The Pegasus Secret

by Gregg Loomis

  “Something can be arranged, I’m sure.”

  Something like a bullet in the back of the head.

  But Lang said, “I’ve got a few questions of my own. Like, if you wanted to keep the secret of Blanchefort, why have a virtual map of it painted by that guy Poussin?”

  “You test my patience, Mr. Reilly, but I will give you an answer as a demonstration of our good faith. We have always faced a choice: risk committing the secret to writing or risk it being lost if enough of our members succumb to any number of unpleasant possibilities. Centuries ago, plague; today mass destruction by heathen terrorists the West does not have the fortitude to destroy first. It was not unreasonable, then, in Poussin’s time, the first half of the seventeenth century, to want some sort of record as to where our . . . discovery might be found. Along with the oral parts of our initiation rites, a picture would serve to find the precise location.”

  Lang’s interest made him forget how groggy he was. He sat up a little straighter. “How did you know Poussin wouldn’t give away your secret?”

  The light shifted enough for Lang to be able to make out Silver Hair’s silhouette. He seemed to be sitting but there wasn’t anything in the room to sit on besides the bed. Had they brought in a chair?

  “Poussin was a Freemason.”

  “So?”

  “Freemasonry is a tool of our order, its members at our bidding. We control it worldwide, always have. Most men of prominence up until nearly the present were Masons, your George Washington, most of your country’s founding fathers, for example. Through it we knew nations’ most intimate secrets. We don’t intend to experience another 1307.

  “More directly in answer to your question, Poussin did the painting because he was commanded to do so, a slight variation upon his work that now hangs in the Louvre. He never knew its significance. We had copies made, one for each of our chapters. Last year we moved the London house, sold a number of its goods rather than move them. The movers mistakenly bundled up the picture with the items we had sold.

  “Now, I’ve given you your answer. I want to know where that letter went.”

  Lang yawned, not entirely an affectation, and moved his aching arm in a slow circle. “Like I said before, so you can kill somebody else? I don’t think so.”

  There was an audible sigh. “Very well, Mr. Reilly. We will leave you for a while to meditate on your situation. When we return . . . well, I fear it will be most unpleasant. We no longer use the rack, the thumbscrew. But we can do amazing things with alligator clips and automobile batteries, simple electrical cooking appliances and human skin. I warn you, though, we have limited time.”

  So much for Lang’s theory on the demise of torture as an interrogation tool.

  There was the scrape of the unseen chair as Silver Hair got up. Lang was already relaxing, slumping back onto the bed, when hands reached out from the dark, pinioning Lang’s arms behind him. His wrists were quickly handcuffed to the bed as his pants were removed. His shoulder was on fire.

  “Now look,” Lang said. “Surely we . . .”

  Somebody literally had him by the balls. The scrotum’s skin was stretched and he felt cold metal. Before he could say anything else, his breath evaporated in a bolt of pain that seared from his testicles throughout his body. His blood was on fire and he could see nothing but a wall of red that was one with his agony.

  Lang didn’t hear his own scream. Burning, searing pain had replaced the other four senses, cramping, demobilizing, anguish.

  It stopped as suddenly as it started. The clamps were removed and Lang’s arms released. The fire in his crotch made him forget his shoulder.

  “A few volts, a low charge,” the voice from the darkness said. “We will leave you to consider the effects of a larger charge, perhaps applied to a metal rod inserted in the anus up to the prostate.”

  They left Lang with the thought. That and pain worse than any he’d ever gotten from a dirty shot in any sport he’d ever played. Gingerly, he moved onto his side. That was when he noticed the shock had made him wet himself.

  3

  Location unknown

  Time unknown

  Lang no longer needed to count floor pegs to occupy his mind. He had to find a way out of here before the guy jump-started his balls again.

  Every move set a new fire in his crotch, underlining the urgency of escape. Gritting his teeth against the constant pain, Lang tried the window. The shutters were immobile, probably secured by a bolt outside too heavy to move even if he could reach it. Besides, unless he was on the first floor, jumping out of a window might not be such a hot idea.

  Trying the same tactic as with the Templar in his condo in Atlanta was a possibility he quickly discarded. They would be alert to the chance he might try to spring on them when they entered the room, and if there were more than one of them, there would be no chance at all. Lang needed to think of something else. He began another slow circuit of the room.

  If there had been a chair for Silver Hair, he had taken it with him. The door was hand-hewn wood, the marks of the chisel on it and the matching frame visible even in the dim light, as were the details of the brass lock plate. Lang knelt to inspect the lock, the posture squeezing testicles already ablaze. He groaned as he peeked into the keyhole again. There was no spring latch like a modern knob would have. Like most old doors, this one would have been kept shut by a simple latch on the inside, a device that empty screw holes indicated had been removed. The keyhole was still blocked but Lang thought he could see the thinnest glimmer of light between the door and jamb. He moved his head up and down. The space extended from top to bottom, blocked only where the lock’s bolt fit into the bolt plate.

  Careful to jar his crotch as little as possible, he sat on the floor. Removing a shoe, he used the dirt and grime on the sole of the Mephisto to make a nearly invisible mark on the frame just even with the bolt.

  The he returned to the bed, this time looking at the bottom of it. Instead of springs, it had old time slats to support the stuffed cotton ticking. For once, Lang was happy to have been uncomfortable. Those slats . . .

  It was tempting to stretch out for a few minutes, to give into the pain, but there was no time. Working the end of one slat loose from the bed’s frame, he levered the other end up and down until he heard it crack. Slipping the whole board out of place, he picked a splinter from the damaged end and returned the slat to its place.

  Lang had done what he could. Now he had to depend on the fickle favors of luck.

  Although it felt like he was passing fire, he urinated a slim stream of blood into the chamber pot. Then he beat on the door.

  They must have had a guard outside because the click of the lock was immediate.

  The doorway was filled with a large man in a white cassock, complete with a hood and a rope belt, something Pietro might have worn seven hundred years before. The light was behind him, preventing Lang from seeing the features of his face although it was adequate to make a halo of his close-cropped blond hair. And to reflect from the automatic rifle slung over a shoulder.

  “The pot needs emptying,” Lang said, indicating.

  Even in the dim light, Lang could see the sneer, nostrils dilating in disgust as he smelled the dry urine on Lang’s clothes. “When you fill it, you will empty it, heathen . . . if you live that long.”

  The accent was Slavic, Russian or something like it. The rifle was one of the AK-47’s, Russian or Chinese-made, that the collapse of the Soviets had left all over Eastern Europe. The thirty-seven–round banana clip hung in front of the trigger guard.

  The man’s distaste was apparent even in his back as he spun and strode from the room.

  The door slammed and Lang dropped to his knees. The key was rattling as he picked up the splinter from beside the door and slipped it between door and jamb. He could feel the heavy bolt hit it and prayed the slender bit of wood would hold.

  It did.

  Lang leaned against the oak, making sure the door had no give should
the man outside test it. Careful the unbolted door did not move, he turned his back against it and slid into a sitting position, hand over his shoulder to hold the splinter in place.

  How long to wait? At some point Silver Hair was coming back with the man from Autolite. He glanced at his bare wrist before remembering they had taken his watch. He began slow counts to sixty, trying to keep score of the passing minutes.

  Ten.

  Twenty.

  Thirty.

  Carefully, he pushed the door slightly ajar, trying to remember if the hinges squeaked. The first thing visible in the tiny crack between door and frame was a pair of feet propped in a chair. The guard was taking it easy, maybe too easy if the deep, even breathing was any indication. Encouraged, Lang pushed the door a little wider. He wasn’t as lucky as he had hoped. His keeper was tilted back in a chair, his legs stretching to a second chair, engrossed in a magazine. The rifle was across his lap.

  Beyond him, a dimly lit hall stretched for maybe twenty feet, intersecting what Lang guessed was yet another hallway like a large hotel. The only thing missing were numbers on the line of doors.

  Lang eased the door shut. He needed to move but couldn’t chance the door swinging open. Untying a shoe, he jammed the rubber sole between floor and door. Careful to keep the splinter in place, he returned to the bed. The sheets were old linen, bordered with fine lace. Regretting the necessity of destroying something so beautiful, he ripped a couple of long strips loose before returning to the door. He wadded one strip and made a loop of the other.

  The guard was still intent on his magazine. Lang opened the door a little wider. If the guard looked up, Lang was finished. With as little motion as possible, Lang lobbed a Mephisto over his keeper’s head. It landed with a gratifying thunk.

  The magazine fell to the floor as the guard snatched up the AK-47 and sprang to his feet.

  There was only a split second before the Templar realized the source of his distraction and turned around. In a single motion, Lang shoved the door wide and lunged. His sudden weight on the other man’s back knocked him down, the rifle clattering against the plank flooring. With one hand, Lang dropped the looped strip of linen over the guard’s head, past his chin, and twisted it tight, stifling the yell that was beginning in his throat.

  Lang’s other hand stuffed the wadded cloth into the man’s open mouth, giving the embroidered garotte another turn. The keeper was clawing at his throat, trying to loosen the crushing pressure on his air supply, when Lang brought up a knee to put between the man’s shoulder blades and pushed down as hard as possible. The human upper esophagus is a muscular tube, hard to close completely, but the keeper’s weakening efforts told Lang he was succeeding.

  The Templar was limp when there was the sound of approaching footsteps.

  4

  Sintra, Portugal

  2340 hours

  From across the winding, tree-shaded street, they had been watching the top two floors of old limestone that could be seen over the wall. The building’s windows were tightly shuttered as though the occupants wanted none of the gentle breeze from the ocean ten or so miles distant. The structure could have been described as a castle or palace simply based on its size and the generous acreage upon which it sat. In fact, it was not much grander than its neighbors, all of which were large enough to be regal residences instead of summer homes. Indeed, three dwellings of royal origin had been built on the hillside of this small town.

  In the early 1800s, Lord Byron had fallen in love with the area as had a significant segment of Europe’s nobility and wealthy. In the last century, increasingly dreary socialist governments and the taxation necessary to implement the illusion of social equality had forced the sale of many of these exquisite vacation homes to the world’s new elite: multinational corporations, usually those headquartered in tax havens with corporate anonymity.

  Only two people were in sight tonight, ambling with careful indifference along the sidewalk as they gawked at the opulence of what was illuminated behind protective walls. They had stopped in front of one.

  “Not a lot of traffic,” the sniper observed. “Haven’t seen the first tourist today, either.”

  “You won’t,” the other person said, studying that part of the facade visible above the razor wire-topped wall. “What few there are come in by bus, eat lunch at one of those restaurants we saw in the town square this afternoon, and leave. After touring the palaces, there’s not a lot for ’em to do. The hotels are priced out of the average budget and you have to have recommendations from some pretty obscure people just to get a room.”

  The marksman frowned. “I’d never even heard of the place until you tracked Pegasus here. How did you do that?”

  By unspoken agreement, they both turned as though to resume their stroll as a large Mercedes slowed for one of the road’s many turns and effortlessly accelerated up the hill.

  “You did. You got someone to hack into the Froggies’ air traffic control computer. Only one flight from Toulouse-Blagnac by private aircraft yesterday, the one to Lisbon.”

  “But this isn’t Lisbon.”

  “No, but it’s less than twenty kilometers away. This town, Sintra, has always been a place for those who would just as soon not be officially noticed. I called a Portuguese solicitor I know, had him check the tax records and, presto! Up come the chaps at Pegasus.”

  The Mercedes disappeared behind yet another wall as it followed the curves of the narrow street. The pair resumed their interest in the building.

  “So,” the marksman said, “you think he’s in there, that round tower sort of thing.”

  It was not a question.

  “Why else bring him here?”

  The two hesitated a few moments before continuing the slow pace of sightseers.

  “High voltage as well as the concertina wire on top of the wall,” the marksman said. “And I will wager you there are motion detectors in the yard. Probably also dogs.”

  The other verbalized the obvious. “The two of us aren’t going to get him out with a frontal assault. We’re going to have to watch the place and wait for a chance.”

  “And if there isn’t one?”

  He shrugged as he dug in his pockets. “We can only do our best and hope.”

  The marksman frowned, unhappy with the obvious truth of the answer. “They could kill him before we . . .”

  The sniper’s companion turned back in the direction from which they had come. “For all we know, they might have already. But I doubt they would bring him all the way here just to kill him. I would imagine they’ll be wanting to know how he discovered their secret first. He’ll know his life will last only as long as he can keep that information. He’s tough; they won’t have gotten it yet.”

  Both moved deeper into the shadows cast by the limb of a huge oak overhanging the wall opposite the gate of the building that held their interest.

  “If he does get out,” one said, “it’s bloody unlikely he’s going to just walk through that big iron gate. Maybe we’d better gather our things from the car and make such preparations as we can now.”

  “Better yet, call for reinforcements,” said the other.

  5

  London

  0123 hours the next morning

  Inspector Fitzwilliam hated late night calls even more than those that interrupted his evening routine. Although he would never admit it, he was annoyed by the fact that the phone’s ring had no effect on Shandon, his wife. After thirty-two years of marriage, the intrusion rarely even provoked her into rolling over.

  This particular call made the detective forget his pique.

  When the caller gave a name, he sat upright as though on a spring.

  “Who?”

  The name was repeated. He had heard correctly the first time.

  “Where?” he asked, frowning as he heard the answer. “Hold on.” He reached into a bedside table for the pen and pad he always kept there. “Repeat those directions, please.”

  The caller
did so and the phone went dead.

  6

  Sintra

  0527 hours

  Lang sprang for the rifle and snatched it up from the floor. Slinging it over his shoulder, he dragged the guard’s body into the room and shut the door. The close smell of death and the thought that he had killed again made him gag. If there had been time, he would have felt a cold fury for these men who had not only murdered but had made him a killer, too.

  The corpse felt heavy beyond its apparent weight as he dragged it to the far side of the bed. Trying to breathe only through his mouth, he stooped and tugged loose the rope at the guard’s waist and pulled the robe over the still head.

  Even through the thickness of the door, Lang could hear voices tinged with surprise at finding the sentry gone. He tried to move faster.

  Dipping into resources of strength he didn’t know he had, Lang managed to dump the limp body onto the bed and throw a sheet over it. The door was opening as he lifted the robe over his own head and let it settle over him like a large white bird coming to roost. There was only time to pull up the hood and hide the rifle under his habit before Silver Hair and another man were in the room.

  Silver Hair asked something in a language Lang couldn’t understand, again Slavic-sounding.

  Guessing at his meaning, Lang pointed to the body under the sheet and mumbled.

  The Templar asked again, this time with an edge to his tone.

  Again Lang nodded, moving around the bed toward the door.

  As soon as he was between the two men and the exit, Lang whirled and lunged into the hall, slamming the door behind him. As he had hoped, the key was still in the lock. He felt, rather than heard, two bodies slam into the heavy wood on the other side as the lock’s bolt clicked into place. Lang took deliberate care in putting the key in the robe’s pocket.

  In the hall was a small cart, the sort of thing an auto mechanic might use to carry around a car battery. That was what was on it: the battery with wires and alligator clips. The sight brought Lang’s mind back to the pain he still felt and he fought the urge to go back into the room and fry someone else’s balls.