The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller

by Gregg Loomis

  CHAPTER 33

  A Few Minutes Later

  LANG'S AND FRANCIS'S EYES FOLLOWED GURT as she set a steaming dish of Sauerbraten surrounded by red cabbage on the dining-room table.

  Lang nodded to Francis. "Go ahead, but make it brief before dinner gets cold."

  "Uncle Fancy's gonna talk to God," Manfred announced.

  After briefly saying thanks and making sure Manfred was secure in his booster chair, all three adults sat down to eat. Grumps curled up under the table. Although feeding him here was strictly forbidden, small children frequently dropped things including morsels of food.

  "How did you know so much about reincarnation?" Gurt asked.

  Francis paused, fork in midair. "Vere scire est per causas scire."

  "He means knowledge lies in understanding causes," Lang explained. "Francis here has to understand all the various heresies, right? And if heresies ever cease, well, he might have to work for a living. Opus opificem probat."

  "Just as would you," the priest rejoined jovially, helping himself generously, "if people quit committing crimes." He turned to face Gurt. "That was a truly brave thing you did today."

  "Manus e nubibus," she said calmly, digging into her cabbage.

  Both men stared at her with open mouths before Francis said, "A hand from the clouds? Luck? I think not."

  Gurt and Lang exchanged glances, neither saying anything.

  The priest put down his fork, an unusual occurrence. "Look, I know there are things you don't talk about, but I've known you too long. You don't disable a man with a knife by luck any more than all the 'accidents' Lang has had were mere happenstance or that people were trying to kill him just because he made someone angry."

  Francis had witnessed a couple of those attempts during the brief time he had shared with Lang in Rome during what Lang referred to as the St. James Affair.

  "Lang im Glück, Lucky Lang, that's what they used to call me in Germany," Lang said before he saw Gurt's slight shake of the head.

  Francis knew enough about his friend Lang to realize there were substantial unexplained holes in his life, like the period between college and law school, when Francis suspected that Lang had worked for the Agency. The truth was that Lang had joined the Agency with visions of James Bond–like adventures, escapades throughout Europe involving beautiful women and Russian spies. Ironically, he found his Agency training truly useful only after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The fall of the Berlin Wall and Soviet implosion led to cutbacks at the Agency and to Lang's application to law school. When with the Agency, he had only been in trouble in enemy territory once, yet once he had left, he had been forced to kill a half-dozen men while battling Pegasus, the world's richest and most deadly corporation.

  He had met Gurt during his employment abroad but had married someone else. After his wife died of cancer, he and Gurt had renewed old acquaintances. She not only saved his life; she had salvaged it. Her skills were amazing. A martial arts master and an expert marksman, she had won the overall Agency championship four years in a row. She had given Lang love when he needed it most, comfort while he still mourned, a son he had abandoned hope of ever having. And the wildest sex he could have imagined.

  Francis knew little of this. To tell him would not only disturb a man of God but, possibly, endanger his life. It was possible, even likely, that there were still people out there who would like to see Lang dead even though his current life was confined to the law practice and being CEO of a huge charitable foundation, the latter funded by a less-than-voluntary contribution from the very thugs who had murdered his sister and nephew.

  For Francis, ignorance might not be bliss, but it was safe.

  Francis was helping himself to more Sauerbraten. "What do you suppose that guy, or guys, wanted with Wynn-Three, ransom?"

  Lang shook his head. "Or worse. Kidnapping celebrities gets some people off."

  Gurt leaned over to help Manfred cut a piece of meat even though the beef had been well tenderized after forty-eight hours of marinating. "He was not American."

  Both Francis and Lang stared, astonished by her for the second time that night.

  "How did you . . . ?" Lang began.

  "The shoes and socks. Few American wear black socks with—what do you say? Creepers?"

  "Sneakers?" Lang volunteered.

  "Ja, sneakers. Why are they called that? Do they aid in being furtive?"

  Gurt's mastery of the American idiom lagged behind her vocabulary.

  "I guess so," Lang said impatiently. "You're basing that on black socks?"

  "And the sneakers were not American ones. No one wears European sneakers anymore."

  Lang wasn't sure when Gurt had become a fashion maven, but her instincts in matters like this had proved correct more often than not. "Anything more specific?"

  She stared at her plate for a moment. "He is German, or at least speaks it as a first language."

  Lang's expression asked the obvious.

  "He only said a few words, something that would translate as 'get away' and then 'shit!' when his wrist I broke. The accent was Bavarian."

  Francis was fascinated. "You can tell where someone comes from with just a couple of words?"

  Lang knew she could. In his Agency days, differentiating between, say, a natural German and a German-speaking Russian was something every ops agent learned. Most could distinguish a West Berliner from his cousins on the other side of the wall by dress, idiom, even the way someone smoked a cigarette. Failure to notice clues of this sort could have been fatal in the shadowy world of Cold War espionage.

  Again, the almost imperceptible negative shake of the head before Gurt said, "It is a talent I have."

  Francis was contemplating the ruins of the Sauerbraten and apparently decided enough was, this time, enough. "Why do you suppose a German would be trying to kidnap that child?"

  "Same reason as a Pole or Czech or Korean: money," Lang ventured. "Or some sort or weirdo-thrill thing."

  Gurt stood to collect the dishes. "If the man—or men—came here just for Wynn-Three, they will again try."

  Grumps was out from under the table, tail a furious blur in anticipation of what might wind up in his bowl in the kitchen.

  Francis and Lang were on their feet, assisting. In years past, they would have enjoyed Cuban cigars before getting out of their seats. Manfred's arrival had resulted a mutual ban of tobacco products, including Gurt's Marlboros.

  "What makes you think they came here just for that purpose?" Francis wanted to know.

  "They had not been in this country long enough to wear clothes that would make them. What do you say? Mix in?"

  "Blend in," Lang suggested.

  "If they were here to commit a crime, would they not want to blend in unless they planned a quick return? And if they plan to go back to Germany quickly, they will try again quickly."

  Made sense, Lang thought. "Did you share that thought with the cops?"

  She shook her head. "The police accept only their own guesses."

  Unsaid was the corollary: an ordinary person would have made neither the observation nor the prediction. Expressing either would lead to questions neither Gurt nor Lang wanted to answer.

  "Should we not warn our neighbors?" Lang asked.

  Gurt paused in the kitchen door, near-empty platter in her hand as Grumps wiggled with the joy of what might be coming. "Warn them of what? That I am making the guess?"

  Lang knew what she meant: Gurt's suspicions would be discounted as the wildest of speculation unless her past experience was revealed and explained. It was a part of the past they had agreed to bury. That was the reason she had not shared her observations with Detective Morse, a man who already knew enough of what Lang wanted to forget.

  Duty to one's neighbor versus a new life. A difficult choice. Lang watched his son Manfred climb down from his chair at the table and made up his mind to let the past stay there.

  CHAPTER 34

  Atlanta Journal-Constitution
/>   Metro Section

  February 21

  ATTEMPTED KIDNAP IN PARK

  By Marcie Rollens, staff

  An apparent attempt was made to kidnap a three-year-old from an Atlanta park yesterday afternoon.

  Candace Verlon, a resident of Ansley Park, was treating her twins to an afternoon in nearby McClatchey Park when she noticed a white male attempting to drag another child into what police described as a white van. The attempt might have succeeded had another Ansley Park mother, Gurt Fuchs, not interceded.

  "It was like one of those kung-fu movies," Ms. Verlon said. "Gurt (Fuchs) hit and kicked the man until he had to let go."

  The suspect is in police custody but authorities have declined to identify him. Ms. Verlon described the man as "large and white-haired, too old for that sort of thing."

  The intended victim, Wynton Charles III, age three, is the same child featured in the Journal-Constitution Sunday as purportedly remembering a previous life as a prisoner in Auschwitz, the notorious Nazi death camp. Police declined to speculate if the two incidents are related.

  Detective Franklin Morse of the Atlanta Police Department's Homicide Squad said the investigation is continuing. Paige Charles, Wynton's mother, declined comment. The child's father is Wynton Charles Jr., an attorney with Swisher & Peele. Telephone calls to the Charles residence were not returned.

  Ms. Fuchs, also declining comment, is the wife of well-known criminal attorney Langford Reilly, who defended the City's previous mayor on bribery and corruption charges . . .

  CHAPTER 35

  United States District Court

  for the Northern District of Georgia

  Richard Russell Federal Building

  February 21

  9:42 A.M.

  "YOU FELLAS COULDN'T AGREE, I SEE no reason not to continue with the remaining jurors," Judge Craig announced. "I think the fairest thing is for me to interview the remaining five in camera, see if any of 'em have been tainted by that woman. That agreeable, gentlemen?"

  "Not for the plaintiffs," Buddy Karp was on his feet, doing a poor job of hiding his disappointment. "We insist on our right to have a full panel."

  Eight-Ball Edgar regarded him a moment, smiling. "First time I ever heard of a plaintiff's lawyer wanting more jurors than less."

  It was conventional wisdom that the more jurors on a panel, the harder to get a unanimous verdict, a fact favoring defendants.

  The judge chewed on the end of a pen for a second or two. "Your 'right,' Mr. Karp, is bounded by my discretion and my discretion tells me that wasting over a week of the court's time before declaring a mistrial does not serve the ends of justice. I'm sure my decision will be clear in the record for the Eleventh Circuit's review."

  "What about cautionary instructions?" Karp suggested weakly, the voice of a man simply going through the motions of a lost cause. "Give her instructions and let her stay."

  The judge shook his head. "I can't unscramble an egg, counselor. Now, is there anything else before I start an individual examination of the remaining jurors in chambers?" He looked from one counsel table to the other. "Guess not. Go downstairs and have a cup of some of the world's worst coffee. Be back in, say, twenty minutes."

  The judge's description of the coffee served in the building's basement cafeteria was accurate, but the brew did nothing to dim the glee of the two defense lawyers.

  "Rather be lucky than good," Glen Richardson said to Charlie Frisk. "We got rid of the worst juror on the panel."

  "And I doubt the Eleventh Circuit is going to find an abuse of discretion," Wynton added as he stirred a second packet of sweetener into his cup in the vain hope of overcoming the bitter taste.

  Frisk had been smart enough to opt for a Diet Coke. "So, we win?"

  Richardson winced as he tasted the contents of his cup. "The list of sure things doesn't include lawsuits. But we have a helluva better chance than we did."

  Wynton's optimism took a plunge as he saw Judge Craig's bailiff enter the room, look around, and head straight toward them. "Judge wants you in his chambers right now."

  Richardson and Wynton exchanged apprehensive glances as they stood.

  Charlie Frisk spoke their minds. "What the hell now?"

  Karp and his associates were already in the judge's office when the defense counsel arrived, possibly having taken Eight-Ball Edgar's admonition about the coffee to heart and eschewed the cafeteria altogether. The first thing Wynton noticed was a copy of the morning paper on the judge's otherwise clean desk.

  If recent experience was any guide at all, this was not a good sign.

  Instead of motioning them to a seat, Judge Craig was scowling as he held up the newspaper. "You seen this?"

  Richardson shot Wynton an accusatory glare before replying, "I haven't had time yet this morning, Your Honor. What . . . ?"

  Eight-Ball Edgar cut off the questions. "Seems Mr. Charles, or at least his family, is in the news again. First juror I spoke to showed it to me."

  If there is such a thing as a crashing silence, it crashed down on Wynton hard enough to make his ears ring.

  "Your Honor," he began after what seemed an eternity, already knowing the lameness of anything he could say, "I don't know what the article said, but I can assure you, I didn't . . ."

  "Doesn't much matter what you did or didn't do, counselor. Juror I talked to brought this with him. He says there are coupla other copies in the jury room. Since they can't discuss the case, you, or rather your son, was the topic of the morning's coffee klatsch. Now they all know about this reincarnation business. There are others feel the same way as the recently departed juror number three. I don't see I have much choice but to declare a mistrial."

  Wynton guessed the next time he rode in silence as solid as the trip back to the office would be in a hearse. Arriving still wordless, Richardson motioned Charlie Frisk into his office, pointedly shutting the door before Wynton entered.

  He slunk to his own much smaller quarters on the floor below like a felon eluding capture. Slumping behind his desk, he tossed his jacket over a chair and idly thumbed through the stacks of mail and pink call-back slips. It was so damn unfair! His biggest chance to move up and the ladder had been snatched from under his feet. No matter what he did in the future, he would always be the junior partner who caused a mistrial in the United Bank and Trust case, his own personal albatross. Not his fault? No matter. Results, next to billable hours and bringing in business, were what counted at Swisher & Peele. There was no "A" for effort. Worse, he would be blamed for causing the firm to reduce its bill in an effort to keep the client.

  His gloom was interrupted when Eloise, the administrative assistant he shared with two other junior partners, burst through the door.

  "I heard what happened."

  How could she? Richardson would be still closeted with Charlie Frisk, and Wynton sure hadn't told anyone. Still, it was axiomatic in any law firm: if you want the latest, ask the admins. There were times Wynton suspected they had bugged every room in the firm's four floors of office space, including the men's.

  "I'm sorry," she said, her expression as doleful as he had ever seen. "But it wasn't your fault."

  No shit.

  "Thanks," he said anyway.

  At least Eloise's loyalty was unwavering. Too bad she had no part in the promotion process.

  She started to say something else when the phone buzzed.

  Ever efficient, she leaned across the desk to pick it up. Wynton caught a faint musky scent and could feel the warmth of her body. At any other time, the occurrence might have sent him on one of those most delightful journeys, a flight of fancy.

  "Mr. Charles's office."

  Even though Eloise had the phone to her ear, Wynton recognized Paige's voice. It sounded as though she had taken a trip herself, one into hysteria.

  "DEFACS?" Eloise repeated. "Did what? No ma'am, I won't have to tell him, he's right here."

  Wynton took the phone. His original estimate of his wife's state
of mind had been too optimistic.

  "They've taken him!" she shrieked, "Took away our son!"

  "Who, the kidnappers from the park? You need to be calling the police, the FBI."

  "No! The people from the Department of Family and Child Services! They . . ."

  "The same woman who came by the house?"

  "No. What difference does it make?" Something incoherent followed. "Two men and another woman, another black woman. She said Wynn-Three had exhibited signs of abuse . . ."

  "She talked to Dr. Weiner?"

  "I, I don't know!" Paige was rushing her words as though trying to cram them all into the fewest possible seconds. "She said the abuse, the publicity, a kidnapping attempt, all indicated an unstable home! You've got to get him back! You should have heard him screaming as they carried him away."

  She dissolved into a combination of sobs and moans.

  "Paige," he tried, "pull yourself together. We'll beat this."

  Her voice became frighteningly calm. "Pull myself together? Beat this? Easy for you to say. You perch up there in your fucking ivory tower while I deal with the shrink, the DEFACS people, even kidnappers. Don't you have a trial? Please don't interrupt your busy schedule for something as insignificant as our son."

  He was trying to remember what, if anything, he knew about the laws governing state custody of children. "I'm on my way home. In the meantime, call Dr. Weiner, see what she suggests."

  "Oh, swell! She's the bitch who reported the problem in the first place. She's probably just thrilled."

  The line went dead.

  Wynton almost bumped into Glen Richardson in the doorway. The fact he had come down here rather than summoning Wynton to partner country on the top floor did not presage a good meeting.

  "I've got to go home, Glen. There's an emergency."

  Richardson didn't move. "There always seems to be some sort of emergency in your household, Wynton. That's part of what I came down here to talk to you about."