by Gregg Loomis
Lang's mind went into automatic drive, the lessons of years of experience, a computer pouring forth a printout. Whoever was trailing him would likely act before reaching the Corso del Rinascimento, a couple of blocks ahead. That comparatively wide boulevard would be well lit by streetlights and evening traffic heading to fashionable restaurants.
He could simply throw his wallet onto the street and run for it. The contents would more than sate the appetite of whoever was following. Lang could make it to the lights ahead before his potential assailant checked the extent of his windfall. He could, but he knew he wasn't going to. Lang would be damned if he would knuckle under to a simple street criminal, particularly in Europe, where the odds were small the robber would be carrying a gun. He had seen all the action he wanted for the day, but surrender was too distasteful to contemplate.
Apparently satisfied with his inspection of the doorway, Lang walked leisurely ahead. Attuned to what he was listening for, he could hear steps matching his own. With a slow step, Lang turned a corner into an unnamed, unlit alley and flattened himself against stones still warm from the day's heat. Almost instantly, a form was limned against the alley's entrance. It held something bulky, something that reflected the light behind.
Lang wasn't going to get a better chance. He pushed off from the wall. With all the force he could put behind it, he swung a fist.
"Signor!"
Lang stumbled as he pulled the blow up short. Even in the miserable light he could see the shawl-covered head, the shabby ankle-length skirt. He was facing a female, her eyes wide with terror. A Zingara, an old Gypsy woman, a bag full of bottles in her hand.
Its proximity to Eastern Europe makes Italy a prime destination for those perpetual tourists, the Gypsies. They seem to live by begging, rummaging through trash cans, and, many say, stealing. Apparently, the lure of collecting bottles for resale was enough for her to ignore whatever custom usually kept the women off the streets after dark.
Lang leaned against the wall for support. He was trembling with the thought of what had nearly happened. She had a justifiable fear someone would chase her away, a common practice among those Romans who see Gypsies as professional thieves. Of course, the old woman had used the shadows to remain invisible. She recovered from shock before Lang did. She reached for his hand, mumbling the incantation preparatory to reading his palm, another Gypsy avocation.
He backed away. "Non no soldi spielioli, I have no coins," he said, using one of the Italian phrases he knew, before hurrying down the street.
He heard her wailing behind him, no doubt casting a curse on him, his family, and his genitals. Another Gypsy specialty.
He stopped when he reached the Spanish Steps, well within view of his hotel. Only then did he realize he was trembling. Had he landed the punch he had intended, the old woman's jaw would likely have been broken. Or her head snapped so viciously as to break a neck brittle with age.
The picture of the terror on the old woman's face made his stomach heave. This wasn't the lawyer Dawn had married. Not even the retired agent Gurt knew, although he suspected a little bit of violence would not have disturbed her. What had he become? Since responding to Don Huff's daughter, he had been exposed to more savagery than during all the time he had spent at an agency where murder and mayhem were often tools of the trade.
You asked for it, a voice within himself noted. No one made you go trotting off to Spain. Now you are no closer to Don Huff's killer than you were, and Gurt's dead because you weren't content to practice law and manage the foundation you set up. Why not go home before you succeed in getting yourself killed, too?
He began to climb the steps, unaware he was speaking aloud. "Quit? Maybe. But not until I find who killed Gurt."
By the time he reached the top, he realized he was no longer hungry.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Nimes, France
L'Hopital de Nimes
At the same time
Night.
She had taken her evening sleeping pill, holding it under her tongue until the night nurse had had ample time to return to her station before spitting it out into a tissue and dumping it into the trash can by the bed. She fought sleep as she would a mortal enemy, concentrating on staying awake as though her life depended on it, as she believed it did. She was thankful the room was dark now so anyone glancing in the room could not see her open eyes. She doubted she had the strength to remain awake had she had to close them to appear to be lost in slumber.
Before dawn, she would know if her instincts, her experience from a time she could not remember could be trusted.
Outside her door, the colorless light from the ward's nursing stand invaded her room with a pattern of shadows. She was not sure what she had actually seen when part of those shadows shifted color to a penumbra, not quite dark but not light, either.
She blinked, half certain she had seen nothing but a trick played by a weary optic nerve. She strained, hoping to hear some sound, but her ears gave back only the sound of her own heartbeat and the whisper of her breathing, a sound like the static of a radio station that has gone off the air.
Something blocked the demilight from the hall. Only for an instant, but long enough to give it human shape.
Moving as slowly as possible, she edged to the far side of the bed, holding the iron rod under the sheets. She wanted as much space as possible. Whether her newly restored hearing or some sixth sense, she felt a presence moving toward her.
She turned her head sideways so the corner of her eyes, that part most sensitive to motion, could catch movement. Next to her bed, a place in the charcoal gray darkness became denser, blacker than the rest of the room. There was not enough light to distinguish the outline 'of any form or substance, only an indefinable point where black became inky black.
She imagined she could feel someone's breath, a faint warm stirring in the air.
She had only a guess and what seemed an atavistic knowledge of what she must do. Grasping the tube of metal at one end, she lunged to a sitting position, putting whatever weight she could into a jabbing, upward thrust. Swinging the rod horizontally might or might not connect with the intruder's head, but if she missed, she was unlikely to get another chance. An upward stroke could catch whoever was next to her bed anywhere. If she got lucky and hit right under the ribs, a ruptured spleen and disabling pain would result, perhaps even a punctured lung.
The impact was so hard it sent a jarring shock all the way to her shoulders. There was a resulting grunt of pain and the sound of a collision with the far wall.
With one hand, she found the switch to the bedside light and was out of bed almost before the darkness dissolved. She was looking straight at a man slumped against the wall. His feet were scrabbling against the tile as he tried to stand. Blood dripped from his chin where a flap of bloody flesh hung like some gory goatee.
The same glance caught the light's reflection from the knife on the floor about halfway between them, the weapon he had dropped when she jabbed him.
He saw it at the same time she did and made a lunge for it.
Before his fingers even touched the handle of the blade, she had a clear shot at his head, shoulders, and back of his neck. The metal rod flashed over her head like the sword of an avenging angel and struck its target between the third or fourth cervical vertebrae and the first thoracic, that spot where the segments of the spinal column are no longer protected by part of the skull nor yet shielded by the shoulders. It is where the entire weight of the skull rests on the neck.
There were two distinct but simultaneous sounds: a thump of flesh being pulverized and a snap like a dry twig being broken. The man was no longer moving.
She kicked the knife into a corner before she stooped and rolled him over on his back.
Eyes stared into eternity from a face that meant nothing to her. She sat on the floor next to him. Methodically, she began to search his pockets, even though she could not have enunciated exactly what she was looking for. She found lint
and a few loose threads from the cheap pair of slacks he wore. No wallet, no identification.
For reasons she also could not have explained, she was not surprised. It was as if she had not expected any.
There was an inside pocket in the light windbreaker he had worn over a polo shirt. At the very bottom, she felt something like paper. Pulling it out, she held it up to the light. Some sort of ticket, a bus or subway in… The name was difficult to read. She extended her arm fully to get nearer to the lamp.
No use. Whatever had been printed on the stub had been faded into illegibility by washing or dry cleaning.
Still…
Uncertain of exactly what she hoped to achieve, she got to her feet and padded over to the closet. When she had been found, she had been wearing hiking boots, jeans, and the tattered remnants of a blouse. She supposed she had had some sort of purse or wallet containing whatever identification she owned. It had never been located, probably destroyed in the explosion.
The jeans, a sturdy American product, albeit stitched in Taiwan, had endured, the only garment she possessed at the moment except for the steel-shanked boots.
She slipped the pants from the hanger and reached into one of the front pockets. Her hand emerged with a crumpled slip of paper. Letting the all-enduring jeans fall to the floor, she held the stub from the dead man up next to the one she had taken from her own pocket.
The same shade of green.
She placed one on top of the other. A perfect match.
For almost a full minute, she stared at the two stubs. They spoke to her of a monotone voice announcing arrivals and departures, of crowds of people, many carrying luggage. Then she was sitting at a table across from a man very special to her. Through plate-glass windows she could see buildings wet with drizzle.
She and the man had been… were going to…
Seemingly unrelated, she saw the skyline of a city far away, in America. She heard the whine and felt the soft, wet muzzle of a large, ugly dog, an animal whose name was… was Grumps? What kind of a name was that? There was a black man, kind face, clerical collar. Most of all, there was that man very special to her and in real danger of which he might be unaware.
How could she…?
Then she remembered, the facts unfolding like cards dealt on a table. She was Gurt Fuchs, an employee of a very unusual organization that had trained her how to do a number of things most women never even dreamed of. Like how to take care of people like the man on the floor. It was as if a dam had burst, unleashing a flood of memories that crowded her mind for space. There were a number of questions she still could not answer. Others had answers that frightened her. Still more told her she must act.
Now.
She pulled the jeans on under her hospital gown. She was, as the very special man… Lang, that was his name, Lang, liked to say, history.
But first, the man lying on the floor of her room. She couldn't leave him here to be discovered before she had gotten as far away as possible. Too bad her employer had no service here to ·clean up messes like corpses. Such assistance had been called…? What? Housekeeping, yes, that was it, housekeeping. In other places, housekeeping crews were specially detailed to sanitize crime scenes.
Well, tonight she would have to do her own housekeeping. Taking a foot in each hand, she dragged him to the side of the bed and gripped the waist of his trousers.
If she could somehow get him into her bed and cover him with a sheet, she wouldn't be missed till morning. She tugged, but the weight was more than she could lift. Removing his belt, she looped it around limp, cold wrists. She walked to the other side of the bed, sat on the floor, and pulled so that at least the arms, head, and shoulders of the corpse now rested on the bed linen and the bed bore part of the load. From there it was a simple matter to boost the feet up.
She helped herself to the man's shirt before covering him with a sheet.
The sole nurse on duty was staring at a small portable TV, one that could quickly be unplugged and hidden under the desk in the unlikely event a doctor should appear at this hour of the night. From the canned laughter, she must have been watching the French version of a sitcom.
Or someone had suggested foie gras was bad for the health.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Rome
Hotel Hassler
The next morning
"Mr. Couch!" the desk clerk called across the lobby.
Lang was so intent on what he had to do that morning' he had almost forgotten the name under which he was registered. He stopped just short of the door leading outside and retraced his steps.
Lang noted the morning coat, gray vest, and striped pants. Staff at Italy's better and aspiring hotels dressed like they were attending a wedding. Except the doormen. They dressed as bit players in a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. He exchanged a euro for an envelope. Inside was a note from an unfamiliar number:
Your package has arrived.
Lang nodded as he wadded the paper and tossed it into one of the brass ashtray stands that populated the lobby. Before his departure, he had told Sara to let him know when a parcel arrived from George Hemphill. She was to go to the UPS store in the lobby of the office building across the street and fax Couch here. He had seen the question in her eyes but declined an explanation. To try to convince someone that he was dealing with an unknown but powerful organization, and that organization might well have the capability to intercept phone calls came too close to a myriad of conspiracy theories. There was no good reason to explain that faxes, like any other telephonic communication, were subject to interception, particularly those transmitted by satellite, as almost all transatlantic calls were these days. If his number was being observed by one of the machines that could easily monitor thousands of calls at once, using computer technology to flag certain preprogrammed words, any call from his office could draw unwanted attention.
Using an unrelated phone number utilized the Achilles' heel of the mass intercepts made possible by RAPTOR: The capability to listen and record almost any conversation or fax existed. The technology to separate the electronic wheat from the mass of chaff did not.
Sara had long accepted what she viewed as Lang's harmless idiosyncrasies. Sending a message to someone she had never heard of in Rome was no more abnormal than overnighting a package to general delivery in the same city. In fact, her message denoted that the parcel had already been sent.
One more item on Lang's list.
As he passed the concierge's desk, he stopped, his attention diverted by a stack of the day's newspapers. Under banner headlines, the same chubby, well-dressed man he had seen yesterday smiled out at the world.
Unable to either read the Italian or resist his curiosity, Lang approached the desk. ''Your prime minister…?"
The concierge shrugged, a matter of no consequence. "He has gotten a law requiring bribery to be persecuted…"
"Prosecuted?"
''Yes, requiring the crime of bribery to be prosecuted within a year, six months too late to prosecute him."
Italy: If not honest politics, entertaining politics. Louisiana residents should feel right at home.
He walked to the Trastevere District, that area of Rome south of the Tiber that, during the Renaissance, had housed masons, bricklayers, and other laborers as well as a number of the era's most famous. Rafael, it was said, kept a mistress in the rooms over a tavernare there. Long ago, laborers' humble rooms and lofts had been converted to trendy apartments for those who could afford to live in an area now fashionable.
Even so, the locale's more humble origins were still visible, if one knew where to look. An example was a simple doorway between a trattoria and a shop displaying the. highest end in women's shoes. A hallway led between the two establishments until it widened into a series of rooms offering tools and equipment for sale. There had been no exterior sign. As is often the case in Rome, the proprietor relied on trade from residents who knew the location of his emporium anyway.
Such logic, Lang thought
, would drive American ad agencies into therapy if not bankruptcy.
Lang selected two flashlights, batteries, and a short crowbar. Paying for his purchases, he walked northeasterly along the Tiber, enjoying the shade of massive plane trees. In front of him, two teenaged girls clad in identical low-rider, epidural jeans giggled as they looked in shop windows. He would eventually arrive at the post office to which Sara should have sent his package, but for the moment, he was enjoying the sights and sounds of the Ghetto, the area occupied by Rome's Jews since antiquity. It had been almost emptied during the German occupation.
World War II.
As he walked, carrying his purchases, he tried to imagine a connection between a Roman emperor's, Julian's, idea of a prank, what an SS officer, Skorzeny, might have found in an ancient fortress and the murder of Don Huff. He rethought the procedure he was following. Find the indictment of Christ, or at least its hiding place, and hope whatever was there would lead him to the truckloads of whatever Skorzeny had removed from Montsegur and hope whatever it was, it pointed to the killer.
The whole thing seemed like some sort of intellectual Raggedy Ann, poorly stitched together with seams fully exposed. Raggedy Ann or Barbie, it was all he had, the only trail to Don's murderer. More important, his only hope of finding whoever was responsible for Gurt.
He stopped in the post office. In Italy, as in most European countries, traditional telephone service is' administered by the postal department, possibly accounting for the· inefficiency of both. With the advent of cell phones, provided by private carriers, the stuff of legend and jokes at the government's expense were coming to an end. Still, a woman was shouting into a receiver, her hands gesticulating as only the Italians can. Lang would have guessed her weight at a svelte two hundred; and, from the few words Lang caught, that she was expecting money from someone in Naples. From the tone of her voice, Lang would not have bet on her receiving it.
