.
"Don't tell me we're shopping on Amazon."
Jacob didn't turn his head from the monitor. "Nothing that complicated. You'll note I'm calling up Google."
"You're going to Google Zwelk?"
"Not exactly. But I am using a site any bloke connected to the Net can use."
Lang watched as what appeared to be a satellite picture of brown earth filled the screen. "What are we looking at?"
"Israel. More specifically, a part of it near the Gaza Strip."
Lang watched as Jacob narrowed the focus with each click of the keyboard. He could see the brown of the desert that was Palestinian Gaza meet the green of Israel's cultivated fields and orchards. Many people remarked on the success of Jewish agriculture in the desert while the land across the border remained empty sand. The reason, he knew, was not a difference in desire or ability; it was the irrigation system that fed Jewish farms but was denied their Arab neighbors.
A cluster of ten or so flat roofs was now clearly visible, with a little whitewashed wall showing. The angle of the satellite was directly overhead so that shadows, rather than profiles, defined objects.
"Maximum resolution," Jacob announced. "This is Zwelk's kibbutz in real time. If he has your lady friend, she's in one of those buildings."
Fascinated, Lang stared at the screen. "You mean anyone with a computer can look down anywhere?"
"If he has the coordinates or, in the civilized world, an address. Of course, the system isn't so helpful at night or on cloudy days."
Privacy: available only during the evening hours or inclement weather.
Silently the two men watched a small herd of animals, Lang guessed sheep or goats, being driven somewhere. A person, sex undeterminable at this angle, walked out of one of the houses and into another.
Jacob pointed to a building in the middle of the compound. "See the extra vehicles? Something's going on in there. Unusual for Shabbat. I'd guess if she's there, those cars belong to her guards."
"That or they're celebrating the Sabbath."
"Possible," Jacob conceded, "but these people are ultraconservative, believe in strict observance. That would prohibit all work, including driving. I'd bet those cars and trucks have been there since sundown yesterday, and there's only one reason I can think of why there would be more than one per house: alternating guard duty."
Lang agreed. "Can you print this out?"
"Better. I can print out what you're seeing as well as everything within a couple of miles. Surely you're not thinking what I think you're thinking."
Lang grinned. "Of course I am. You coming along?"
Jacob sighed as he centered the cursor on the print icon. "Why not? I haven't been back home in a long, long time."
"What about Rachel?"
Jacob looked into Lang's face. "You don't really think I'd tell her where I was going and why, do you? Why, the old love would have a fit." Or worse, Lang added mentally, insist on coming along.
7
FIFTY-TWO
Ben Gurion International Airport
Lod, Israel
Fifteen kilometers south of Tel Aviv
Monday Evening
The Gulfstream slid down the glide slope in the early evening darkness. The western horizon still bore the angry red scar of the desert sun. Across the aisle, soft snores came from one of the seats that reclined to horizontal. Lang had offered Jacob the use of the single small bedroom suite on board the aircraft, but he had protested that flying in such luxury was too unique an experience to be so wasted.
An hour out of Marseille, he was sound asleep.
In view of the police's interest in him, Lang had insisted on driving from London to Dover, then through the Channel to Paris, where they met the foundation's jet at a fixed base operator at Charles de Gaulle rather than risk the scrutiny of security in the main terminal.
Israel was another matter.
Without Jacob, no matter whom Lang's passport declared him to be nor how large the private jet on which he arrived, he would be subjected to identification by thumbprint, facial recognition scanning, and other procedures of which he would be unaware. The Couch identity on his passport was backed up by the best false information the Agency could provide when it had been issued two years ago.
Israeli security rarely stopped at the obvious, though. Lang knew that even the most cursory investigation of worldwide computer records would show that, for at least twenty-four months, Joel Couch of Macon, Georgia, had used none of his credit cards, made no bank deposits, and incurred no utility bills. Without the intercession of Jacob's Mossad friends, facial identity and fingerprints alone would match those of a man in whom the Vienna police had an interest.
Despite Jacob's assurances, Lang could not dispel the jitters until the two men were ensconced in a Mercedes limousine dispatched to fetch them by Jacob's former employer. He would have preferred the anonymity of simply meeting the Egged Bus Cooperative line at its exit on Sharon Street in Air
port City and riding the shuttle that ran to Tel Aviv's Hotel Row.
"Don't be daft," Jacob had said. "You take the bleedin' bus an' Zwelk'll know you're here before you even get into town."
"He's not expecting us," Lang said.
Jacob shook his head. "If he has access to Echelon, he's got somebody in Mossad, somebody who might trip to the search I had run on him. And who's to say he doesn't have access to the photo that's taken of every arrival?"
Good advice, Lang recalled from his Agency training. One of the best ways to cease being a living fool was to assume the ignorance of your opponent.
You likely became a dead fool.
The Mercedes exited the airport road in the middle of the city. The windshield was filled with high-rises, modern buildings picketing the blue Mediterranean now turning an oily black in the twilight. They turned away from the sea to proceed down Rothschild Boulevard, lined with large and expensive-looking town houses and towering office buildings. Lang recognized the logos of IBM and AT&T among other letters of American industrial alphabet soup. The inhabitants' driving reminded Lang of Rome or Naples: Horns were preferred to brakes.
The Mercedes glided across three lanes of aggressive traffic and slid down an entrance ramp under a glass-and-steel tower, which turned out to be a residence building that would have fit unnoticed into Manhattan's Upper East Side.
Once out of the elevator, Lang followed Jacob down a hall of identical doors until he stopped in front of one distinguishable only by its number. Lang suspected the similarity with its neighbors stopped at the door as he set down his single bag. Few apartments on the street were likely to have door locks as sophisticated as bank vaults, nor would they have steel mesh just inside the windows, letting in light but screening out unpleasant items such as grenades that might somehow make their way through glass that was probably bulletproof.
In a corner of the unfurnished living room were two packages. Jacob inspected each carefully and started to carry the larger toward the back of the apartment. "Like something left by Saint Nick, what? You'll be wanting to open yours."
