by Gregg Loomis
“Not necessarily. What I meant was, you obviously enjoy history.” Francis pointed to the overburdened bookcases. “I see everything from Gibbon’s Decline and Fall to Will Durant’s Story of Civilization and Churchill’s Second World War. I see works by Dickens, essays by Emerson and a bunch of contemporary novels.”
“And?”
“I don’t get it: someone as obviously well-read as you likes country music?”
Lang nodded. “Yeah, I do. At least some of it. I can understand the words and it actually has a tune I can whistle. Try whistling Beethoven.”
An hour or so later, the port exhausted, Francis stood and stretched. “As always, a magnificent dinner, wonderful port and delightful company.”
Lang also stood. “You are easily amused.”
Francis sighed. “Not as easily as you think. It’s been a long time since you broke bread at the parish house.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Mrs. Finnigan, my housekeeper-cook, bless her heart, is a fine woman and a good Catholic but a horrible cook. Deorum cibus non est. Food for the gods it ain’t.”
“Doesn’t sound like a fair trade-off to me,” Lang said, walking his friend to the front door. “Why not get someone who is a decent cook, then?”
Francis stopped, facing Lang. “She’s been at Immaculate Conception longer than I have. I can’t just fire her like that.”
Lang reached to open the door. “Maybe you’ll be canonized someday for your martyrdom in suffering heartburn as the price of Christian charity.”
Francis stepped around Lang to give Gurt a hug. “In addition to being a heretic, your husband is a wiseass.”
Gurt hugged him back. “Be grateful you do not have to live with him.”
“I include thanks in my daily prayers.”
They watched him pull the Toyota into the street. In following it with his eyes, Lang noticed a sedan parked at the curb to his left. The people who lived there had an ample yard in which to park cars, so the automobile was not a visitor’s nor was it one he recognized as his neighbor’s. For that matter, the humble Ford was not the type transportation preferred by the residents of affluent Ansley Park.
Its sheer ordinariness stuck out like an automotive sore thumb.
Lang took a little more time closing the door than was necessary. He thought he saw a flash of movement. Someone was in the car.
Why?
Lang thought he had a good idea.
It was then he realized he had forgotten to ask Francis about his cryptic remark at lunch the other day concerning the true occupant of Saint Mark’s tomb under the altar in Venice. Oh well, he saw the priest on a regular if purely social basis. He’d get an answer the next time.
Upstairs, Lang cut off the bathroom light and was approaching the bed where Gurt was an indistinct pile of covers.
“Who was it on the phone?” she asked as he pulled back the covers to climb in.
“Someone who wanted me to think they had a wrong number.”
“Why would someone want to do that?”
“There was a hum on the line.”
The blankets fell away as Gurt sat up. “A parabolic listening device? That could make wireless electronics like a cordless telephone hum. Someone with the thing trained on the windows to pick up the vibrations of the glass caused by the human voice. It can also pick up both sides of a telephone conversation. They were testing it.”
“That’s why I pulled down our custom-made privacy shields before I got in bed.”
In remodeling the old Ansley Park home, Gurt and Lang had spared no expense to retain its early twentieth-century charm while modernizing a number of features. One of these additions had been a security system that would shock their more conventional neighbors, and one many military bases might envy.
With the past they shared, neither wanted to risk a former enemy’s reappearance. The house contained a complete privacy system designed to thwart the most sophisticated listening devices, in addition to a number of other surprises, such as oak bolted to two-inch case-hardened steel for doors, a central control system that could remotely seal off any part of the house and real-time surveillance cameras.
Gurt turned on the light by her side of the bed. “They called to make sure their device was operational.”
“Not as good as tapping the phone but not as risky, either. And they can follow conversations anywhere within a hundred yards just by focusing the antenna.”
“But why would someone want to…?”
“To enjoy my brilliant wit?”
Gurt’s frown showed that at the moment, she wasn’t enjoying it at all. “What should we do?”
“Not much. Far as I know, there’s no law against eavesdropping as long as no wiretap or trespass is involved. I’d say someone is more interested in learning about us than doing us harm.”
Gurt nodded. “For now.”
“For now.” Lang turned to open the top drawer of the bedside table and verify his Browning HP 9 mm was where he kept it. “At some point they-whoever ‘they’ might be-are going to either find out whatever they want to know or give up. Then they’ll either go away or move to the next step.”
Gurt was crawling out from under the covers.
“Where are you going?” Lang asked.
“Downstairs to make sure all the locks are on and so are the motion and impact detectors.”
“Don’t forget the motion-activated cameras.”
Lang knew the house was as secure as modern technology could make it. He still had a hard time getting to sleep.
From the diary of Louis Etienne Saint Denis, secretary to Major General Napoleon Bonaparte Chateau Malmaison
September 22, 1799 The general will not see his wife. We arrived in Toulon ^ 1 from Egypt near a week past and hastened to Paris and then to this small palace nearly in the shadow of the grandeur that was Versailles before it was sacked by the mob. It is the news received in Egypt that lent wings to our heels, the open secret of the many affairs of the general’s wife, known to all but, it would seem, the general himself. Had not General Junot told him, all would be well . ^ 2 Now, he sulks in the upstairs of this petite palace, which he provided for Josephine, ^ 3 not allowing her to his bed despite the most piteous wailing and tears. The general married this woman but three years past and it has appeared to all close to him the marriage has been unsatisfactory from the start. The widow of an aristocrat who fell victim to the guillotine, she escaped the same fate only by the overthrow of Robespierre. ^ 4 She is the daughter of a plantation owner in the West Indies ^ 5 impoverished by a hurricane. Older than the general by several years, she is far from beautiful but has a charm and grace that, according to gossip, have enslaved many of her lovers. From the beginning, she treated the general with scorn, while he adored her. Now things are upside down, she begging forgiveness while he ignores her. I can do nothing to improve his dark state and have quit trying lest I draw his ire. Even remarking that we will not miss Egypt’s searing heat brought forth nothing more than a glare. Other than meeting daily with his staff and walks in the small garden , ^ 6 the general keeps to himself, reading and dictating letters to me. He has become fascinated by the history of Alexander the Great. Only this morning, he commented to me that a great battle ^ 7 had been fought along the Nile for possession of Alexander’s body, for it had been prophesied that the nation that possessed the remains of the god-king would never be defeated. ^ 8 Though he does not say, he believes himself to be a second Alexander, his conquests in Europe rather than the East. The only constant in the general’s life is the mysterious box he brought from Egypt. It is never out of his sight.
Law offices of Langford Reilly
The next day
Gurt was the only person who regularly called Lang on his cell phone while he was at work and then only if she had reason to short-circuit Sara’s phone-answering duties. So why was she doing it now?
Lang pushed back from his desk, where he had been proofreading a motion to be filed the next day, dragged the cell from a pocke
t and pressed “start.”
“Yes ma’am?”
“Lang, there is someone in our house.”
It took a second for her meaning to register. She wasn’t referring to Allard, the man who did twice-a-week cleaning, and he couldn’t recall anyone else who had a key. “You mean, like a burglar? In broad daylight?”
Her voice was perfectly calm, the way it always was when she was facing danger. “I took Manfred to kindergarten, went to the grocery store, came home and the red light was blinking.”
Another of the home’s security features was a series of perimeter sensors that illuminated small warning lights discreetly placed beside front and rear doors.
“Any sign of entry? Our locks aren’t the kind that can easily be forced.”
“Whoever is inside the house had to have special equipment. The locks on both doors are intact and I can see no broken windows. Shall I call the police?”
Response time for Atlanta’s emergency services had been the subject of TV and newspaper articles after several houses had burned to the ground and one or two home invasions had taken place between notifying 911 responders and arrival of the police. Callers had an equal chance of being put on hold or having the emergency crews sent to the wrong addresses. The director of the service blamed budget cuts. Most citizens realistically blamed stupidity and the city’s civil-service system, which made death almost the only cause to terminate inept employees.
“Whoever’s in there isn’t going anywhere and he might be armed. I take it you’re not.”
“I do not carry weapons to drive Manfred to kindergarten, no.”
“Call 911. I’m on my way.”
Less than twenty minutes later, Lang parked in front of his home. It must have been a slow day at the 911 number. Already, the driveway was filled with police cruisers, lights flashing and the street filled with curious neighbors. A van bearing the logo ATLANTA POLICE S.W.A.T. TEAM was disgorging a number of figures in paramilitary dress carrying M16 rifles, who were running toward the uniformed officers already surrounding the house. Lang climbed out of his Porsche just as a tall black man in a suit exited an unmarked but obviously official car.
“Well, Mr. Reilly! I shoulda knowed this be your house, the place where there always some kinda trouble.”
Lang smiled. “Good to see you again, too, Detective Morse.”
Morse shook his head as he followed Lang up the path to the front door. “Reckon I should be thankful you called us, someone in your house, instead of you bagging him yourself like usual.”
Lang didn’t break stride. “Be fair, Detective. The only times you’ve arrived after someone got hurt was when I had to defend myself.”
Morse shook his head. “Still a mess. Between somebody taking a walk off your twenty-fourth-story balcony at your condo, blowing up your car, killing a professor down to Georgia Tech, you just plain trouble. Not to mention your condo exploding.”
Lang spied Gurt in conversation with a man who appeared to be the leader of the SWAT Team. “At least it’s never dull, Detective.”
“Maybe ain’t dull but sure gonna make retirement enjoyable.”
Gurt recognized Morse and turned from the other man. “Ah, Detective! So glad you could come!”
“Ain’t by choice, ma’am, tell you that.” His eyes focused on a small blinking red light under the mailbox. “That gizmo there what tell you somebody inside? Hate to think we got all these folks and hardware out here ’cause of a false alarm,” he added dubiously.
“I made sure…,” she began.
Reaching past her and the detective, Lang flipped open the mailbox beside the door and pushed a small button. The back of a very ordinary looking postal receptacle fell away, revealing a small TV screen. The picture was black-and-white. It showed a figure pacing up and down a room, a gun in his hand.
“Our foyer,” Lang explained. “You can see there’s someone there.”
Morse’s eyes widened. “So we seeing a burglary in real time? But why ain’t he trying to get away? He gotta have heard the sirens.”
“He can’t. The minute he stepped into the room, activating the security system, steel screens dropped down from the ceiling, trapping him in the foyer. Same thing would have happened if he had broken in anywhere else.”
Morse gave Lang the expression of a man who thinks he may be the butt of a joke. “Get outta here!”
“If you liked that, you’re gonna love this.”
Lang pushed another button and a panel next to the video mailbox popped open, revealing what looked like a small speaker. Those standing close by could hear the footsteps of the man inside.
“Voice activated,” Lang explained as he leaned forward. “You, in the house!”
The figure on the screen froze for a second before turning around, looking for the source of the voice.
“You! You’ve got exactly ten seconds to drop your weapon, lie down of the floor and put your hands on your head. Now, nine seconds before we shoot in the cyanide gas.”
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. Ligh
ts 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.
