by Gregg Loomis
None of his business, he knew. Still, he found it hurtful his best friend kept not just a few secrets from him but a lifetime of them. As a priest, he was used to the confessions that cleansed the soul. But Lang . . . well, Francis wasn’t sure Lang even believed in souls. It was not something they discussed. Vir sapit qui pauca loqiuitur. A wise man held his tongue. Francis couldn’t be sure his resentment of his friend’s silence in certain matters wasn’t just a matter of sinful pride, a question he put aside whenever it reared its head.
He caught a glimpse of the face of his watch as he emptied the watering can’s last few drops into a pot of African violets sitting in the sun of the window over the kitchen sink. He was careful not to get water on the leaves lest they spot. 8:42. Plenty of time for the short drive from Ansley Park to the Cathedral of Christ the King and his 9:00 monthly meeting with the bishop. He was returning the watering can to its place under the kitchen sink when the doorbell rang.
No one in Ansley Park rang doorbells, at least not during daylight hours. They just walked in and announced themselves. Therefore the bell ringer was not a neighbor. Life in his crime-ridden downtown parish had made Francis wary, if not paranoid.
Putting down the watering can, he passed through the dining room and into the front hall. He could see part of the porch that bordered two-thirds of the house through windows across the front, but he could not see who was ringing the bell. He must be standing squarely in front of the door. A quick squint through the peephole showed an olive-skinned man in a white jumpsuit with some sort of red script across the left breast pocket, the sort of uniform a plumber or electrician might wear. An unmarked white panel truck was parked at the curb behind him.
Odd. Lang hadn’t said anything about a repairman coming by.
For once, Lang’s security gadgets were more helpful than intimidating.
Father Francis pushed the button on a speaker beside the door. “Can I help you?”
The man on the other side of the door was obviously startled. Because he hadn’t seen the speaker or because he had not expected anyone to be home?
“Four-seventy-two Lafayette Drive?”
“Yes?”
“Got a report of an electrical short somewhere.”
Something wasn’t right here. If Lang and Gurt had expected an electrician, they would have told Francis. Besides, the priest had never seen one that didn’t have a collection of tools both hanging from his belt like Christmas tree ornaments and overflowing a handheld toolbox.
By the nature of his calling, Francis was not naturally suspicious. Perhaps the clerical collar he wore induced more candor from the populace at large than would have otherwise been the case, or his profession obviated the necessity for lies and deception. What did a parish priest have that was worth conning him out of? Either way, Francis had a tendency to believe what he was told, with the exception of a small number of people who tended to lie for no other purpose than the enjoyment of mendacity.
But he was no fool, either.
Here he was in a house whose owners felt the need for more security devices than most banks, owners whose pasts perhaps weren’t really past, and some apparently unsummoned person was seeking entry.
“Maybe it would be better if you came back in a day or two.”
The man shook his head. “A short is a risk of fire.”
Francis started to reply when he thought he heard something, something like the back door closing.
That was it, of course. The parish’s ancient Toyota was parked in the driveway, a clear indication someone was in the house. The electrician, or whoever he really was, was distracting Francis while a confederate came in the back door.
The revelation came too late.
Just as Francis spun around, a man came from the kitchen, a man with a hood over his head and what looked very much like a gun in his hand.
“Nice and easy, Padre.” The voice was all the more menacing coming from inside the hood. “Don’t try anything stupid, and you’ll be just fine.”
In a step he was unlatching the front door and the man in the uniform was inside.
He gave Francis a perfunctory nod. “What about him?”
The man in the hood made a circular motion with the hand not holding the pistol. “Face the wall, priest.”
Francis’s immediate thought, one so irrelevant it almost made him laugh, was that the bishop would be irritated when he didn’t show up.
CHAPTER 12
Sinop-Istanbul Highway
At the Same Time
Forcing himself to wait until the exact moment the man’s hand touched the car’s door handle took every ounce of training Lang had. Once the adrenaline of anticipated action begins to flow through the bloodstream, inaction, even momentary, is difficult. From the whitening of the knuckles on the hand with which Gurt held the passenger door, he could see she was as tense as he.
The door moved as the man outside grabbed the handle.
“Go!”
As one, both of the Mondeo’s front doors flew open, crashing into the man standing beside each with the full weight of Gurt or Lang. As each man staggered backward, arms flailing at empty air to regain balance, Lang and Gurt were on them.
Sweeping a leg against one of her tottering opponent’s, Gurt sent him sprawling onto the ground, but not before she had snatched the AK-47 from him. A quick kick in the groin removed what little fight he might have had left in him, leaving him writhing on the rocky ground.
The third man, the one who had been standing in front of the car, had his rifle raised, unable to shoot without a good chance of hitting one or both of his comrades. Gurt had no such problem. Familiar with the weapon, her thumb verified the rifle was on full automatic. A short burst from the hip sent a tree limb just above the man’s head crashing to the ground.
It took only a split second for him to consider his options. He turned and fled into the brush to be followed by a companion, still groaning and holding his crotch as he ran.
Gurt turned to where Lang and his antagonist wrestled in the dirt, each struggling for possession of the remaining AK-47.
Pinning his opponent with a knee to the chest, Lang gave the barrel of the gun a yank that failed to dislodge the hands making an equal claim.
He saw Gurt watching idly.
“You might help,” he grunted from behind clenched teeth.
“You always get irritable when you think I’m interfering.”
“It’s never interfering when I might get shot.”
“I will try and remember,” she replied, placing the muzzle of the rifle she held against the back of the head of the man in uniform. “Freeze!”
He may not have understood the language but the feel of a gun’s business end against the back of the skull has a certain significance, transcending words. He raised both his hands in another gesture that needed no translation.
Lang stood, dusting himself off with one hand as he held the AK-47 in the other. “Damn unfriendly locals. Can’t say I’d recommend the area on Expedia or Travelocity no matter how swell the hotels.”
He used the muzzle of the weapon to prod his former antagonist toward the Mondeo, then shoved him against the car, kicking the man’s feet apart before leaning him into the standard search position.
A second later, Lang stepped back. “Nothing, nada, zilch. No wallet, no papers, no keys. He might as well have been born yesterday.”
Gurt was hardly surprised. “Could have been worse.”
“Oh yeah, how?”
“He could have identification of real Jandarma. I do not think the local authorities would be amused.”
“Speaking of the local authorities, it’s probably best they not be bothered with this little incident.”
Gurt’s raised eyebrows expressed the question unasked.
Lang gave the AK-47 an underhanded toss that sent it crashing into the brush. “You know how these investigations go: don’t leave the area, hours of questioning leading nowhere. No reason to think th
e Turkish cops are any different from law enforcement all over. They obviously haven’t gotten rid of the local bandits any more than the police at home have rid the streets of gangs. I suggest you toss that rifle you’re holding and we resume our drive.”
Gurt held the weapon up. “And if they come back?”
“Better chance the local Jandarma finds it in the car and we get arrested.”
“You said ‘local bandits.’ What makes you so sure?”
“Who else . . .?”
Lang’s iPhone chirped Glenn Miller.
He glared at it as he pulled it out of a pants pocket. Nobody paid international roaming charges to dispense good news. His scowl turned to an expression of surprise as he recognized his own home phone number.
“Francis?”
He listened intently. Then, “You okay? Any idea who they were?”
“Francis,” he mouthed in answer to Gurt’s inquisitive look.
“Any idea what they were after?”
Gurt could hear Francis’s voice even though she could not make out the words.
Finally, “No, no point in calling the cops. As long as you’re okay, I’d just as soon word of this not get out, not the sort of publicity we want. No, no need. I’d rather clean up myself. I know where things go. Just be sure to turn on the alarm like always.”
The keys to the truck were still in the ignition, enabling Lang to move it out of the way. He and Gurt drove past it and rode in silence for a full five minutes.
“Somebody or somebodies posing as electricians jumped Francis while he was in the house,” Lang began. “Pretty well ransacked the place.”
Gurt absorbed this with considerably less anxiety than Lang had expected.
“What did they take?” she wanted to know.
Lang shook his head. “Francis doesn’t know. They put a hood over his head. Sounded like they were looking more for documents of some sort than valuables. I mean, they left the flatscreen TV, but took the computer in my office and left the one upstairs.”
“Manfred will be relieved to know his Xbox is safe. You are sure Francis is okay?”
He took his eyes off the serpentine road long enough to look at her. “‘Sure?’ He sounded all right. A bit shaken but all right.”
They rode in silence for a full minute before Gurt jerked her thumb over her shoulder and asked, “You still think that was a random attack by local bandits back there?”
This time Lang didn’t take his eyes from the road. “You think there’s a connection?”
“You are the one who does not believe in koinzidenz.”
When the English word’s German counterpart sounded roughly the same, Gurt had a tendency to use her native tongue. Lang wondered if she was aware of the habit.
“Francis says a coincidence is when God wishes to remain anonymous.”
Gurt gave the snort that frequently accompanied disagreement. “Actually, it was Einstein. And it was not by chance that they came to the house when Francis had turned off the alarm. To do that means they had been watching, and that means some sort of organization, not some random street bunks.”
Gurt’s American slang was not quite yet perfect.
“Punks, not bunks. Bunk is a bed. Whoever, God, Francis, or Einstein, you believe there’s a connection.”
A statement, not a question.
She nodded. “An organization would make that possible, yes. And you think so, too.”
Lang slowed for a sharp downhill left. “The question, then, is who and why?”
The answer to that would not soon be forthcoming.
CHAPTER 13
King of Pontus, Foe of Rome,
Story of a Hellenistic Empire
by Abiron Theradoplis, PhD
National Museum of Archeology
Athens
Translation by Chara Georopoulos
University of Iowa Press
(Excerpt)
Exile of the Young Prince
After the death of his father, Mithradates knew his enemies in the palace might well succeed with the sword where they had failed with poison. The young prince had two choices, neither of them pleasant: remain in Sinope in the royal palace with his treacherous mother and ambitious brother, hoping to thwart their plotting until he was old and powerful enough to seize power. Or he could simply remove himself from her, her spies, and toadies.
There was precedent for the latter course of action. Though we do not know for certain, it is likely young Mithradates read of ancient heroes such as Cyrus of Persia, Alexander, and Mithradates I, the founder of the Pontic Empire. Each had chosen exile for a period in his young life before assuming power. Each had used this period to gather staunch followers who would be critical in gaining popular support later. Mithradates could no doubt identify with the young Cyrus who at thirteen had survived an assassination attempt and fled to Media.
Cyrus’ biographer, Xenophon, related how the future king of Persia had gained self-reliance by participating in hunts for lions and elephants armed with little more than his spear. We can understand why Mithradates chose self-exile.
He was not alone. His close friend, Dorylause, son of a general who had served Mithradates’ father and who also had been assassinated, had reason to fear for his life, too. Although we cannot be sure what few records remain are complete, Gaius and Diophantus, friends of the young prince, joined the group, as did Gordius, who was to become Mithradates’ most trusted advisor in foreign affairs. As noted, the idea of essentially running away from home was not without historical appeal. The young Alexander and his small band had lived on their own in far western Macedonia, meeting the people and raising the support he would need in the future. When word that the king, Alexander’s father Phillip, was dead reached them, the young Alexander and his band marched into Pella, Macedonia’s capital, without resistance.
Like Mithradates, Alexander’s father was also a victim of assassination. Although the actual murder was the act of a single man, a bodyguard during a marriage festival held in the theatre of Aegae, it was widely believed, though never proved, the crime was the result of a conspiracy.
Alexander’s early companions became his generals, sharing in spoils from conquests that reached south to Egypt and east to the Hindu Kush. It would not be unreasonable to think Dorylause, Gaius, Diophantus, and Gordius harbored dreams of similar successes.
We know Mithradates was no older than sixteen at the time, and it is reasonable to guess his companions were close to the same age. How these adolescent boys managed to assemble what would have been necessary to survive in the wild we do not know, although Justin’s summary of a lost history by Pompeius Trogus gives us a hint.
The royal heir of Pontus “feigned a great passion for the hunt,” Justin writes. He and his consorts remained absent from court for increasingly long periods of time. Perhaps the little band secreted weapons and money on each outing. Requisitioning extra horses, bows, spears, and the like would have raised little suspicion.
As Mithradates and his comrades rode out of the palace after a birthday celebration, the young men would have worn dun- or brown-colored cloaks, hats, and tunics and high leather boots, normal hunting attire but also clothing ideal for living and hiding in the forest. Each boy would have been armed with a pair of javelins, bow and arrows, sword, and dagger. Pack horses would have borne bedding, nets for big game, and eating utensils such as cups and plates. Unknown to those who witnessed the departure, each hunter’s pouch was crammed with gold coins.
When he returned, it would be as king.
CHAPTER 14
Hotel Kardelen
Trabzon, Turkey
Eight Hours Later
The hotel’s best feature was a view of the Black Sea some 200 meters below. Six otherwise unimpressive stories jutted out of what Lang guessed was pasture land. For certain, more livestock than people were visible, although a number of small houses dotted the landscape.
“No doubt you have chosen this place because of its location,
” was Gurt’s first observation.
“As a matter of fact, I did. It is the closest to the hospital.”
A pair of cows paused munching at a stack of hay long enough to watch the car with bovine curiosity.
“I am relieved to know it is near something. We are going to the hospital?”
Lang was pulling into a small parking lot. “A little later. I’m meeting with Fatima Aksoy, the hospital’s administrator, in the morning. Afterward, I’m meeting with the local Jandarma captain to see what progress has been made in solving the murder of the hospital’s hematologist.”
“I do not know why. Even in America, the police move at their own gait. Do you think you can help find the killer?”
Lang eased the Mondeo into one of a number of empty parking places. “Not really. I felt I had to come here to show support not only for Dr. Aksoy, but for the entire hospital staff. Besides, this is one of the few of the Foundation’s operations I’ve never seen.”
In minutes, Gurt and Lang were standing in the light wood-paneled lobby, presenting passports to the sole clerk behind the reception desk. Their room, like every part of the hotel Lang had seen, was spotless and neatly furnished in modern furniture distinguishable only for its unattractiveness. Lang opened his suitcase while Gurt went to the window. To his surprise, it slid open.
How long had it been since he had been in a hotel — or other building — where the windows actually opened?
“Lang, come look!”
In a step he was beside her. In the minutes since they had parked the car, a thick fog had rolled in from the sea, lapping over the edge of the cliff like a rising tide. The illusion was that of the hotel itself afloat upon a placid ocean.
The phone rang.
“You are expecting someone?” Gurt asked.
Lang shook his head slowly. “Only Dr. Aksoy, and not until tomorrow morning.” He sprawled across the bed to pick the receiver from its cradle. “Hello?”
