by Gregg Loomis
“You going to just stare or lock them up?” he asked. “I mean, you saw it: an attempted robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, battery etcetera, etcetera.”
The woman looked from Lang to Gurt and back again as though faced with a pair of very angry cobras. “You,” she stuttered, “you could have killed them!”
Gurt shook her head solemnly and said mater-of-factly, “No. Had we wanted to kill them, they would be dead.”
A groan from Steel Tooth as he began to try to get up drew their attention.
“No, that won’t be necessary,” the woman cop, Patricia Lundy, said hurriedly, extending a hand, stop. Gurt had put a foot on the man’s neck, mashing him to the ground.
Lundy produced double Flex Cuffs and leaned over, cuffing Steel Tooth’s wrists behind his back. “Get the other lad, would you?” she asked one of the men. To the other, she said, “And call a pair of ambulances. I have a feeling these two sods are going to need medical attention.”
Turning to face Lang, she said, “As for you two, I’ll need statements. You’ll need to come down to . . .”
“What if we don’t choose to prosecute ?” Lang asked.
“Not prosecute? You can’t do that. They not only tried to rob you . . .”
“Look, officer: We’re Americans. We can’t stay here until these men come to trial. Besides, you saw what happened. You don’t need us as witnesses.”
Lundy nodded to her two male cohorts to take over for a moment while she stepped away and took her Motorola MTP6750 handset from a pocket. The device could have been mistaken for a cell phone but included a number of functions most cells did not have such as non-alterable, date marked photo capability.
“Patch me through to Inspector Patel. No, I don’t care what time it is or where he may be.”
Seconds later, Patel’s voice came through. “Trouble, Inspector?”
She told him what had happened, finishing with, “And I understand why you want this American, Reilly, under surveillance. Had we not been here, there would be two corpses. And the woman is as deadly as he is.”
A brief chuckle. “As is often the case, Inspector. I’ll arrange to keep an eye on them until they are no longer London’s problem.”
Lundy made no effort to hide her relief. She had apprehended robbers, even a couple of murderers, but being around these two was having kittens.
12.
63.746 Latitude
-68.516 Longitude
(What Is Now Known as Frobisher Bay)
July 2, 1578
Martin Frobisher was as gloomy as the fog banks surrounding him on three sides as he pulled the shawl tighter around his shoulders. He had lost the one hundred tonne barque Dennis, a victim of unpredictable winds and icebergs that appeared out of the mist like malevolent spirits. Most of her crew had been dragged from the frigid waters, but her cargo of gold-bearing soil had gone to the bottom. Fortunately, the remaining fourteen ships were safe and fully loaded.
He was standing on the deck of the Ayde, the largest in the flotilla that Good Queen Bess and a number of other investors had given him for a triple mission: Find the northwest passage that would allow British ships access to the treasures of the Orient, the same plan the Italian, Columbus, had when he stumbled upon the New World. Normal land trade routes had been blocked by the Ottomans since Constantinople’s fall over century ago. Establish a hundred-man colony to deny that passage to those who were competing for those treasures such as the Spanish, French, Dutch, and Portuguese and bring home as many chaldron of the gold-bearing soil back to England as his ships could carry.
Once experiencing what passed for summer weather here, the proposed colonists had lost whatever enthusiasm they had for permanent residency; and, as freemen, rather than prisoners, there was no way to force them to remain short of putting them ashore to fend for themselves. Such action was neither in his royal commission nor in the subscription from private investors.
On this, his third trip in as many years, he was facing an even greater disappointment. This body of water was actually a bay between two peninsulas, not a passage. The previous year, it had been blocked by solid ice, the reason Frobisher had sailed as late as June. Although cluttered with chunks of ice of sufficient size to cause serious peril, as the Dennis had discovered, navigation was possible, if hazardous, to the very end of the bay.
If there was a Northwest Passage, this was not it.
Evidence of danger lay in the caraque the Gabriel had discovered yesterday, its bones littering the shore along with the mummified remains of her crew. Apparently, the unfortunate French ship had become stuck in the ice, her timbers gradually crushed as the winter pack grew while her stranded crew starved or froze on desolate plains of snow covered ice. Frobisher had seen signs of cannibalism at similar sites.
He pulled the shawl of Scottish wool even tighter across his shoulders to ward off a chill not entirely due to the weather.
A month into the voyage and the victuals were holding up. Weevils had already gotten into the biscuit. But then, the addition of the extra meat should be welcome since the boiled beef was turning green in the barrels of brine and would go off shortly. In his previous voyage, his three ships had carried live animals, beef and sheep, to slaughter for fresh meat but the cost to so provision fifteen vessels was more than his sponsors, royal and civilian, were willing to bear. And fish. It was a rare net dropped overboard that did not come back filled with slivering, squirming silver. Each ship already had enough fish salted away to last beyond the anticipated length of the voyage.
The daily ale ration, the most carefully planned store, should last, a gallon a man per day. The men might cheerfully fill their bellies on weevil-infested biscuit and slimy boiled beef but interrupt the ale ration and the crew would turn surly indeed.
Not discovering the Northwest Passage on this voyage might be a disappointment but the gold-laden soil should assuage the anguish. That, plus the device the Queen’s messenger had personally handed him the day before all fifteen ships slipped their moorings at Plymouth and beat down the English Channel to the open Atlantic. The thing actually worked, made navigation possible when these northern latitudes sent the compass swinging wildly.
He reached beneath the shawl and wool doublet into his shirt to pull out the round, gold case he wore on a cord around his neck. He smiled for the first time today. This, his queen’s gift to him, was more valuable than all the gold the chemists might find in the dirt he was taking back to England. Without it, his bones and those of his crew might be the ones scattered across the ice flow.
13.
Law Offices of Langford Reilly
Peachtree Center
227 Peachtree Street
Atlanta, Georgia
March 24, 2014
Lang’s first day back in the office was every bit as hectic as he had feared even though he had been away for only five days. Clients were rarely happy that he insisted only the most urgent matters be referred to him while on Foundation business or vacation. Otherwise, he might as well have stayed home and saved some pretty steep roaming charges. Now those clients wanted answers to questions, most of which Sara had handled in his absence.
When was the next court date? Any word on a shorter sentence in exchange for a guilty plea? What sort of a deal could be made if the client turned state’s evidence?
Some questions Lang had answered multiple times for the same client and were poorly disguised attempts at reassurance. People facing jail time tended to be insecure.
All of his clients were-–or were about to be--facing criminal charges. Lang defended mostly swindlers, con artists, embezzlers, and a garden variety of people who lusted after other peoples’ money with an occasional old-fashioned thief or other general malefactor.
No dope dealers, sex criminals, or violent crime. Ponzi schemes, mail and wire fraud, counterfeit checks, and the like filled his days.
He had learned that your average violent felon was relatively indifferent as to whom he hu
rt. Disarming and subduing a dissatisfied client got old with the first one, a pistol-packing pimp who stood accused of performing plastic surgery with a switch blade on those members of his harem whom he believed to be withholding part of their earnings. Lang had had bad feelings the instant a well-meaning if overly optimistic magistrate had granted his perfunctory motion for bail. Not only ungrateful for his freedom, albeit temporary, the pimp was convinced Lang could have gotten a lower bond set.
The matter had terminated with the client, somewhat worse for the wear, being hauled off to Grady Hospital in handcuffs with additional charges of assault with a deadly weapon added to those already pending.
Lang was allowed to withdraw as the man’s counsel.
Thereafter, Lang limited his practice to so-called “white collar” criminals, those who used trickery, usually electronic, rather than violence to steal from their victims. At least twice, he had defended public servants accused of using their positions for personal profit rather than the public good. One, Atlanta’s mayor, had gone to prison on tax-evasion charges after being acquitted on multiple bribery counts. The other, the city school superintendent, had walked away from charges of having some thirty-five teachers, assistant teachers, administrators, and principals change test scores over a period of nearly a decade. Her motivation had been the large bonus specified in her contract if she could lift Atlanta public schools’ abysmal national CRCT scores significantly.
A large part of Lang’s business came from other lawyers, attorneys whose practice did not include criminal defense. It had taken a few years for Lang to realize how many clients of silk-stocking firms needed his services.
He was terminating a conversation with an acquaintance, a partner in a two-hundred-plus-lawyer firm with offices in a dozen cities and four countries.
“Fred, I don’t think I can help you. Insider trading is pretty specialized. I’d think you guys are big enough to have someone who does SEC work.”
“Yeah, I know the Securities and Exchange Commission doesn’t do criminal prosecutions but they do the Justice Department’s investigations.”
Lang strongly suspected the big, high prestige firms simply didn’t want their names connected to criminal cases. At the same time, they didn’t want to abandon lucrative clients who, if acquitted, might continue to send them business.
Eating one’s cake and having it too?
How would one put the old saw into Latin, he wondered, as the voice on the other end droned on. Nec platena consmere . . .
Fred signed off with a pleasantry. No doubt the conversation was taking more time than he could bill.
The door to his office opened. Sara stood there, an apology on her face as two men brushed by her.
“I’m sorry, Lang. I tried . . .”
The two were as near twins as a pair could get without having the same parents. Identical hair cuts, one gray suit, one blue, matching cordovan lace-ups polished to near spit shine.
Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee.
Lang stood. “In case your momma never told you, busting into a room without knocking is considered rude. Also, I see people by appointment. Now, do you leave or do I call the cops to throw you out?”
The two smirked at each other and produced wallets in unison as though choreographed. Each bore a photograph and was clearly some form of official ID.
“Office of Naval Intelligence,” the one on the right said.
Why did Lang have the feeling the other man would have said the same thing had he not been beaten to it?
Lang said nothing, waiting for further explanation. His visitors took in the pair of walnut Louis XV Fauteuils upholstered in red and gold Toil de Jouy, separated by a small period commode barely large enough to support a foot-high, fanciful Fratin bronze animalier, a dancing bear wearing slippers and a night cap. The desk was inlaid Boule and at a right angle to the Georgian breakfront through whose wavy, hand-blown glass a collection of antique, leather-bound books with gilt lettering was visible. Besides a genuine love of fine antiques, Lang’s intent in assembling the collection was to furnish his office so that even the least educated could recognize expensive taste, an advantage, he believed, when negotiating a fee.
“You made a purchase at Christie’s auction in London last week,” the one on the left, the one Lang determined as Tweedle Dum, blurted, shoving the wallet back into a coat pocket.
Lang sat slowly and deliberately. “Do either of you have names? I believe it is customary to begin with real introductions, not shoving plastic in one’s face.”
“Now, look here, Mr. Reilly. . . .” Tweedle Dee blustered.
Lang held up a hand, stop. “No, You look here,” he said in that soft tone Gurt said he used when very angry, “I don’t give a damn what federal bureaucracy you’re from, unless you have an appropriate warrant, you have no right to burst into my office like some drug raid on TV. Now, we will start with introductions.”
He stood, hand extended, “My name is Lang Reilly.”
The two, still standing, exchanged glances. It was obvious they weren’t used to being treated as ill- behaved children.
“You saw our ID,” Tweedle Dum said sullenly. “Our names were on them.”
“Too small to read from across the room and hardly an appropriate introduction. Now, shall we begin?”
Both the federal agents studied the muted colors of the Yazd carpet before Tweedle Dum held out a reluctant hand, “George Semitz.”
Lang leaned across the desk and shook. “Lang Reilly. Why don’t you have a seat, George?”
He turned to the other man expectantly.
“Rodgers, Sam Rodgers.”
Rodgers sat in the remaining chair as carefully as though it might be made of glass.
Lang dropped into his desk chair. “Fine. Now, you were saying something about an auction at Christie’s?”
Semiz leaned forward. “You purchased an item there. What was it?”
Lang leaned back, making a steeple with his fingers. “What interest does ONI have in what I may or may not have purchased?”
“That’s classified,” Rodgers snapped.
Lang gave a dry chuckle. “OK, so is whatever I may have won at auction.”
Semiz’s hands were on his knees. “Mr. Reilly, you were employed by the Agency for several years, served in Intel. Surely you of all people can understand the national security necessity for keeping some things secret.”
Irked, Lang came forward so suddenly both men winced. He put elbows on the desk. “I understand ‘classified’ is bullshit ninety percent of the time, ‘national security’ about as much. Half of that means the secret will embarrass whoever is keeping it, another thirty percent means ‘I don’t know.’ Hell, when I was with the Agency, we got our typewriter paper from the States rather than buying it locally because the amount used was classified. You and I both know the thing most often replaced in the office of any intelligence agency is the ‘Classified’ rubber stamp.”
There was a pause as Seimz and Rogers looked at each other again, each expecting the other to reply.
“Puts us in a bind,” Seimz finally said. “Our orders are to find out what you bought. Hell, no one told us why, just do it.”
“Been there, done that, got the T-shirt,” Lang said dryly. “Truth of the matter, I’m not sure what it is other than there’s a good chance it belonged to the Elizabethan John Dee.”
“As in Queen Elizabeth I?” Rogers asked.
“Yes. Anyway, I bought it for a friend who’s interested in stuff like that. I might be able to help you if I knew why it’s important.”
“Any chance you’d loan it to us, to The Office, let us determine what it is?” Rogers wanted to know.
Lang grinned. “As you said, I spent some time with the Agency. One thing I learned: Never trust the government, particularly government spooks.”
Seimz stood. “I take that as a ‘no’.”
“Good guess, George.”
There was a moment of silence.
>
This conversation has more stops and starts than a MARTA bus.
Lang nodded toward the door. “On your way out, you might apologize to the nice grandmotherly type at the reception desk.”
The pair got to their feet. Lang was not surprised they did so at the same time.
“Mr. Reilly, you are being less than a patriotic American,” Rogers offered.
Lang favored them with a smile that had little humor in it. “Since when did ONI become the official arbiter of patriotism? Not only did I serve my country, I deem it unpatriotic as well as stupid to mindlessly submit to government requests no matter how unreasonable they may be. Tyranny thrives in direct proportion to the erosion of individual liberty. My opinion is we have gone too far down that road already. But so much for my somewhat antiquated beliefs. Have a nice day, gentlemen.”
Neither made any effort to apologize to Sara.
She stood in the doorway as Lang related what had happened.
When he had finished, she shook her head, “Maybe you should have given them the thingamajig. I never had a pleasant experience with government.”
Lang thought about it. Neither had he, at least not since he had resigned from the Agency.
He sat back down at his desk, thinking. The Russians wanted the, the. . . whatever it was. He guessed Naval Intelligence (a true oxymoron, in his opinion) had somehow picked up on the fact without knowing exactly what it was.
He frowned before pushing the old-fashioned intercom on his desk.
“Sara, would you please get Dr. Abram Wildstein on the phone for me?”
14.
Physics Building
837 State Street
Georgia Tech Campus
4:15 That Afternoon
The physics building was an unmemorable modern red brick edifice totally at odds with the 1888 Victorian tower that appears on the school’s logo. Unlike much of the campus, its profile was softened by a grove of trees and a rare swath of grass littered with students taking advantage of today’s sneak preview of spring.
