by Gregg Loomis
Their entire manner, the remarkably unremarkable car, the lack of interior light, black costumes and scurrying from shadow to shadow would have caught the attention of the dullest observer had it not been about 2:30 in the morning. Inspector Clouseau might have done it that way.
There was nothing comedic about the short buzzing sound from the front porch Leon guessed was an electric lock pick, nor the curse that followed, something about the device snapping off in the lock.
Leon smiled. Although he hadn’t known it, he was hardly surprised Lang and Gurt had more than your average lock on the door. This might really turn into a Peter Sellers comedy after all, even without Blake Edwards. Leon had watched all the 1960’s Pink Panther movies a dozen times and still laughed until his stomach hurt.
Footsteps walked across the porch that ran across the front of the house. Leon shrank farther back into the shadows.
There was the cracking sound. Leon guessed the living room window. Somehow they had broken it without the noise of smashing it. Maybe one of those suction cups he’d seen on the TV cop shows where you attach the rubber, cut around it and simply pull a section of the glass away so you can reach in and release the lock. And disconnect any alarm.
If Leon was going to protect the house, now was the time to do it.
But how?
A net on the end of an aluminum pole wasn’t going to be much use against burglars sophisticated enough to have automatic lock picks and suction cup and glass cutters. They would certainly have guns.
The thought made his shoulder ache right in the place he had been shot in this very house.
Calling Lang no longer sounded like a bad idea. Or the police.
Leon moved around the house until he was certain he was out of earshot of the intruders. He took out his cell phone and called Lang’s.
“Yeah, Leon,” Lang grunted sleepily. “Y’know what time it is?”
Leon shook his head, sending dreadlocks flying. “N’mine the time. Somebody’s broke inta the house.”
Lang’s voice became instantly awake. “How many somebodies?”
“Two I seen.”
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
Leon did.
To his astonishment, Lang chuckled.
Even more amazing. “Go on back to bed.”
“But the polices?”
“I’ve got the Gulfstream, can be at the house by, say eight or nine this morning. Let’s leave our visitors to themselves till them. First, though, go to the store and get extra cleaning supplies.”
“Don’ think we needs more ‘n we got.”
“You will, believe me.”
Lang ended the call.
Leon stared at the cell phone. Working for Gurt and Lang had some unusual moments.
Like buying extra cleaning supplies instead of calling the police.
17.
Lafayette Drive
Atlanta, Georgia
9:40 AM
The Same Day
Leon was relieved to see Lang’s Porsche pull into the driveway. There was something peculiar going on here, almost spooky. He had crept up to the front porch right under the hole in the window the burglars had made. But there was no sound. A peek through the hole revealed nothing but darkness. Not even flashlights. It was as if the men who had broken into the house had simply disappeared. Maybe Lang knew this was going to happen and that’s why he didn’t want to call the police.
He wasn’t sure how but Leon was certain Lang could explain everything.
Lang parked the turbo Porsche in the garage and walked back toward the front of the house as leisurely as if he were just going to pick up the morning paper lying on the front porch.
Funny. Leon had kept a watch on the house rather than going back to bed, fully expecting the burglars to exit. But he couldn’t recall the paper being delivered. He had just noticed the plastic wrapper shining in the early morning’s sun.
Lang stepped up to the front door and reached out to insert a key.
“Shit,” he said matter-of-factly. “Looks like someone broke something off in the lock.” He grinned mischievously. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it was one of those expensive Lockaid electric picks. C’mon, Leon, we’ll have to get in through the kitchen.”
Leon was following Lang around the side of the house but stopped halfway.
Lang looked over a shoulder and also stopped. “Well?”
“Ever think they might have guns?”
Lang shrugged, a matter of no consequence. “Believe me, it won’t matter.”
Lang normally knew what he was talking about but Leon worried this might be the time he didn’t. Leon might not be so lucky as to survive getting shot again.
If he had such doubts, Lang didn’t show them.
The first thing Leon noted was that Grumps wasn’t at his usual post beside the kitchen’s outside door, waiting for breakfast. The second was a faint odor, something that reminded Leon of his past. Specifically, what a deserted building smelled like after being inhabited for week by half a dozen homeless men. Stale urine and sweat.
Lang was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and den. The entrance to the living room was blocked by what appeared to be a steel wall in front of which Grumps waited expectantly. Maybe Grumps wasn’t disturbed about a wall that hadn’t been there yesterday but Leon had to think about it before he realized it had materialized overnight.
Lang went the den’s flat screen TV and played with the control.
Leon recognized the scene on the screen as part of the living room.
Just part.
It looked like something, perhaps four walls, had dropped into place enclosing a square maybe eight by eight feet. Besides a recognizable chair, two men were slumped into separate corners, their legs crossing each other’s for lack of space. They were still wearing the black ensembles from last night.
“Good morning, gentlemen!” Lang was speaking into a small microphone. “I trust you enjoyed your accommodations at Casa Reilly.”
On the screen, the two got up and were looking around to determine the source of the voice.
“I particularly trust you enjoyed the latest in home security: Walls that drop from the ceiling when a silent alarm is tripped.”
One of the men had located the ceiling mounted camera. He stared into it. “That you, Reilly?”
“Messrs. Semitz and Rogers of the Office of Naval Intelligence, I presume.” Lang responded cheerfully. “Welcome to my home although, if my nose is correct, I must apologize for the lack of bathroom facilities.”
“You’re real funny, Reilly,” Semitz growled. “Now let us out of here before you find yourself in some real trouble.”
Lang chuckled. “Trouble? Let me explain a few facts to you gentlemen: First: breaking and entering is a felony. I’d say as long as you two are penned up like monkeys in a cage, I’ve got a pretty strong case. Next, if you two are carrying, I seriously doubt you have a state issued permit. Finally, at some point you are going to get both thirsty and hungry, not to mention needing toilet facilities which, judging by the smell, you’ve already done without.
“If you want out, I want to see you both strip and leave your clothes in the far corner, then you’ll come out one at a time.”
“What are you, Reilly, some kind of a pervert?”
“Get fucked, Reilly!”
Lang gave a theatric sigh. “Ah well, perhaps Atlanta’s Finest can talk some sense into you. I can only imagine the press ONI will get for breaking into a citizen’s home in flagrant violation of the Fourth Amendment. Hell, I might even bring a civil rights suit against the Navy. Time I’m finished, the only intelligence you two fuck-ups will be gathering will concern the enlisted men’s head at Integrated Support Command in Kodiak, Alaska.
“I’ll give you a couple of hours to think it over. Wonder how many times you’ll piss your pants? Ta-ta.”
Lang put down the microphone and turned to Leon. “Had breakfast yet?”
Leon could
only gape. “You really gonna leave them dudes in there for a coupla hours?”
Lang shook his head. “I imagine they’ll see the light in a little less than an hour. In the meantime, I hope we’re not out of eggs and bacon.”
“Why not call the cops, let them handle it?”
“My experience is calling the law is the last resort. Besides, on the slim chance Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum in there have a matter that actually does involve national security, I’d just as soon keep it quiet.”
The expression on Leon’s face told Lang he might as well have been speaking classic Greek. The man had no clue what he was talking about. Perhaps just as well. Gray might have been right: Where ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise.
Then why aren’t there more happy people?
On to less esoteric matters: “Any bacon and eggs in the ‘fridge?”
Leon felt at home on this subject. “You know Gurt believes fruit and cereal are a more healthy breakfast choice.”
“Yeah but she isn’t here. That’s why I’m asking.”
* * *
Three quarters of an hour later, Lang was washing a frying pan, effectively destroying the evidence of a cheese, onion and jalapeno omelet. He had been out of luck as to the bacon.
He put the pan in the dishwasher along with his coffee cup and returned to the TV in the den where Leon was waiting, impatient to witness the next development.
Semitz and Rogers had stripped down to their boxers.
Lang picked up the mike. “I believe I said ‘strip.’ ”
Semitz looked up at the camera. “That how you get your jollies, looking at naked men?”
“I sure as hell don’t get them being surprised by concealed weapons,” Lang replied. “I’ve got things to do besides waiting for you to decide if you want to spend the rest of your lives in that metal box or not. You’ve got exactly thirty seconds to strip, turn around and line up to exit one at a time. After that, I’ll be unavailable the rest of the day.”
They stripped.
“Your first good decision,” Lang commented. “Now, Semitz, hands locked behind your head, come straight forward.”
Although Leon didn’t see it from his position in front of the den’s bar, Lang must have pressed a button or flipped a switch somewhere because the steel plate in front of the man Reilly called Semitz silently lifted, stopping about a third of the way to the ceiling. The former prisoner had to stoop to get under it.
Lang pointed. “There, stand right in front of Leon there.”
“When do I get my clothes back?”
“As soon as I remove your weapons. Now move!”
Lang beckoned to Rogers. “Your turn. You stand against the wall over there.”
It had to have been premeditated: Just as Rogers appeared to do as instructed, he pivoted and charged Lang. At the same instant, so did Semitz. Lang had planned to separate the two to prevent just such a thing from happening. Now he was at the top of a triangle with two sides rapidly diminishing in distance.
Just as Rogers was within arm’s length, Lang leaned to his right, planting a leg against the man’s ankle.
Rogers’ momentum sent him sprawling.
Before he could recover, Lang delivered a kick to his ear.
Barotrauma, or injury to the ear’s mechanisms can result from disparate air pressure between the middle ear and the outside worlds. A swift kick in the ear is likely to produce such a disparity, resulting in imbalance, dizziness, and disorientation. Besides, it hurts like hell.
As Rogers was momentarily stunned, Lang turned to face Semitz. The man was on all fours, struggling to prevent a face plant on the floor. Above him stood Leon, a half shattered bottle in his hand.
Lang’s first thought was that the bottle was tinted brown. His second was that meant a bottle of eighteen year old single malt Macallan was what was drenching the bleeding head of Semitz.
He sighed. “Not exactly Marquis of Queensberry rules, Leon, but good show.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. I’ll take care of what’s left of these two. You go through the clothes piled up in the corner there. I’m guessing you’ll find weapons.
Leon used his foot to sort through the mound of clothing, his nose definitely detecting something unpleasant.
“Man! one of them dudes definitely pissed in his pants!”
He stooped over, lifting an automatic in two fingers in much the same way one might carry a dead rat by the tail. “This what you lookin’ fo??
The standard US military M9, also known as a 9mm Beretta 92F.
“Keep looking. There’ll be another in there somewhere.”
And there was.
Removing the clip from one, Lang stuck the other in his belt while he waited for his two uninvited guests to regain at least most of their faculties.
He used to Beretta to motion them to a seat on the couch. He took a chair across the room. “I’m assuming you were after the same object you demanded in my office.”
A statement, not a question.
If it had been, the look the two exchanged would have answered it. Apparently, ONI did not include interrogation resistance in its curriculum.
“We’re not saying anything, Reilly,” Semitz growled.
“Except that you are endangering national security,” Rodgers added.
“Just how do you come to that conclusion?” Lang asked.
“Like I said, we’re not talking.”
“Let me get this straight: You break into my home without anything resembling a warrant, no doubt in search of an article the use of which you don’t even know . . .”
“Never said that,” Semitz snapped.
Lang grinned. “You just did. I’m guessing you, Naval Intelligence, found out the Russians were interested in an article being auctioned and just like any kid on the playground, decided if the Ivans wanted it, you did, too.
Silence.
Jeez! And to think my taxes go to support what amounts to adults playing in the sandbox!
“You were with the Agency,” Semitz accused. “You know what it’s like: You take orders. Now, why don’t you hand over the thingamajig and save yourself the hassle?”
“For a very simple reason: I don’t have it.”
“Who does?” Rogers wanted to know.
Lang held up a hand, a verbal traffic cop. “I don’t have it.”
“Oh yeah?” Semitz sneered. “Who does?”
“As far as you two are concerned, the man in the moon. Now, you guys might want to sit around my house all day but I’ve got vacation with my family to finish. If you can get dressed and out of here in the next five minutes, go in peace. If you’re still around after that, I’m calling the cops. And yes, I was with the Agency. I well remember what happened to operatives who fucked up and got their names and pictures in the local media. I don’t think you want to spend a winter in Kodiak. In the meantime, I hope to find out exactly what the object you’re after really is. If it’s anything remotely affecting national security, I’ll decide what to do with it then.”
“Not sure I trust you, Reilly,” Semitz said.
“Not sure you have a choice. Other than getting the hell out of my house.”
Rogers stood, eyeing the pile his clothes. “Any chance I could take a shower first?”
18.
837 State Street
Physics Building
Office of Abram Wildstein, Ph.D.
Four Days Later
The professor was distraught and with good reason. Every drawer in the tiny office hung open, vomiting paper, notebooks, photographs and other material. The door to a small supply closet hung ajar, its shelves empty, the floor awash in paper, file folders, and text books.
He shook his head, sending Einstein-like hair bobbing as he announced the obvious. “Someone ransacked the place!”
From the door Lang Reilly surveyed the disarray. “And the thing I left with you, it’s gone?”
Wildstein stood up from going throug
h a blizzard of papers on the floor. “How did . . .?”
“Good guess.”
The professor pointed. “I had it locked in my desk. There was no way to know someone would want to steal it.”
Lang said nothing, mentally kicking himself for not telling Wildstein he should put the object in a secure place. With students’ constant coming and going, anyone could have observed Lang’s visit. For that matter, given the resources, it would have been simple enough to monitor the phone call making the initial appointment. Whoever had stolen the thing had taken substantial risk and had clearly planned the theft carefully to avoid alarms as well as the school’s highly visible security force. Not your average random smash and grab.
“Campus police have already called the Atlanta Police,” the professor announced with resignation.
If experience was any guide, they may as well have called the San Francisco police for all the help Atlanta’s finest was going to be.
Lang made his way to the office’s sole visitor chair and sat. “Did you reach any conclusion as to what the thing might be?”
Clearly relieved there were no recriminations forthcoming, Wildstein sat across the desk from Lang. He lifted a battered briefcase from the floor and opened the flap. “I had this with me.”
He pushed a series of photographs toward Lang. “As you can see, I placed a needle on the brass pin. Then I made hourly observations. You’ll note from the series of snapshots the needle moved although in relation to what, I can’t say.”
“Which means?”
A shake of the professorial head. “Other than the fact it is the pin, not the needle itself, that moves, or, rather, turns. In other words, it’s not a compass. What’s really strange is no movement at all was noted between the hours of 7:55 p.m. and 7:00 the next morning.”
“What do you make of that?”
A shrug. “I’m stumped.”
Perhaps the first such admission Lang had heard from an academic.
