The Coptic Secret

by Gregg Loomis

  Whatever the movie, the guy behind Lang wore a suit, albeit a cheap one, making himself as conspicuous as if he had worn a tutu. Certainly another amateur. He ordered his rail ticket in Italian, smiled at Lang and went over to the coffee bar to wait. Lang almost lost sight of him in the surge of embarking passengers swimming upstream against those getting off the train. Anywhere else, those boarding would have waited for the cars to empty. Well, maybe a New York subway ... Lang's tail managed to wedge himself into the same car where he smiled again and stared out of the window.

  Gurt had been less than happy with Lang's idea but unable to come up with a better one. After all, Lang had explained, with whom would Manfred be safer? After the shoot-out at Lang's country place, the attempt in Baden-Baden and the most recent kidnap attempt, he could hardly be entrusted to a hired nanny, and no matter how willing the Hendersons, their farm was no longer secure. Any way he looked at it, Lang felt the mountains of North Carolina provided a safe haven by the fact he had no connection with the area whatsoever. If trouble did arrive, he would be hard-pressed to think of a more capable guardian.

  Thirty minutes later, he stepped down from the railcar into the bustling mob that was Roma Termini.

  Outside, he ignored the cabstand. Only tourists waited in orderly if futile fashion while the experienced traveler walked a block or so farther to catch cabs as they arrived at the station. Lang was aware of the man from the train at his elbow. He stood patiently until the white taxi stopped to unload its passenger and what must have been her entire wardrobe. The cabby yelled for a porter and a dolly was soon loaded with an assortment of mismatched luggage from the largest on bottom to the small overnight case crowned by a... what? A rat with a rhinestone collar around its neck? Lang wasn't sure until the creature began to bark crossly. Its mistress's alternating coos and pleas failed to silence the ill-natured canine. Lang pitied the traveler who shared a car with that animal. He could only imagine the haggle involving the porter's tip.

  As the porter staggered away under his load, the cab- driver looked expectantly at Lang, who stepped back, indicating the man beside him should have the taxi.

  The Italians are a civilized, graceful people.

  Except when it comes to the last seat on a bus, train, cab or in a trattoria.

  Lang's shadow gaped, uncomprehending. He had two immediate choices: expose his intent to follow the American or accept the offer and lose his mark.

  He chose the latter.

  Perhaps so he might regale his grandchildren with the story of how someone had voluntarily relinquished a taxi to him.

  More likely because he feared a confrontation.

  Lang leaned into the next cab, giving his destination and asking the fare. Roman cabdrivers are notorious for bilking strangers to their city. A ride that should consist of a few blocks easily becomes an hour's tour.

  The driver held up both hands, ten euro.

  Lang shook his head, knowing the distance he would travel. He held up one hand, fingers spread. "Five."

  Ultimately reaching an agreement, Lang climbed in. The ride in Roman traffic was the usual blaring horns and ignored traffic signals. It would be impossible to spot a tail in the chaos. As always, Lang was a little surprised to arrive intact.

  The cab jolted to a stop at the limit of vehicular traffic at the edge of the crowded Piazza della Rotonda. Lang paid the driver, adding a small tip, retrieved his bag from the trunk and set out across the square. For what might have been the hundredth time, he stopped in front of the Pantheon, Rome's ultimate example of simplicity and symmetry.

  Built under the direction of the second-century emperor Hadrian, it had served as a temple to all gods and now as a church and final resting place of Raphael, Marconi and several kings of modern Italy. Its dome of equal height and width had been studied by Michelangelo as a potential model for the new Vatican (the commission for the dome's construction ultimately went to someone else). Unlike other temples, its only natural illumination came from the oculus, the hole at the top of the dome.

  With some difficulty, Lang turned his back on the building and continued across the cobblestoned pavement to a glass door bearing a drawing of a smiling sun and gilt letters announcing the Sole al Pantheon. A fifteenth-century palazzo, it was one of the city's oldest hotels. It had been occupied when Columbus first sailed and into its second century long before the rebuilding of the Vatican.

  Happily, the plumbing had been updated.

  In more contemporary times, it had housed the writers Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir.

  More important for Lang's purposes, it was centrally located, discreet and had a single entrance/exit, one easily monitored from his room's window.

  He entered the tiny lobby and submitted his passport to the young man behind the desk. "I'm expecting a package. It should have arrived last night."

  Lang faced a small fountain behind a pane of glass at the far end of the room while the clerk glanced around, stooped and retrieved a parcel from beneath the desk before finishing entering Lang's passport into a computer. Declining the use of the hotel's claustrophobic elevator, Lang climbed two flights of winding stairs and walked down a short tiled hall that changed levels every few feet. He unlocked a door and stepped into semidarkness. Crossing the tiled floor, he opened a shuttered window. Sounds of the piazza below as well as light flooded the room.

  He had an unobstructed view of the Pantheon and its fountain and obelisk to his left, the same view a resident of the original palazzo might have had.

  Except for the McDonald's almost directly below him, an anachronism that had delighted Dawn when they had stayed here a lifetime ago. The whole city had delighted her. From this window, in this room, they had made plans for other trips, plans both would shortly realize would never be fulfilled.

  Had he chosen to return here because of a memory, deceiving himself that location and layout were the reasons? No matter; he was here. He sighed deeply as he unwrapped the package, marked machine parts. He opened a sturdy cardboard box and removed pieces of the Browning HP 35 he had purchased in Monk's pawnshop and two loaded clips. The risk in having it delivered via FedEx had been minimized by its disassembly. No one part would be recognizable to random X-ray. Besides, security for freight carriers was considerably more lax than at passenger terminals.

  He spent the next few minutes reassembling the weapon and then shoved a magazine into place with a decisive click. Removing the holster from his suitcase, he placed the pistol into position in the small of his back, put on a light jacket and went out.

  He found a cab where he had left the one in which he had arrived, negotiated a fare and directed the driver to the Via Veneto entrance to the Villa Borghese, Rome's largest park and site of one of its most impressive palaces. Upon arrival, he waited for the taxi to depart before setting off. He wanted whoever had been trying to kill him to know he was in town but making no effort to foil observation might well seem suspicious.

  A few blocks from the park he dodged his way across the busy Corso D'ltalia, cut down a side street and entered an office of Hertz. Although he still experienced nightmares from the last time he drove in Rome, an automobile was essential to his plan. He had reserved not just any car but a bright red Alfa Romeo two-seat sport model, one that would draw attention.

  It would also draw the car thieves for which Italy was famous.

  Either way, if his plan worked, Mr. Hertz was never going to see this baby again.

  Before getting in the car, he stopped at one of the stands that seemed to have been randomly scattered throughout Rome, selling maps, photographs and prints of the city's attractions. It took him only a minute to find what he wanted.

  He returned to the car rental, where a young man was standing over the sports car with the hood raised.

  Lang had had enough experience with Italian cars to expect the worst. "Problem?"

  "Si, signore. She will not start. Perhaps domani?"

  "Tomorrow won't do."

&nb
sp; Lang took a look at the engine compartment, an incomprehensible spaghetti of various colored wires, ducts that seemed to go nowhere and somewhere beneath, an engine block.

  The man from the rental agency slid into the driver seat and cranked the car. The starter ground away, the engine turned over once, twice and died. Perhaps that was why the US Department of Transportation no longer allowed importation of Alfas: terminal frustration. That was certainly the reason Lang slammed the hood shut.

  The engine purred to life.

  Lang was thankful his plan did not call for reliability.

  Gritting his teeth and holding the Alfa's steering wheel in a death grip, Lang drove back to the Piazza della Rotonda. He found a narrow space between a Fiat and a subcompact Lancia in front of a conspicuous no parking sign and only a few yards from the open-air seating of one of the piazza's numerous trattorias, where he could keep an eye on the Alfa. The tables were beginning to fill with those seeking to quench the morning's thirst, people- watch or have an early lunch. He had ordered a La Rossa and began to study the reproduced engraving of the Piazza dei Cavalieri he had bought in the stand near the Hertz office. The beer had just arrived when a man sat beside him. There was no mistaking the rancid odor of stale tobacco.

  "Hello, Jacob," Lang said.

  II.

  Piazza della Rotonda

  Jacob signaled a waiter with the hand not holding his pipe. The man ignored him. "Bloody guineas! Man could die of thirst before they'd pay attention."

  Lang ignored the condemnation of the Italian people, saying mildly, "Looks like there are plenty of other customers. I take it you acquired what you need?"

  Jacob was sucking a match's flame into the bowl of the briar. "Yes, yes, of course. The question is where and when."

  The waiter finally approached, regretted the menu did not include British ale and took Jacob's reluctant order for whatever Lang was having. Both men waited until the server was out of earshot.

  "I'm not sure, but we can get started right now."

  Jacob took a puff on his pipe and exhaled, sending acrid blue smoke drifting toward Lang on the day's fitful breeze. "Tell me exactly what you have in mind. You were less than specific on the phone."

  When Lang finished, Jacob's beer had arrived. He took the pipe out of his mouth long enough to take a long sip. "Ahh. That settles the dust of travel! Your plan's a bit edgy. I mean, assuming this Knights of Malta lot are the villains, how do we ... ?"

  "Their sovereign council meets every five years. The meeting starts tonight. Drink up and we'll have a look."

  "You're just going to bait the lion in his den, are you? Not the method I'd fancy. I'd imagine the blokes'll spot us."

  "I hope so."

  Jacob wriggled his way into the passenger seat. "You should have gotten a car we rode in, not one we wear."

  Lang pulled the hood latch and opened the engine compartment. "You're only young once."

  Jacob watched with unspoken curiosity as Lang slammed the hood closed. "That was true some time ago."

  Lang got into the driver seat. The car cranked immediately.

  III.

  Aventine Hill

  Via S. Sabina

  Fifteen Minutes Later

  The street was largely residential. Tops of cypress trees peeked timidly over a high wall, giving evidence of the private piazza within. What little traffic there was consisted of large cars moving sedately, many chauffeured and the occupants shielded by tinted glass. It was as if the sounds of the city were too heavy to float up the steep slope.

  Lang pulled the Alfa to the curb and cut the engine, opposite massive wooden doors about fifteen feet high. Their most prominent feature was a huge brass keyhole through which a queue of Japanese tourists were alternately looking and consulting guidebooks.

  They parted long enough for the gates to slowly swing open to admit a Mercedes limo. Even through its darkened glass, Lang caught a glimpse of a man in a plumed hat and black robe trimmed in scarlet. The momentary view of the piazza itself was of multiple buildings, two of which looked like churches. Lang strained to see where the Mercedes went, but the doors closed before he could.

  "Doesn't look like Dracula's castle to me," Jacob observed. "In fact, the chap in the car looked like he was on his way to perform in a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta."

  "More likely to a meeting of the sovereign council."

  "So you think the grand pooh-bah himself will be there."

  "Grand master, yeah. He presides over the council until they elect a new one."

  Jacob was fumbling in his pocket for his pipe and tobacco pouch. "Jolly good show if you can be sure these are the sods that have caused you bother. Bag 'em on the spot." He reached up to touch the convertible's top. "May as well put the lid down".

  "Good idea. See if you can give me a hand getting the top down on this hot rod, will you?"

  In the course of an hour, Lang watched seven trucks pass through that gate, each bearing the names of foodstuffs. From the designs or pictures on the sides, he guessed at seafood, a butcher, two vegetable suppliers, two pasta makers and a baker. That wasn't counting the vintner.

  "Looks like someone is having a party, all right," Jacob commented, "bringing the goodies in by the lorry load."

  Lang got out of the car as a van, this one an electrician, pulled up to the gate. "Think I'll have a little look-see."

  He waited until the vehicle had been admitted and the gates nearly closed before hurrying across the empty street to put his face against the keyhole. To his left was an ochre-colored building in neoclassic style. From the engraving he had bought at the stand near the Hertz office, he guessed he was looking at the priory church, Santa Maria del Priorato. Across the piazza, he could turn his head to see a somewhat more modest building of gray stone. From the number of windows, he gathered it housed offices or living quarters or both rather than the second church he had thought. After watching a crew carrying folding tables in, he guessed he was looking at the dining area. Several men in chefs' white jackets came out to inspect one of the grocery trucks. Whatever the structure, it was going to be the site of what looked like a major banquet.

  Lang returned to the Alfa.

  "If you're wanting to be seen, you have been," Jacob said cheerfully. "Chap in a dark suit watched you from down the street, was talking on a cell phone."

  Lang turned the key in the ignition. "Good enough. Now let's see what we can flush out."

  IV.

  Aventine Hill

  2100 Local Time

  Lang stopped down the hill from the Knights of Malta priory. He let Jacob out into the dusky shadows between streetlights with a clear view of the gates. Parking in the same spot he had that afternoon, Lang scanned the blank walls with binoculars, well aware the lenses would reflect such little light as was available. Once, he got out of the cramped sports car to walk around it, a man stretching his legs during a tedious wait.

  Half an hour later, he repeated the process, this time squatting beside the car at the end of his stroll. He slammed the door closed as loudly as possible.

  If there was revelry going on inside, the walls muffled it. The only sound Lang could hear was a faint hum of city traffic below punctuated with a honk of distant horns. The cypress trees sighed contentedly with the fresh evening breeze as though thankful to be relieved of the heat of the day.

  One or two limousines entered the priory, no doubt carrying latecomers. Nothing else entered or left.

  Lang was about to decide he needed another tactic when he heard a sound, something that did not belong among the whispers of the trees or the faraway murmur of distant automobiles. He tensed, his eyes trying to probe the darkness. Shadows of gently moving cypress branches haunted the street. Somewhere down the hill a motor scooter coughed to life.

  Then he heard it again, a scuffling, scraping sound, the sound of shoe leather on pavement.

  They were on the Alfa almost before Lang saw them, four men, each carrying something.


  He hardly had time to guess what before the night was shredded with gunfire. Four sets of muzzle flashes burned into Lang's retinas as his ears rang with what must have been hundreds of rounds from automatic weapons.

  Like a living creature, the Alfa shuddered under the impact of the fusillade, bullets shattering glass and piercing metal The little car seemed to utter a death shudder as it sank on bare rims from which the tires had been shredded.

  The storm of gunfire passed as quickly as it had begun. Quiet pressed on Lang's eardrums, relieved only by the hissing of a punctured radiator. The pulsating wail of a siren was growing stronger. There would be no time for the would-be killers to verify their work.

  From the shadows in which he had hidden the second time he had gotten out of the car, he watched as the gates across the street swung slowly open to allow the silhouettes of four men entry.

  Up and down the street, lights were coming on. The curious and foolhardy were wandering outside. Questions were shouted into the dark.

  "I'd say you've gotten your proof."

  Lang flinched. He hadn't heard Jacob come up from his post downhill. "I'd say. Now we go to the second part of the plan."

  Jacob placed a hand on Lang's shoulder, gently moving him away from the hole-riddled Alfa. "We'd best get along before the coppers show up."

  V.

  Thirty Minutes Later

  Deputy Chief Police Inspector Hanaratti put a hand to his eyes to shade them from the glare of the lights arranged around the ruins of what had been an Alfa Romeo Spyder, the sort of car the inspector would have lusted after twenty years, three children and an ex-wife ago. It was so much scrap metal now. Not a square centimeter of the once sleek coachwork that didn't have a bullet hole in it. Fortunate for the driver he had escaped; he would not have survived the hailstorm of lead.

  Hanaratti scowled. This looked very much like a botched Mafia job. Personally, he couldn't care less how many mafiosi bodies littered the streets. Good riddance to bad garbage. The problem was, one shooting usually begat another and another. The criminals could go to mattress as they called it, but the unaware civilian too often got caught in the cross fire.