by Gregg Loomis
The man seemed paralyzed.
“Seven seconds or you’ll be dead in less than thirty.”
That got his attention. He did as ordered.
“Now what?” Morse asked.
Lang produced a key and opened the door, standing back to let the SWAT team enter. Its leader glanced nervously at Lang.
“The gas was a bluff.”
Morse watched the men enter, cuff the intruder and drag him to his feet before speaking. “Who the hell’s the architect for your house, Mr. Reilly, James Bond?”
Lang chose to laugh rather than explain how many close calls he had had in the last few years. Morse was aware of a number of them.
Conversation stopped as the SWAT members dragged the invader toward the open doors of a van.
“Caught in the act—in flagrante delicto, as you lawyers say,” the detective observed. “Even the Fulton County DA should be able to get a conviction if the sheriff can hold on to him.”
He referred to the fact that the current county prosecutor’s office chronically saw criminals go free for reasons of failure to timely prosecute, misplaced evidence and general incompetence. In the last year, several high-profile suspects had walked out of the county’s jail by simply giving a false name to sheriff’s deputies. In Atlanta, Fulton County, Georgia, the wheels of justice did not just grind slowly, they frequently ran with stripped gears.
Lang was more interested in the man being shoved into the back of the paddy wagon. “Detective, when was the last time you busted an Asian like that guy?”
Morse looked at him suspiciously. “You asking on behalf of the ACLU or somebody?”
Lang shook his head. “Not at all. Just asking because I’m curious.”
The detective rubbed his chin. “Dunno. Most them Asians around here too busy working for a living to do something like break in a house. Now, out to DeKalb County, they got theyselves a problem with some Asian gangs, but here, they run their businesses an’ what all.” He grinned. “Don’ know if you notice, but ever’ year the paper runs pictures of the top graduate of ever’ city high school. Most of ’em are Asian kids. Kids who finish top of their class ain’t got time for gangs, crime or anything else.”
The detective watched the van drive away with its prisoner. “That perp, Vietnamese or whatever, didn’t do his homework before he tried to break in here. Just random luck, his bad luck he chose your place.” He turned to face the house’s open door, where several uniforms were watching Gurt demonstrate how the steel curtains worked. “Fact is, he’d a known who you were and the sorry-ass history of people trying to fuck with you, he would’ve chosen another house, that’s for sure.”
“I appreciate your confidence.”
But Lang felt anything but confident the break-in was random.
472 Lafayette Drive, Atlanta
That evening
Lang had finished putting his freshly bathed son to bed despite the little’s boy’s every effort to negotiate a few more minutes. Lights out, Grumps already snoring gently on the hooked rug, Manfred now breathing deeply. Lang stood at the door, observing the scene limned by the hall light. He was perpetually both astonished at and grateful for the domestic turn his life had taken in the last two years.
After Dawn’s death, Lang had reconciled himself to a life without the children he had wanted so badly. His resignation to an existence alone had deepened when his sister Janet and her adopted son had perished in a bomb blast in Paris, what, five years ago? To his mind, Gurt’s unexpected reappearance with a son he didn’t know he had was nothing short of miraculous.
Now, if only he could shake off the troubles that seemed to follow him like stray dogs, he could settle down to a life of pleasantly dull domesticity. His existence would be as close to perfect as he could wish.
Or as I think I might wish, he added as he flipped off the hall switch and started down the stairs. Running a charitable foundation was, at the best of times, a source of little excitement. The practice of law, even dealing with characters like the Reverend Bishop Groom, was at its most rewarding repetitive, and constant repetition soon equaled ennui and boredom. Job satisfaction among those of Lang’s peers who had the keenest of minds took a definite downward turn after ten to fifteen years of doing basically the same thing over and over, whether it be in the boardroom, the closing room or the courtroom.
OK, he conceded in the ongoing self-debate, what is it you want: a fabric of life into which is woven the occasional bright hue of action, a stew, bland other than the odd piquant morsel? Most of his contemporaries accepted the colorless existence, the tasteless portion.
Not that he had a choice, he realized. Interrupting grave robbers in Venice, the chase through the canals, just happened. Like getting drenched by an unpredictable summer thunder shower, he and Gurt had just chanced to be there by some random process, call it luck, fate, karma or whatever. Now, for reasons he didn’t understand, his home was under surveillance and had been invaded.
His guess was that the intruder had seen Gurt leave and had anticipated the house would be empty, carrying a weapon only against the possibility of her returning earlier than expected. He had little doubt the job had been thoroughly reconnoitered. But to what end? Hardly some dopehead, desperate to rip off a flat-screen TV to exchange for a few flakes of crystal meth. Even if the law did not recognize a causal relationship because of the mere proximity of events in time, common sense did. What had happened in Venice had precipitated the break-in; he was sure of it.
But why?
The doorbell chimed as he reached the bottom step. He saw Gurt squinting through the peephole before she opened the door. He was surprised to see Detective Morse cross the threshold.
The policeman nodded to Gurt. “Evening, ma’am. Sorry to bother you.”
Lang grinned inwardly. As usual when the detective wasn’t on duty or around the other cops, the deep Southern-black accent dropped away like a discarded garment. Lang supposed the dialect was a device to disarm suspects, to conceal a sharp mind and a quick sense of observation.
“Well, Detective,” Lang said, “this is a surprise. I don’t recall a visit from you that wasn’t in response to some sort of mayhem.”
Morse was looking around curiously. “Tell me about it! This isn’t a social call, though.”
“Well, you’re welcomed nonetheless.” Lang gestured. “Come on back into the den. Can I get you something, perhaps an adult beverage?”
“Thanks but I won’t be staying that long. I’ve got a couple of questions, though.”
Lang led him from the foyer, past dining and living rooms and into the den. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t.” He went to the bar and poured himself a shot of scotch. “Sure you won’t join me?”
Gurt sat on the sofa and motioned the policeman into a chair across a glass coffee table. “Perhaps a Coke?”
Morse shook his head. “Mighty kind of you, but no thanks.” Reaching into a pocket, he produced a small notepad. “Don’t suppose either of you have ever seen the perp that was in your house?”
Both Lang and Gurt shook their heads no.
“Should we have?” Lang asked, adding ice and water to the glass.
The detective gave him a long look, the stare of someone who thinks he is perhaps not hearing the entire truth. “The question you asked me, the one about Asian criminals. Almost like you weren’t surprised at being burglarized by someone other than some homey looking for something to fence in a hurry.”
For not the first time, Lang realized the man’s perceptiveness was usually hidden behind his speech. He said nothing as he sat on the sofa next to Gurt.
“The guy’s Chinese, best we can tell. Least he seemed to understand one of our guys who speaks Mandarin, though he wouldn’t respond to it. And a pro, like he’s been in a police station once or twice, I’d guess, and I don’t mean to contribute to the Policemen’s Benevolent Association, either. No ID on him. A real hard nut. Only words he’s spoken since he was busted has been to
ask for a lawyer, fellow named Wan who practices in DeKalb County. Mostly defends gang members. Why do I think to you all this isn’t news?”
Lang shrugged. “Detective, I can assure you, we were not expecting to be burglarized, not by a Chinese or, for that matter, a Frenchman or Sherpa.”
Morse gazed around the room. “For someone got his house secure as Fort Knox, you weren’t exactly expecting Girl Scouts selling cookies, either.”
“Last time I looked, Detective, a man’s house is his castle. He’s free to use any security measure he chooses unless it’s illegal like a spring gun or something else that potentially could injure emergency personnel.”
Morse gave him another long look. “You’re right, counselor. But you can understand why I might be curious as to the, er, rather elaborate precautions. I mean, what other house you know got steel curtains drop down from the ceiling, cameras and an intercom? And I’m far from certain the cyanide gas was just a bluff.”
Lang sat back, crossing his arms. “You know I seem to draw trouble, Detective.”
“Like sugar draws ants.”
“Now that I have a family, it seemed only reasonable to take certain . . . precautions.”
“OK, conceding that you’re just a cautious man, why would some Chinese guy be interested in your house?”
Lang rattled the ice cubes in his glass and took a sip. “Until you told me the man’s nationality—or should I say ethnicity—he could have been any number of people of Asian descent.”
Morse stood, stuffing the notepad in a jacket pocket. “See if I got this right: you had no reason whatsoever to think you’d be burglarized, and even less by a Chinese.”
Lang stood. “You got it.”
The detective glanced upward, perhaps checking this room for cameras also. “These real-time TV cameras that showed the perp in your foyer. I don’t suppose they make a tape, too.”
Lang shook his head. “No need. The purpose is to be able to see an intruder, not produce evidence.”
“You sure about that?”
“Very.”
Morse’s eyes narrowed. “Let me be very clear, Mr. Reilly. You hiding something pertinent to my investigation, I won’t hesitate to charge you with interfering with an investigation, obstruction, spitting on the street, parking overtime or whatever.”
Lang smiled disarmingly. “So you’ve told me.”
Morse pointed an accusing finger. “Ever’ time, there’s something I feel you aren’t telling me. This time . . .”
Lang crossed to the doorway between the hall and den, his good humor undiminished, a clear indication the conversation was at an end. “Thanks for stopping by, Detective. Anytime.”
Between drawn curtains Lang and Gurt watched Morse climb into his car and depart.
“You had a reason to tell him not about Venice and to lie about the tape?” she asked as the car’s taillights disappeared around a turn.
Lang let the drapes fall back into place. “What good would it have done? We can’t establish the break-in was related to Venice. As for the tape, I didn’t lie. The camera records on a disk on a twenty-four-hour cycle. If I’d told him one existed, he’d demand we hand it over. As it is, I’ve got a much better use for it. In fact, I’ll remove it now.”
“To do what?”
“See if some of our former friends can identify our visitor.”
Gurt turned to go back into the den. “What do we do now? The next time may be more than a burglary.”
“Perhaps. The listening device, the surveillance, even the break-in when you weren’t at home, tells me someone is after information.”
“But what, who?”
“That is precisely what I’m going to try to find out.”
Lang went to a broom closet in the kitchen. Behind brooms, mops and a vacuum cleaner he had every intention of repairing someday was a small metal door resembling a box housing circuit breakers. Inside were a slot and a button. Pressing the latter caused a shiny silver disk to eject.
Lang took the disk into his office, a cramped space under the stairs that was a former closet, large enough only for a small table that served as a desk with a telephone, lamp and computer screen and keyboard on it, a single chair and two-drawer file cabinet. He shut the door. That made the specially insulated space both claustrophobic and immune to listening devices. Sitting at the table, he reached into the file cabinet, his fingers marching across file folders until he found the one he wanted. Extracting it, he flipped it open and ran his eyes down a sheet of paper until he came to a phone number prefaced by the Washington, D.C., area code, 202.
He pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket, remembered that the device was basically like a radio, subject to interception by anyone who had the right frequency. He reached for the phone on the table and keyed in the number. He knew the person he was calling could be, and likely was, anywhere in the world other than the District of Columbia. The number was connected to a series of electronic switchbacks and cutouts that made it impossible to trace without some very sophisticated computers.
The ringing stopped and a brief tone beeped.
“Miles, ole buddy, Lang here. I could use your help. Give me a call. Thanks.”
Lang hung up.
By the time Lang had gone back to the den to refresh his scotch, his office phone rang.
He picked up on the third ring. “Miles?”
There was a half-second pause, confirmation the call was being relayed, but the softness of a Southern voice was unimpaired. “It’s me, Lang. I’m here with my endless wisdom and bountiful wit to be of service.”
Lang grinned. Miles Berkly, scion of one of Alabama’s wealthiest families, prepped at Groton—or was it St. Paul’s?—and then on to Princeton. Educated, cultured and totally without false modesty. He wore suits that would have cost a month’s pay had he purchased them on his salary. He had been Lang’s best friend at the Agency. Fortunately for Lang, a combination of political connections and a brilliant record had saved Miles from the post–Cold War cuts. From time to time Lang had needed favors that would have been unavailable to someone without access to the Agency’s resources.
“I need a favor.”
A theatrical sigh. “And I had hoped you were calling to tell me Gurt had regained her senses and left you, that she was available again. She hot as ever?”
“Eat your heart out, Miles. I’ve got a bit of a problem I hope you can help me with.”
“That’s me. Good deed a day.”
Lang picked up the disk. “I’ve got a disk with a running sequence of a man who broke into our house. I’d like to e-mail it to you and have you run it through the Agency’s face-recognition program.”
A dry chuckle. “You need to talk to the Fibbies. They’re the ones who keep files on your average American burglars, robbers, congressmen and other members of the criminal element.”
“I think this guy is more than that.”
“Divine inspiration or you have something to base that on?”
Lang turned the disk over in his hand. “If you have the time, I’ll tell you the whole story.”
“No need. I’ll take your word for it. You know that specific technology isn’t exactly open to the public. I could get in deep shit for using it for a non-Agency purpose.”
“That mean you can’t do it?”
“No, it means you owe me big time. Here’s the e-mail address . . .”
Pétionville, Port-au-Prince, Haiti
The next evening
The restaurant was deserted. White-linen-topped tables surrounded a pool like mounds of snow around a mountain lake. Plates were in place, silverware arranged as though for some ghostly banquet. The evening’s gentle breeze ruffled the surface of the blue water to the cadence of the songs of tree frogs. It was hard to believe that only a few miles away, all downhill, the city was a muggy cesspool with nighttime temperatures in the high eighties and no movement of the torpid air.
Undersecretary Chin Diem knew: he had exited the priv
ate jet and broken into a sweat before he reached the bottom of the staircase and the air-conditioned Mercedes. He had been surprised when the car delivered him not to the presidential palace but to this place—Bistro La Lantern, according to the sign in front. His questions had brought uncomprehending stares from the driver and the other man in the front seat. At least he thought they were staring. It was hard to tell, when both wore reflective sunglasses that concealed the upper part of their faces.
Diem distrusted people who wore sunglasses at night like American movie stars.
Distrust or not, though, here he was beside a pool, looking at the city below without any idea why. All he knew was that he had received an urgent note from Haiti’s ambassador to the People’s Republic demanding in most undiplomatic language his immediate return to Haiti. Perhaps the president for life had yet another demand. He sighed.
Something streaked the surface of the water like a fish striking prey. But there were no fish. He could see the bottom of the pool and there was nothing in there but water. He was still puzzling over the occurrence when it happened again.
The wind?
No.
Quite impossible. He had felt no sudden gust that would slash the surface as though something had been ripped through it. For reasons he could not have explained, he looked over his shoulder, seeing no one but the two men who had brought him here.
He shivered but not from the warm breeze. He hated this place. Not only the sewer that was Port-au-Prince, but this largely barren area, stripped of the lush vegetation indigenous to these latitudes. The constant sound of drums at night, the voodoo of natives who worshipped gods, loa, that were an equal mixture of Christian saints and African spirits, gave him the creeps even though he had been reared to believe in no power higher than the state.
The water’s surface parted again, this time with an audible ripple.
Diem stood just in time to see a tiny shape, all but indistinguishable against the night, as it flitted away. A bat! The little creature was drinking from the pool in midflight. Diem gritted his teeth. He hated rodents, winged or otherwise.
