by Gregg Loomis
Vienna
The Next Afternoon
Haupt Inspector Karl Rauch was in mid -Jause, that afternoon break the Viennese took to enjoy coffee and pastry. Today the inspector was alternately nibbling at Bischofsbrot as he sipped coffee from Eils, the coffeehouse patronized largely by government officials and lawyers. Where else but in Vienna would such places exist, separate from establishments frequented by such diverse groups as writers, actors, bridge players, musicians, students, artists, and athletes?
He had cleared a space on his desk for three pieces of paper: the artist's drawing, a copy of a bill for a room at the Imperial Hotel, and a reproduction of an American passport issued to one Langford Reilly from the hotel's guest registry. The quality of the latter was too poor to definitely match the passport photo and the sketch. He swiveled his desk chair to face a computer monitor and sighed, knowing his next cup would be the swill from the machine downstairs, and licked his fingers free of the last trace of sponge cake filled with nuts, raisins, fruit glace, and chocolate chips.
It took only a few minutes of searching the international crime database before Herr Langford Reilly's name appeared. Kidnapped in Belgium? Involved in a shooting in Amsterdam? All within a week or so of having dinner with a murder victim in Vienna? Herr Reilly seemed to tow violence behind him like the wake of a ship.
A few more taps of the keyboard brought up the American FBI's criminal data index. Rauch was less than surprised to see Reilly's name there, too. Over the last four or five years a number of people in the world had wanted Mr. Reilly dead.
Why?
Half an hour in cyberspace provided no answers. Langford Reilly was… What was the American word? A lawyer-a lawyer who defended people accused of high- dollar crime: embezzlement, fraud, bribery. That might incite someone to try to kill him. But half a dozen people? Reilly also headed the Janice and Jeff Holt Foundation, a charity specializing in medical care for children in third-world countries and, lately, doing research in alternatives to fossil fuel.
Laudable goals.
Hardly an inspiration to murder.
So, what was it about the American that brought death and chaos?
The Dutch and Belgian authorities had had no reason to detain him, but Rauch did: He was possibly the last person to see Dr. Shaffer alive. Unfortunately, Herr Reilly had concluded whatever business he had in Vienna and, according to the desk clerk at the Imperial, checked out in the late evening, even though he would be charged for the night. The doorman remembered the generous tip he received for summoning a cab to take Reilly to the airport.
An abrupt departure from an expensive hotel was hardly a crime, but certainly suspicious.
Rauch swung back around to gaze out of the window at nothing in particular. Was that suspicion sufficient to start the mass of bureaucratic paperwork for an extradition warrant? If Reilly proved innocent, Rauch would have to justify the cost of a round-trip ticket from America to tightfisted superiors. Alternatively, he had no other leads and was unlikely to uncover any.
Rauch knew the answer of government employees worldwide: Let his immediate superior make the decision.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Park Place
2660 Peachtree Road
Atlanta, Georgia
That Evening
A glass of single-malt Scotch in hand and clad in a sport shirt rather than a clerical collar, Father Francis Narumba stood on Lang's balcony, gazing south across the city. " Deorum cibus est, Lang. Best meal I've had since…"
He intentionally left the sentence unfinished. "Since Gurt left?" Lang was wiping his hands on a dish towel. Amantes sunt amentesP
"Lovers may be lunatics. I obviously wouldn't know. But anytime you want to talk about it…"
Lang shook his head as he joined his friend in viewing the panorama. "Don't spoil a good meal."
"It was that. How'd you improve your culinary skills so quickly?"
Lang reached behind him, producing a highly varnished wooden box. "Easy. Instead of cooking, I pick up a couple of prepared dinners at Whole Foods or eatZi's."
He was referring to two of the neighborhood's more upscale groceries/delicatessens, where shoppers listened to opera as they selected applewood-smoked bacon and Jarlsberg quiches at $12.50 a slice.
Lang opened the box, revealing a row of cigars. "Would you like to finish off dinner with a Cubano, a Montecristo number two?"
The priest made a selection and held it out while Lang clipped and lit it before his own.
"It's a good thing we do this only every month or so," Francis commented between puffs. "I wouldn't want to declare myself a smoker the next time I filled out an insurance application."
"You mean the Church doesn't provide health insurance?"
"Even the Church can't afford catastrophic health problems. It buys insurance for its employees like any other business."
"I guess relying on prayer and the laying on of hands is a little risky."
"Mus non uni fidit antro, or, in the vernacular, a wise person always has a backup plan."
The two men enjoyed the aroma of fine tobacco for a moment before Francis asked, "I suppose you got these illegally."
"A mere peccadillo against an unreasonable government."
"Facinus quos inquinat aequat."
"Okay, so I'm a criminal no matter how slight the offense. I suppose you don't want to further enjoy the fruits of unlawful activity."
Francis contemplated the tip of his cigar, a red period on the night's page. "I didn't say that. Besides, I can always confess my sinful complicity, a measure unavailable to the apostate."
Lang watched the smoke drift in the breezeless evening for a moment. "Now that I've furnished food, drink, and a fine smoke…"
"The necessities of life."
"Whatever. I've got something I'd like you to look over."
Francis gave a theatrical groan. "By now I should expect quid pro quo, particularly from a lawyer and a heretic."
Stepping across the room, Lang moved the telephone to a place in front of one of the speakers for the CD player, selected a disk, and turned up the volume. Hope they enjoy Vivaldi, he thought to himself.
"Hey" he said to Francis, "you're the one learned in church history. Presumably that includes the Old Testament."
Francis looked from Lang to the CD player and back again. He had long ago conceded he would never understand some of the weird things his friend did-like turning the sound up instead of down before beginning a conversation.
"Even a heretic can learn," Francis said good-naturedly, reaching for the papers.
Inside, Lang fussed with the dishes while Francis read the translation of what Lang had come to call the Hebrew parchments.
When Francis stood to refill his glass, Lang asked, "Well?"
The priest measured his drink with the care of one fully aware of just how much liquor he could safely hold. "You never cease to amaze me. For a heathen you unearth some of the most startling religious relics. Who translated this?"
"A friend in London, a Jewish friend."
"And the provenance?"
"So far, unknown."
"What makes you think they're genuine?"
Lang almost answered that he doubted people would be getting killed over a historical practical joke, but he shared as little of the more violent side of his life as possible. Even though he was sure his friend would understand, Lang was never in a mood to hear the string of homilies on the virtues of nonviolence that would follow.
"You're the one in the faith business. Assume they're real."
Francis looked around to make sure he wasn't stepping on Grumps and sat down.
He read for a few minutes. "First, it's no surprise that Moses was no Jew. Exodus two: nineteen, I think."
"Moses, the Jews' great lawgiver, not a Jew himself?"
"Exodus says not."
Fascinated, Lang sat at the kitchen bar, facing the small living room and his guest. "Then who was he?"
"A good qu
estion. Akhenaten, son of Amenhotep III by Queen Tiyre, a descendant of Esau, elder brother of Jacob, who became Israel."
Lang took a drink. "You've lost me."
"Sorry. As your documents state and some biblical scholars have long thought, Moses was actually of royal blood. In fact, the Egyptian word Mose means 'royal.' The ancient Greek is Mosis. There are only clues. For instance, he was raised in the royal household of a pharaoh."
"I thought he was found in a basket, where he'd been hidden to avoid the killing of Israelite babies."
Francis winked over his glass. "You'd never make that stand up in court To accept it, we must also accept that Pharaoh's daughter conspired to frustrate her father's orders, and that Moses's sister just happened to be nearby when he was found, even though she is never specifically identified. Later on, we learn of a Miriam who is described as a sister of both Moses and Aaron. The basket story is most likely an explanation of how an Israelite grew up in the royal household. Within a few years the new pharaoh, Akhenaten, rejected the polytheism of Egyptian religion, worshiping a single god represented by a sunlike disk. The new king closed the temples, infuriating the powerful priests. The swell of public opinion forced his abdication at a time about ten years before Moses's reappearance, still giving allegiance to the single god with no name. Could Akhenaten and Moses be one and the same?
"The Israelites might be willing to follow a former pharaoh, even one who lacked the usual oratorical skill attributed to most biblical leaders. See Exodus three: twelve."
"Wait a minute," Lang said, his cigar dead and forgotten in an ashtray. "Are you telling me that Moses was actually an Egyptian pharaoh?"
Francis was looking around for a relight for his own smoke. Lang tossed him a box of wooden matches. "The dates for Akhenaten, who became Amenhotep IV match, as do the dates when the new king closed all the temples. Consider that the single-god king was deposed about the same time Moses was banished and returned about the same time. Then there was the snake thing. Moses obviously knew the tricks of the court magicians, knowledge the royal court would have been unlikely to share with some maker of bricks.
"Look at the papers you've given me. They use 'Moses' and 'Pharaoh' interchangeably."
"So, they were the same?"
Francis shrugged. "No way to tell for sure. But there is a certain logic: Egypt forced a monotheistic ruler out. From the dates on the various stelae in front of tombs and obelisks, we know the dates fit Amenhotep Four, previously known as Akhenaten. Interestingly, his tomb has never been found, although those of his predecessor and successor have. Perhaps because he was buried in Sinai by his new followers. Anyway, the Israelites, historically monotheistic, would have followed such a person."
"And you call me a heretic."
Francis smiled. "I don't think the Church cares a lot about the genealogy of Moses, only that he was one of many Old Testament figures who set the stage for the coming of the Messiah."
"But why would a former king want such a following? I mean, the Israelites were slaves, right?"
"No, not if we read Exodus. Joseph, the man of the many-colored coat, you may recall, was sold into slavery in Egypt, but he did well, became a confidant of that particular pharaoh, and invited his family to join him. Over the years between Joseph, who became Israel, and Moses-slash-Akhenaten, they were one of the many groups that had immigrated."
"Like the U.S.," Lang said, standing to refill his glass at the sink. Grumps gave a low growl of displeasure at having to move from under his master's feet. "Like all immigrants who came here."
Francis held his glass out for a refill also. "One more and I've got to go. But yes, sort of like having Israelite-Egyptians, Nubian-Egyptians, all those hyphenated things some people use today because it feeds some sort of insecurity, as though simply being American isn't enough. One difference, though: The Egyptian immigrants probably became part of the country over many hundreds and hundreds of years, not just a couple of centuries. I'm afraid I have no comments on the gold and manna part of your papers. You'll need a chemist or physicist."
Lang wasn't about to mention the fates of the ones who had already been involved.
"Again, though," Lang persisted, "why would a former king want followers who were just brick makers?"
Francis drained his glass and stood. "Have you ever seen a politician refuse a constituency? Besides, he believed in the one God, as did they."
He moved to the door, extending a hand. "Fine food, good cigar, great company. As always. Thanks." "Sure you won't have another wee tot?"
The priest shook his head. "God may be my copilot, but if I get stopped I'm the one who gets the DUI. The diocese frowns on the bishop having to get his minions out of the slammer at strange nocturnal hours."
Lang stood at the door until he heard the chime of the elevator.
An hour later Lang lay on his back, listening to Grumps's snores. Reflections of passing traffic below played across the ceiling like some abstract black-and-white film.
Moses, who was not an Israelite but a king.
Israelites who were not Jews but Egyptians.
The form that had begun to emerge from the fog in Vienna still had no face, but it was getting clearer.
Vienna?
What was the name Shaffer had mentioned?
Bin Hamish in Cairo, a man who supposedly could explain the energy potential of the white powder.
Lang got out of bed and went into the living room, where a laptop sat on the desk part of the Thomas Elfe secretary. It took nearly an hour before Lang found the man he was certain Shaffer had had in mind.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Park Place
2660 Peachtree Road
Atlanta, Georgia
The Next Morning
Lang was on the phone before he was dressed, making airline reservations to Vienna via Paris. When he was finished he called the foundation's pilot and requested he prepare the Gulfstream for the same trip.
Whoever had placed the bug in the condo would not know he had no intention of going to either place.
Showered and dressed, he removed a panel from the back of the bedside table's drawer and removed a passport with his picture and the name of Joel Couch of Macon, Georgia. It purported to have been issued five years earlier by the United States Department of State. Only the picture bore any relation to the truth. In fact, the document had been issued at Gurt's request by the Agency's Frankfurt office three years ago, when she and Lang had both needed to travel under names other than their own. With it were a driver's license, a membership card to a health club, two credit cards now expired, an ATM card, and a wallet-size snapshot of a little girl he had never seen, presumably Couch's daughter.
Ratting the passport against the palm of a hand, he wondered if the intruder who had left the listening device had found the false back of the drawer and noted the Couch name. It was a chance he'd simply have to take.
He drove out of the condo and turned north instead of south toward downtown and his office. Stopping at a branch bank, where he made a substantial cash withdrawal, he drove a mile or so farther and parked the Porsche at Lenox Square, a high-end mall that included a Delta Airlines reservation office. The shopping center's doors were just opening for the day.
He was aware that paying for tickets in cash was sure to invite the attention of the Transportation Safety people, but a search of his baggage and person was the price he would pay for leaving whoever might be watching behind. He was fairly certain the Agency's passport would pass scrutiny both in appearance and in verifying the number.
He would, then, be traveling as Joel Couch, an eccentric who abhorred that most American of conveniences, the credit card.
Ticket in the pocket of his jacket, he stopped at a Starbucks to watch the mall slowly fill. He could see no one who showed any interest in him. He emptied his cup of a liquid that tasted more like confection than coffee, as well it should.
He smiled as he walked out, imagining one of the inner city's panh
andlers: "Hey, mister! Can you spare five bucks for a large chilled Kenyan mocha?"
That evening he had dinner at Alicia's. She lived in a small town house in Vinings, a residential community across the Chattahoochee River. It had a past as a semi- rural locale that included a few quaint cottages and a train station. The station was now an expensive boutique. Condos and gated subdivisions, equally indistinguishable, had reduced whatever bucolic aesthetic there might have been to a single rambling clapboard cottage reminiscent of another age. The house had survived only as the site of an upscale restaurant specializing in entrees cooked in fruit jellies.
In jeans and a T-shirt designed to display her figure, Alicia met him at the door. Her hair, shoulder-length, framed her face. A emerald in the shape of a heart sparkled on her finger.
Lang gave her a perfunctory hug. "Don't you look nice! I don't remember the rock."
She let him in, closing the door and holding up her hand for inspection. "Don't usually wear it. It was an engagement ring, only good thing left of a bad marriage."
Lang followed her toward the back of the house, noting tasteful contemporary furniture punctuated with an occasional antique. "So why wear it tonight?"
She stopped so suddenly he almost ran into her. Turning, she took both of his hands in hers. "Because I'm through brooding about a failure. I'm in a new house in a new city and with a man who's fun and entertaining."
"I'm being damned with faint praise? Is that the female equivalent of, 'All the girls like her' or, 'She's a great cook'?"
"I'll bet it's the first nice thing anyone's said about you all day."
"Maybe. But my dog loves me."
She dropped one of his hands and led him to a small deck; a view of Atlanta's skyline serenely floated on a sea of trees. "Single-malt Scotch, if I recall."
He took the sweating glass she was offering. "It's clear to me there's nothing wrong with your memory."
There was an energy between them, the electricity a woman projected when she had something in mind more than an affectionate embrace. In college dorms Lang had participated in the ageless debate of whether a woman decided she would bed a man when she first met him, playing out the event like some sort of drama. Lang never knew the answer, but he had come to recognize the signals when a decision had been made to implement the choice. Tonight, as the saying went, he would get lucky.
