by Gregg Loomis
"'When?'"
"And if."
"Assuming the best, when do you think he will be able to return to his duties?"
She looked at the figure in the bed, slowly stroking her chin. "I would be very happy if he were out of Santo Spirito in a month to six weeks. He will be unable to do any work that involves even moderate stress." She dipped into a shallow parody of a curtsey. "If you will excuse me, Eminence, I have other patients to see."
DiLucci watched her go. Father Steinmann had been effectively removed from the matter. Other than the cardinal, the Jesuit was the only person aware of the crisis and there was no time to search for someone he could trust to handle the problem, nor time to bring them up to speed.
DiLucci was going to have to take charge of this himself.
And quickly.
DiLucci formulated a plan as he left the hospital. It was all too clear Reilly had seen through Steinmann's offer of cooperation and help as a means of finding the child's location. The American had no intent of sharing whatever information he had. Time for a change of tactics. Instead of gathering information in hopes of locating the child, there was another possibility: eliminate Reilly. Without him, there was an excellent chance whoever had kidnapped the boy would dispose of him once he had served whatever purpose the perpetrators had in mind. The little boy would never be heard from again. That left Reilly and the translation of the Tibetan scroll.
Back in his office, the cardinal shut the door and groped in a pocket, producing a BlackBerry and an ordinary cell phone. The former was issued by the Vatican, its calls subject to scrutiny. He laid it on his desk and stared at the other as though it might reveal the answer to his dilemma.
He had no doubt that what he was about to do would imperil his immortal soul, but he could only hope God would understand. To allow Reilly to live, to make public what he had found in the Secret Archives, could destroy Holy Mother Church or, at best, damage it far more than Luther's heresies had. Historically, popes, through their various cardinals, bishops, and priests, had not hesitated to use murder as a weapon to achieve their ends. But not recently. And His Holiness, the present Pope, could never learn of this.
Of course, complicity in such an act of violence would render diLucci unworthy of his high office. It would be a fair trade: after a lifetime of Church politics that had brought him his present exalted status, he would resign and take up a life in a Benedictine monastery. He had convinced himself he was looking forward to an existence of simplicity and prayers for forgiveness as he punched a number into the cell phone.
When he finished the brief conversation, he stared morosely into space. Was that the sound of laughter he heard, laughter across the ages from a now-extinct sect known as the Cathars?
CHAPTER 79
Salzkammergut between Salzburg and Oberkoenigsburg
The Same Day
12:00 P.M. Local Time
LANG HAD PICKED UP ANOTHER RENTAL car after the short flight in the Gulfstream from Rome, this time a boxy Range Rover whose weight and four-wheel drive option would be an advantage should he encounter ice on the road. At least twice so far, it had proved a wise choice. He was now driving along a ridge above a series of lakes far below. Their frozen waters shimmered in the sunlight like a million diamonds. He had stopped in Salzburg only long enough to reequip himself with ski clothing. The skis, if necessary, could be rented at his destination.
So far he had seen moderate traffic, mostly buses carrying daytrippers to the slopes. As he approached the area of a number of resorts, it got heavier. Between clouds of foul-smelling diesel exhaust of trucks and buses, an occasional line of cars formed, each waiting for the next strip of passing lane, the only place to safely get around a lumbering behemoth on the road.
It was in one of these traffic backlogs that he noticed the black Mercedes in his rearview mirror. It was polished to a near-blinding sheen, unmarred by the ice and snow that adorned the roofs and trunks of most of the other automobiles. Clearly it had been garaged rather than parked on the street. Incongruously, the front license plate was smeared with mud. It also bore no ski rack.
An alarm went off somewhere just below his conscious stream of thought. He alternated watching the road ahead and squinting into the mirror. Although the glare's reflection from the windshield prevented a perfectly clear view, it looked very much like there were four men in the Mercedes, four men who did not appear to be dressed for any sort of Alpine sport Lang could think of. The one man he could see clearly, the one in the front passenger seat, bore a resemblance to the man who had given him the note on his last trip to Oberkoenigsburg. Perhaps the same man.
Big and ugly.
The blare of an air horn brought Lang's attention back to the highway just in time to see he had drifted over the center line into the path of a Peugeot truck. He eased the Range Rover back into its proper lane.
Lang was looking for a place to test his suspicion that he was being followed, preferably one of those well-populated restaurant / gas station / restroom plazas that dotted most of Europe's more traveled roads. But this wasn't the autobahn. The only stopping places were the occasional scenic vistas, spaces for two or three cars to pause to admire the view. Lang had no intent of letting himself get hemmed into one of these while the men behind him leisurely took care of whatever business they had with him.
And that business was not likely to be pleasant. If merely shadowing him was the intent, a single man, two at the most, would fulfill the purpose. Four implied overwhelming force.
Whatever their intent, if they meant him bodily harm, the road would be the place. Oberkoenigsburg would provide too many witnesses, too many chances that some unintended victim might get hurt. Worse, police nearby.
Up ahead, the road split into three lanes. Two of the cars in front of Lang were already edging to their left to pass the truck laboring up the hill. Lang eased to his left, noting that the Mercedes behind him did the same. As it sped up in anticipation of passing, Lang lifted his foot, letting the following car speed past him. He caught a glimpse of their surprised faces. Definitely at least one of the guys he had seen before. This time, though, he was fairly certain they weren't here to hand him a note.
The Mercedes' brakelights went on just as the last car passed the truck ahead as it disappeared over the next crest. For the moment, the Range Rover and the Mercedes were the only vehicles in sight. Whatever the four men had in mind, now was the time to do it.
Lang considered his car's four-wheel option but quickly discarded the idea. The slope on either side was too steep, and the snow would eliminate any hope of traction. He could try turning around and running for it, but the bulky Range Rover would be no match for the horses under the hood of the Mercedes.
Then the windshield, or a good part of it, exploded.
Lang only heard the shots after being peppered with a shower of safety glass.
No time to ponder options.
Ducking his head below the dashboard as two more shots ricocheted off the hood, he stopped only long enough to slam the shift lever into reverse and then stood on the gas. He risked a peek over the steering wheel and saw the Mercedes fishtail as it swung around.
Head down, Lang was steering by peering between the two back seats as the Range Rover's transmission protested the rpm's generated by floor boarding the accelerator in reverse. Pedal to the metal or not, the machine simply did not possess the ability to outrun the other vehicle in drive, let alone in reverse.
He tried not to think about the consequences of meeting another car or truck occupying this lane.
With one hand, Lang opened the driver's door and then snatched the Browning from inside his ski jacket as he tried to remember the location of the patch of ice on the road he had crossed seconds before. He needed a little luck.
He managed to maneuver the Range Rover around the curve, its high center of gravity causing it to lean alarmingly toward the abyss below. The Mercedes would be back in sight of him in less than a second.
<
br /> He felt the wheels spin for an instant as they hit the icy patch he was looking for. With the gas pedal still on the floor, he stood on the break and violently cut the wheel to the left. The braking action broke whatever little adhesion the tires had with the ice, and the rear end spun as he let the accelerator up for a split second. He desperately sawed the wheel until the Range Rover stopped, blocking both lanes.
Then he jumped, grunting in pain as he hit the pavement and rolled downhill.
He was on his feet in time to see the Mercedes round the curve, its nose dipping as the driver slammed on the brakes far too late.
There was the screech of tearing metal, the crash of shattering glass. The front passenger door flew open, launching someone into empty space. Lang thought he heard a scream as the form spun over the guardrail and into the valley miles below. From the red smear on the spiderwebbed windshield, Lang guessed he didn't have to worry about the driver, either.
No seat belts.
Lang made a dash to the rear door of the Mercedes and snatched it open, Browning in hand. The occupants of the back seat were in marginally better shape than their comrades up front. One, his face invisible behind a mask of blood, was moaning softly. The other, breathing in shallow gulps, was unconscious.
Lang quickly searched each, removing a pair of Beretta automatics. On the floor were two AK-47s. After removing the driver's weapon, Lang tossed them all over the guardrail. Someone was going to call the police and he didn't have the time to explain—or be remotely connected with—such hardware.
Then he set off downhill, back the way he had come. He didn't want to be associated with the carnage that blocked almost the entire highway. He'd hitchhike, a time-honored European custom in resort areas.
He'd been lucky: noticing the car following him and finding that patch of ice in just the right spot.
And choosing no deductible on the insurance he had purchased when he rented the car.
CHAPTER 80
Oberkoenigsburg
At the Same Time
POSING AS SKIERS AND CURIOUS TOURISTS, Gratz and Otto had sought out older residents of the area, people who knew some of the local history. Yes, there had been a mine near the summit of what was now the ski slope, something Gratz of course already knew. No, no one was certain exactly where the entrance had been. The consensus was that the company that had built the ski resort had probably closed it in as a safety precaution. And what did it matter? The mine had played out over a hundred years ago.
In short, Gratz had learned little he did not already know and had incurred extra expenses while waiting for the area to open back up. Then near whiteout conditions had closed the entire resort for a full day. Today was the first the lift to the summit had been open since his arrival here. Perhaps today . . .
His thoughts were interrupted as Otto rubbed his gloved hands together. "Do you really think the doctor will bring the child here?"
It was a question Gratz had asked himself daily. "Why else would he have taken the child if not to get the very information we wanted?"
"God! My feet have gone to sleep!" Otto stood, stamping his boots in an effort to restore circulation. "It is possible he got all the information he needed without bringing the boy here."
That also had occurred to Gratz. "So much the better. Either way, he will come to check out the child's memory of another life. Once he does, with or without the kind, we have him."
"If we do not freeze to death before."
Gratz reached into the pocket of his ski pants, feeling a few coins. "There is a place near here that sells hot mulled wine. I will get us a cup. Keep watch."
Not ten kilometers away, Lang Reilly was standing beside the road in front of an aged BMW 2002 that had apparently broken down and been temporarily abandoned by its owner. From the amount of snow on the venerable machine, it had been here at least overnight. It provided a good backdrop for Lang's hitchhiking effort.
He had to wait only a few minutes before a Renault with a full ski rack on top stopped.
"Where are you going?" its driver asked in German as Lang reached the open window.
"Oberkoenigsburg."
The driver opened the door, jerking a thumb at the back seat. "Good. We will pass right by the lower parking lot. You can take the lift to the town."
Lang climbed into the cramped back seat, sharing the space with ski boots and poles. The other occupant of the car was a young woman whose face Lang could see in the rearview mirror. Both she and her companion looked to be in their late twenties.
The Renault pulled back onto the road. "Car trouble?" its driver wanted to know.
"Old car," Lang said. "It gets cranky in cold weather. I'll get someone in Oberkoenigsburg to tow her in and get her fixed. Right now, I don't want to miss this new snow."
The woman turned in her seat to face him. "That is why we have taken today off from work: to enjoy the fresh snow. But you have no skis."
Lang mumbled something about having a pair already at the resort before changing the subject.
"You are American?" the driver asked. "Your German is quite good."
Lang mentally groaned. The last thing he wanted was for someone to remember him in case he had to use the Browning holstered in the small of his back. "Thanks. I used to work in Frankfurt . . . for an American company," he added to forestall questions on the subject.
"Oh!" the woman exclaimed, leaning forward in her seat to get a better look as the car rounded a turn. "What a nasty wreck! Perhaps we should stop and see if we can help."
Lang noted one of the men had gotten out of the wreckage of the Mercedes and was holding a handkerchief to his bloody face. He turned away, trying to think of what to do if this would-be Good Samaritan delivered him to the very people he had run away from.
"Not so close to the curve," the man said. "We would just be risking another collision." He produced a cell phone and handed it to the woman. "Call the police. They will know what to do."
Lang hoped his relief didn't show.
Not far behind on the same stretch of highway, Dr. Heim was mentally cursing the underpowered engine of the smart car he had rented as he watched the speedometer unwind. Sixty euros a day for a car that contracted mechanical palsy trying to crest a hill? It had already taken far too long to get this far. Little wonder the Mercedes people were reluctant to put their trademark symbol on it. Heim would not want to take responsibility for this rolling junk heap, either.
He looked down to where Wynn-Three slept in the passenger seat. He had hypnotized the child before leaving his rented room. There were too many distractions in the Oberkoenigsburg parking lot, too many chances someone would notice. That had been over an hour ago, far longer than any subject he had ever put under before. The longer a person remained hypnotized, the more likely he would wake up unexpectedly, frequently frightened and disoriented. The last thing Heim needed was a hysterical child attracting attention. His hand went to his belt where he carried the same Luger he had been issued as an SS officer. Strange, but he had never fired it. As a physician, he had not been subjected to the rigorous training of his fellow Schutzstaffel members.
Well, he told himself, he would not hesitate to use it today if the boy became unruly, treasure or not.
CHAPTER 81
Oberkoenigsburg
LANG CLIMBED OUT OF THE RENAULT, thanking his hosts. He tapped the skis on the car's roof.
"Hals und Bein bruchen!"
Break your neck and back. German wish for good luck for someone on a hazardous enterprise, the theory being that evil spirits would do the opposite of what one wished.
He watched the little auto as it circled the parking lot and headed back onto the highway before he joined the lift ticket line. He had worked his way up to the middle of the line when a smart car pulled into the far end of the lot. Years before the first of the comically tiny autos had entered the United Sates, Lang had gotten used to seeing them on the streets of European cities; so he paid little attention at first
glance.
Then he noted an absence of a ski rack. The car was far too diminutive to carry anything other than child's skis inside. The driver got out. He wore what might have been ski clothes with a ski mask against the cold. Even without seeing his face, his slow, deliberate steps around to the passenger side betrayed him as elderly.
From what Lang had observed earlier, Oberkoenigsburg's slopes appealed to the young and adventurous, either expert skiers or kids who believed that they could never get hurt. With a number of other resorts nearby, why would an old man, someone with brittle bones and a stiff gait, choose this one? There certainly was no senior discount.
Lang thought about it. He had seen news features about senior citizens who still climbed mountains, rode trail bikes, or canoed white water. A former U.S. president, Bush Sr., maybe, jumped out of an airplane in celebration of his eightieth birthday. The geriatric set acted younger and younger these days.
Or increasingly foolish.
But then, a skydiving octogenarian had a whole lot less to lose than a twenty-year-old with his entire life ahead of him.
But trying a mountain composed almost exclusively of black diamond slopes?
Lang forgot the age question when the man opened the passenger door, letting out a small child.
There was no way a kid that small could ski here.
Lang glanced up the slope, past the town, near the summit where he knew there was a Bier Stube, or restaurant, or someplace that served food and drink. Even from down here at the base, he could see a number of people lounging on the open platform just outside the establishment. Unlike a number of ski resorts Lang had seen, it was possible to ride the lift down as well as up. Possibly, the old man was simply taking a favored grandson for a lift ride and lunch. More than possible. The booth in front of which Lang stood advertised specially discounted round-trip tickets to those without skis.
