The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller

by Gregg Loomis

  The car was almost as old as the VW Bug, but it cranked on the first try. Shoving the boy in the back seat, Heim pulled out of the parking lot and headed away from Oberkoenigsburg.

  Away for now—but they would be back.

  Up above, two men detached themselves from the chatter and excitement about the skier who had been chased by the stolen snowmobile. Theories spanned the spectrum from the filming of a movie (although no one recalled any cameras) to a discovery of marital infidelity. The revelation that earlier that morning the same skier had been carrying a cane with a concealed blade added fuel to the speculation.

  The two men were walking back to the town square when the trill of a cell phone stopped them where they stood. The ensuing conversation, in Italian, related what had happened only minutes before.

  At the conclusion of the recitation, the man listened wordlessly for several minutes before nodding his head as if the person on the other end could see him.

  As he hit the end key, he turned to the man beside him, still speaking Italian. "New orders from Rome. We are to handle Signor Reilly a little differently. First, we pick up a fax from the hotel here, then . . ."

  CHAPTER 67

  Outside Oberkoenigsburg

  Ten Minutes Later

  FROM THE LOWER PARKING LOT, LANG Reilly had watched the police and medical emergency crew swarm over the slope before reversing his jacket, swinging the purloined skis and poles over his shoulder and heading for the road. It took only minutes before a battered Volkswagen bus filled with six college students, ski gear, and beer stopped in response to his extended thumb.

  Although there were moments of doubt, the vehicle's four-cylinder engine eventually conquered the steep incline and Lang was standing outside the ski shop where he had left the clothes he had worn to Oberkoenigsburg. He entered. Using one of the store's changing rooms, he returned to his street clothes. He could hear the store owner's account of the excitement that had taken place less than an hour ago.

  Leaving the shop, he deposited his ski clothes in the nearest trash bin. He had clearly overstayed his welcome here and had no desire to be recognized as the skier that was the topic of every conversation he heard on the streets.

  Although he had not discovered the relationship the ski town had with Wynn-Three—or the person he had been in the previous life—he had learned that other people, the two men in the Biergarten and the recently deceased thug on the snowmobile, either knew or suspected a connection. He was reminded of Gurt's observation that they likely represented two different factions, both of whom had more than a passing interest in the missing child or this town or both. If he could ascertain that interest, perhaps he would be closer to finding the little boy.

  He inhaled deeply. He could only imagine his own emotional state were it Manfred who had been kidnapped. His fists clinched at the thought. Were his son missing, what would he do? Was there anything he wasn't doing on behalf of Wynn-Three?

  Without pausing, he passed the fountain and Biergarten. When he was within a few feet of the rented BMW, two men stepped from behind cars, one on his right, the other on his left.

  They were the same pair he had seen earlier in the Biergarten: big men with hard faces and cruel eyes. One had a scar from cheekbone to jawbone that Lang felt fairly certain had not come from shaving. Both were the sort of men one might see on duty in a nightclub where patrons were likely to get rowdy.

  Neither made any movement toward Lang.

  Glancing to his right and left, Lang saw a single avenue of escape: turn and flee. With their heavy, forward-canted ski boots, these two were not going to run well. Unfortunately, a dash through the narrow streets was likely to call attention to possibly the only person in town not in ski clothes, attention Lang could not risk after the recent affair on the slope.

  Lang nodded toward the BMW while backing away. "Somebody wants the parking space, right?"

  The two exchanged bewildered glances.

  Lang took another step backwards, reconsidering the flight option. "You're in luck. I'm leaving."

  Other than their looks, there was nothing aggressive about them until one reached into his jacket. Lang was about to duck, anticipating a weapon.

  Instead, the one on the left withdrew a sheet of paper. His eyes never leaving Lang, he reached over the hood of the BMW to stick it behind a windshield wiper before taking a couple of steps backward himself. Then they both turned and walked away without as much as a look back.

  If that was a parking ticket, it had been delivered by the ugliest pair of meter maids Lang had ever seen.

  He watched the two disappear around a corner before he moved. Taking the paper from the windshield, he unfolded it. He first noticed it was a fax. Part of the sender's number looked familiar, the 39 for Italy, followed by a 6 for Rome. Then the 714 he recalled from somewhere. His eyes dropped to the letterhead and he swallowed hard.

  The Vatican.

  "Mr. Reilly," he read,

  I regret deeply any discomfort caused you by

  my attempts to keep abreast of your search for

  the Charles child, who was taken by persons unknown

  from his home in your city of Atlanta.

  Because of his apparent memory of a previous

  life, he has become of interest to The Office of

  Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith, that

  office of the Holy See which investigates supposedly

  paranormal events.

  Rather than work from adversarial positions, I am

  offering such cooperation in locating the child as

  may be available to this office. My only request is

  that, when found, someone of my choosing be given the

  liberty to interview and examine the Charles child.

  The assets that could be put at your disposal include,

  but are not limited to, a worldwide network.

  It is my fervent hope you will avail yourself

  of the opportunity to work together to restore

  this child to his home and parents. If so, please

  contact me at the number below.

  The letter was signed, "Heinz Steinmann, Society of Jesus."

  Lang reread the letter. Perfect English. No doubt run past some legal department. "Include but are not limited to" was lawyerese in any language. Regret any "discomfort?" Was he kidding? Lang had never known a Jesuit who was. A humorless lot. If not, though, why would he entrust delivery of his message to a couple strong arms that would scare a professional fighter? Hardly the Peace-on-Earth, Goodwill-toward-Men types. Society of Jesus? A Jesuit, those guys described as the Pope's Commandos?

  Painful and near-fatal experience had taught Lang to beware religious societies. He had been lucky to escape the Pegasus organization in Portugal, managed to thwart a homicidal cult of fanatical Jews in Israel, and had to mount a strike against the Knights of Malta in Rome. He knew he had to be on his guard.

  He drove to the edge of town, found a spot from which he could see in all directions, and stopped long enough to check in with Gurt.

  Manfred answered the phone, an annoying habit he had acquired lately, by which he would dash for the ringing phone, answer it, and insist on a brief conversation before surrendering the instrument. At first, it had been amusing. Telemarketers and political pollsters were confounded. Today, however, he was costing his dad time and money. Promises of gifts untold were sufficient ransom for the child to hand the phone over to his mother.

  "I'm leaving Oberkoenigsburg," Lang informed her. "Should be home by tomorrow morning."

  "You found what?" she wanted to know.

  "That several parties are interested in the place but no Wynn-Three."

  "Parties, what parties?"

  "I'm not sure. I'd rather tell you about it when I get home."

  "And?"

  "And I went skiing."

  "You had time to ski?" A hint of suspicion.

  "Wasn't exactly my choice."

  "Y
ou have luck not to break a leg."

  If she only knew.

  Next, he e-mailed Francis on his iPhone. He had no intent of making common cause with Steinmann until he knew more.

  In the meantime, he had a hearing in Atlanta, and the place he really wanted to take a look at, the top of the closed slope, would remain closed for a few days anyway.

  CHAPTER 68

  Rothenburg ob den Tauber

  Earlier the Same Morning

  GRATZ AND OTTO WERE DESPERATE. THE child was nowhere in the little town and the falling snow had obliterated whatever tracks he might have left. They quickly realized that someone might have found the child and taken him in off the streets. It required little imagination to conjure up the scene: an attentive policeman taking notes as the child described how he had been hauled away from his parents in the States. The boy leading a well-armed contingent to the Gasthaus Schelling. Old Frau Schelling confirming the child had been there, kept by two men. An expanded search for the two kidnappers, followed by a very long time in a very unpleasant place.

  The two were hurriedly packing what little they had brought from Munich. "You think Frau Schelling can tell the police enough to identify us?" Otto asked, expressing the very question that had been pounding against Gratz's skull for the last few hours like a headache.

  "No way to know. We just need to get out of here."

  "How about the man you had in Oberkoenigsburg, shouldn't you call him, tell him the thing is over?"

  Gratz thought about the money he had promised and was not going to be able to deliver. "He can take care of himself."

  Otto stopped packing, a sweater in his hand. "The doctor!"

  "What about him?" Gratz snorted. "He's in this as deep as we are. He isn't going to talk to anyone."

  "No, no. I was just thinking: if you found a child in the snow, perhaps suffering from the cold, what would you do?"

  Gratz would leave him where he found him. It had been his experience that children were expensive, selfish, and generally ungrateful. But he saw where Otto was going. "Take him to the nearest doctor?"

  Without an answer, they both hefted their suitcases and made for the door.

  Minutes later, they were standing in front of the small cottage outside the town walls that housed both the doctor's office and, above, his residence. Gratz's aged BMW was parked at the curb and he was ringing the bell for the third time.

  "You would think the damn bell would be loud enough to wake him," Gratz observed.

  "Not if he's not here." Otto pointed to the street in front. Where, in contrast to the rest of the area, a large rectangular indentation had just begun to collect snow. "I'd say the doctor drove off in his car."

  Gratz turned to let his eyes follow the tire tracks, by now mere traces. "He could walk to any place here in town. Why take his car?"

  "Because he was going someplace further than this town?" Otto offered.

  Both men stared at each other.

  "You don't suppose . . . ?" they asked in unison.

  They both made a dash for the aged car.

  "A map in the glove box," Gratz said, turning the ignition key. "Find the quickest way to Oberkoenigsburg."

  CHAPTER 69

  Excerpt from the Scrolls of Issa

  MANY BROUGHT THEIR CHILDREN TO ISSA, who cured them of their illnesses and Issa spent many days in Ladakh.

  And when Issa was but twenty-nine, the Supreme Spirit called him back to the land of Judea and the people wept to see him go.

  CHAPTER 70

  Father Francis Narumba

  Manuel's Tavern

  602 North Highland Avenue

  Atlanta

  7:48 P.M.

  Two Nights Later

  MANUEL'S TAVERN IS KNOWN AS A favorite watering hole for Atlanta's liberal establishment. The polar opposite of a fern bar, it caters to students and faculty of nearby Emory University, as well as politicians, political aides and consultants, and other government careerists. But, in reality, its customers come from all sectors of Atlanta society. Its clientele is eclectic, the bizarre is accepted, and the food is execrable. Lang and Francis, longtime patrons, fit right in.

  Lang pulled the Porsche into the parking lot behind the building as he continued the conversation that had begun minutes before. "So, I've got one unhappy client."

  Francis undid the seat harness. "How much time is this Hall person, Felony Phil, facing, assuming he's convicted?"

  Lang climbed out of the car. "If he's lucky, he'll be out of prison in time for his hundred and first birthday."

  Francis grunted as he squeezed out of the Porsche's door. "I look forward to the time you grow up and get a real car."

  "Maybe by your hundred and first, too."

  Francis stretched as though the ten-minute ride had cramped every muscle in his body. "Can't say as I blame the federal magistrate for denying bond. Looking at spending the rest of his life inside looking out, I'd guess Hall would present a flight risk. Fugere est triumphus. You really pick some slimeballs for clients."

  "All God's children, Francis, or so you teach. But, yeah, fleeing would be a triumph for old Felony Phil." Lang was holding the tavern's back door open. "Slimeballs like him pay the overhead."

  No one paid the slightest attention to the black priest and the man in drab lawyer attire as they made their way to the back section of tables that at one time had constituted the entire establishment. Wooden booths scarred by five decades of carved graffiti ran along a wall opposite a massive bar. Autographed photos of local and national Democrat Party superstars, past and present, beamed down upon the room. Several of these pictures included the iconic founder, Manuel Maloof, dead but far from forgotten.

  Seated, Lang signaled a waiter for a pitcher of beer. He looked around the familiar room before picking up a menu he could have recited from memory. "Don't know why we keep coming here. The food never improves."

  But the service—at least for beer—was prompt.

  "Usus est tyrannus," Francis replied, filling his glass from the newly arrived pitcher. "Surprised Gurt didn't join us. Couldn't get a sitter for Manfred?"

  "Her book club meets tonight—our house. That's why we're here drinking beer instead of there drinking scotch. I asked Wynton to join us. His wife will be at my house, too. You remember Wynton?"

  Francis sampled the beer. "How could I forget? I can only imagine the pain he's in, worrying about his son. Did you find out anything while you were gone?"

  Lang helped himself to the pitcher. "Wait till he gets here and I'll fill you both in. In the meantime, what did you find out?"

  Francis looked around as if anyone could hear over the general hubbub. "Not a whole lot. Heinz Steinmann has a reputation of being the hatchet man on behalf of orthodoxy. He operates at the edge of what the Church allows. Some say he crosses the line. My sources in Rome were pretty tight-lipped when his name came up. That's unusual. The Vatican, like any other small town, is full of gossip."

  "With vows of chastity, what else is there to do?"

  Francis was studying the menu, ignoring the comment. "But I did get some interesting rumors."

  "Like what?"

  Francis started to answer, then stood, hand outstretched. "Good to see you again, Wynton."

  Lang turned and tried not to stare. His next-door neighbor looked as if he had aged ten years in the few days since Lang had last seen him. Formerly full cheeks were gaunt, his skin the color of old parchment. He was in need of a haircut and had not shaved that day. The intelligent sparkle Lang had seen in his eyes had departed, leaving the dullness that strain brings. His dress shirt and pants hung on him as though he had purchased a size too large. Unemployment combined with constant worry was extracting its price.

  He slid into the booth next to Lang, a forced smile flickering across his face. "Thanks for letting me join you guys. First time I've been out since, since . . ." He ran a hand across his eyes. "Since Wynn-Three . . ."

  He looked as though he might break into
tears.

  "Good for you to get away for a few hours," Lang said quickly. "I understand Paige is at the neighborhood book club tonight anyway."

  Wynton nodded his thanks as a waiter placed an empty glass in front of him. "Yeah, I had to practically shove her out the door. She's afraid if she leaves the phone . . ."

  Lang poured the rest of the pitcher into his neighbor's glass and motioned to the waiter for a refill.

  Instead of drinking, Wynton stared into the amber fluid like a fortuneteller into a crystal ball. "I don't mean to be rude, but all I'm interested in is hearing what you found out about the people who took my son."

  Lang leaned back in the booth. "Not much, I'm afraid. What I did learn was that at least two people or two groups were very interested in what I was doing in Oberkoenigsburg." He reached into his jacket pocket and slid the fax over to Wynton. "One of them would seem to be legitimate."

  "Oberkoenigsburg," Wynton said. "That's the place this Mustawitz person was taken to." He read the sheet of paper and gave what Lang guessed might be his first genuine smile in a long time. "Wow, the Vatican's interested! That's the sort of help we need!"

  Lang wished he shared his friend's optimism. "It won't hurt."

  He hoped.

  "You said there were two persons or groups. What about the other?"

  Lang shook his head. "I'm afraid I've, er, lost contact with them for the moment. But the key is Oberkoenigsburg."

  The waiter was fidgeting at tableside. "Have you made a choice, gentlemen?"

  Wynton looked surprised that the subject of food would have come up. He looked from Lang to Francis. "What's good here?"

  Lang and Francis exchanged amused glances before the priest said, "It's all pretty much equal." Sotto voce, "Equally bad."