by Gregg Loomis
She sensed his indecision. “Ham, sausage and cheese.”
“Done!”
Lang stretched his legs from his seat in a partially successful effort to disperse the stiffness from the long ride in the car. He also rotated his neck in what would appear to be a similar effort to loosen those muscles also. Actually, he was taking in the small plaza, which included three outdoor eating establishments, two shoe stores, a couple of dress shops, a green grocer and dozens of what he took to be natives, all of whom seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere else.
It also included a periodic serenade from a single table at another outdoor restaurant where eight men alternately drank from tall beer glasses and broke into song. Although he understood not a word, the blending of tenor and baritone suggested an organized glee club rather than random merry making.
The sun was warm, the song calming, the anticipation of a meal distracting. For the first time in over twenty-four hours, Lang almost let himself relax.
Almost.
But not quite.
He would not let himself abandon vigilance entirely until the door of home shut behind him. A more or less routine trip on behalf of the foundation to an obscure country had turned decidedly dangerous in Dubrovnik, deadly near Neum.
As his sandwich arrived nestled among a pile of French fries, he mentally salivated. His pleasure was only diminished when he thought of Rogers, seriously wounded and in a potentially hostile environment. In Lang’s mind, leaving a wounded comrade smacked of cowardice despite the Agency’s mantra of years ago: Save the mission above all else. He tried to convince himself that what had happened was within the purview of an operation conducted by The Office of Naval Intelligence. But his very nature wouldn’t stand for it. Any way you cut it, he had been party to abandoning a wounded American, never mind there had been few, if any, alternatives.
He tried to wash away the image of the fear in Rogers’s eyes, eyes from which Lang had to force his own. The wet sound of breathing with damaged lungs, the . . .
“Is all well?”
The waitress was standing over him, looking at the untouched beer and sandwich.
Lang took a bite and nodded his approval. A swallow of beer rapidly getting warm and, “Uh, yeah. Everything’s great. I was just enjoying watching everything.”
As if to prove the point, he shaded his eyes and scanned the sun-drenched plaza.
That was when he saw them: A pair of men seated across the square. Though not the same, they could have been brothers to the men who had accosted Gurt and him on the London sidewalk outside Christie’s.
Tourists like himself?
Possible but unlikely.
Tourists tended to travel with family or significant others, and these two did not appear to be gay, although these days, it was becoming increasingly difficult to be sure.
Native Croatians?
Again unlikely.
It was well past lunch time and these two were of the age who should have been at work somewhere at this hour. Add to that observation that the pair were not sitting across from each other but sat where both were facing Lang.
Just, like Lang, people watching?
The image Lang got was more of Victoria, the Harris hawk, waiting for the hare to bolt its hole.
Plus, they just looked like trouble, gave off the vibes that might make a street cop stop and search, a sentry take a second look, or a guard loosen the flap on his holster.
Lang deliberately turned sideways to them and attacked his sandwich, simulating a man oblivious to all but his meal. From the corner of his eye, he noted a pair of cups--coffee or tea--in which neither showed any interest. Instead, they watched the plaza, its comings and goings and those stationary within its confines. They also were play-acting, pretending not show Lang special attention.
The performance neared its conclusion when Lang finished his sandwich, drained his beer, stood and dusted crumbs from his lap. While he waited for the return of his credit card he pretended not to note that the pair across the way cleared their tab and were mirroring his faux indecision as to where to go next.
Pocketing his credit card, Lang window shopped several stores, utilizing reflections in the glass storefronts to track the pair, who, in turn, were not too subtly monitoring his movements.
He reached a corner. Down the street he could see the colonnaded, octagonal cathedral.
He made a dash for it. Judging by their slow reaction, the move took his followers by surprise.
By the time they abandoned any pretense of disinterest, Lang had a half block on them. When he ran past the church’s magnificent, twelfth century carved wooden doors, he was a full block ahead.
The church was filled with tourists listening to lectures in half a dozen different languages, many staring up at the figures on the domed ceiling, including the Christian-persecuting emperor and his wife. Others took in the double rows of red granite Corinthian columns.
Diocletian, the original occupant, was not present to enjoy the opulence of his final resting place, his sarcophagus having been ritually destroyed by non-cheek-turning Christians in the seventh century.
Lang quickly put the crowd of tourists between him and the entrance and glanced around. His pursuers would be here shortly, and there did not appear to be any exit other than that through which he had entered. He should have been studying a guide book instead of watching the people in Pjaca Square. He didn’t remember seeing any for sale, and this was hardly the time for self-recrimination.
The stairs, presumably leading to the crypt, were chained off. A bad memory of a grisly shootout in a crypt in a Viennese church and being trapped among the royal tombs in Paris’s St. Dennis dissuaded him of that choice. Plus the fact that such places rarely had an exit other than the one he was looking at.
Perhaps twenty feet or so to the right, a staircase was visible. He glanced at the ceiling. Unlikely the church had a second floor unless, perhaps, a small area to maintain the roof. Using the audience of visitors as a shield, he moved toward it and began to climb.
Almost a hundred feet later, Lang realized his error. Although he had a magnificent view of the city below through the colonnaded bell room, he had little else, certainly no means of escape other than a long jump down.
And it wasn’t his imagination hearing the footsteps on the marble stairs.
36.
427 Lafayette Drive
Atlanta
At the Same Time
(11:30 am Local)
Gurt noticed the van parked across the street. “Reliable Plumbing,” read the lettering across the side.
It had been there three hours ago when she had loaded Manfred into the Mercedes ML 320 CDI to take him to school. Manfred duly delivered and out of the house, Gurt had easily made it to her weekly nail appointment, dawdled through a pair of women’s apparel shops at upscale Phipps Plaza, and did the grocery shopping.
But the van was still there three and a half hours later.
The western edge of Ansley Park, one of Atlanta’s older subdivisions, abutted a section of Peachtree Street occupied by midrise office buildings and condominiums where parking was at such a premium the Park’s association had struggled and finally succeeded in having the City require a sticker to restrict daylight parking on the neighborhood’s streets lest the residents themselves be without space for those cars that outnumbered garages.
Put that together with the fact that Lang and Gurt’s home was across the street and uphill from a park that sat in a hollow and the obvious conclusion was that, rather than block a customer’s driveway, the plumber had elected to park on the sloping edge of the park despite the ”parking by permit only 8:00 am-6:00 pm” signs.
But obvious conclusions were something she avoided. Her Agency training and years of experience sent her antenna up at any deviation of the norm. A commercial vehicle willing to risk being towed aroused her curiosity.
Leaving the Mercedes in the driveway, she carried a load of groceries to the kitchen doo
r and set them down on the steps while she fished in her purse for the key.
“Need some help?”
Leon appeared from around the house, a pair of hedge clippers in hand. Little or no chance the hedge needed trimming this early in the year but the man was adept at making himself seem indispensable even when there was little for him to do.
Still, Gurt gratefully indicated the bags next to the door. “Thanks. You can unload these onto the kitchen counter. There are more in the car.”
With a turn of her wrist, the door yielded to the key and she stepped into the kitchen. Grumps greeted her, tail at maximum wags per minute.
The dog gave her an idea. “Leon, do you know where the dog’s leash is?”
Leon set an armload of groceries down, shook his head and ran a hand down his shoulder-length dreadlocks. “Don’ know if I ever seen a leash. Dog, he do his thing in the yard, come back inside.”
True. Grumps was not a lover of the great outdoors. Heat in the winter, air conditioning in the summer. In and out of any precipitation as quickly as possible.
Gurt was equally opposed to spending time looking for objects whose existence was questionable. She left the kitchen, went upstairs and retuned with one of Lang’s belts which she looped around the dog’s neck. “Come, Grumps. We go to walk.”
The dog surveyed her with non-comprehension. He sat, unwilling to participate in this new game.
“Come!” Gurt was tugging on the belt.
Grumps was just as determined, whether from pure stubbornness, an offended sense of canine dignity, or a disinclination toward leashes in general was impossible to say.
Gurt dropped her end of the belt and stood facing the recalcitrant animal, uncertain what to do with the normally compliant Grumps. No sooner had she relinquished her end of the belt than Grumps stood, tail wagging merrily.
Woman and dog went outside through the still-open kitchen door, the former muttering something about the old saw about the female gender being the ones impossible to understand. The latter was perfectly happy dragging the belt behind him.
Gurt took up the belt. Grumps was either too busy checking the pee mail from the neighboring dogs to notice or had forgotten his objections to the device.
She crossed the street and sauntered across the back of the van, a woman taking her pet for a walk. Hardly unusual even at this time of day in an affluent neighborhood like Ansley Park.
Chevrolet Express 2500 Cargo van, Clayton County tag.
Why would someone summon a plumber from, what, twenty miles or more when there were probably a hundred or so closer? She memorized the license plate and turned right so as to pass by the driver’s side. Tinted windows, including a vent window cracked open.
Tinted windows on a commercial van?
She stood as Grumps anointed the left front tire. Was that tobacco smoke she smelled? More specifically, cigarette. Moving closer to the front of the vehicle, she held out a hand. There was no heat coming from the engine compartment. The van had not been cranked for some time, confirming it had been sitting here during her absence.
Whatever plumbing problem had brought the van here, it must be a serious one to occupy its occupants’ attention for what must be at least four hours by now. But the cigarette smoke would indicate at least one of them was inside the van.
Crossing the street back to her own house, Gurt released Grumps from the makeshift leash as she passed through the kitchen. Under the stairs was a former broom closet now occupied by a rather uncomfortable chair next to a small table on which was a computer monitor and keyboard, Lang’s home office.
Squeezing between chair and table, she sat and waited for the computer to boot. The screen saver, a photograph of Manfred aged two, came to life. She called up a web page of the State Department of Motor Vehicles and scrolled down a list of dates until she found what she was looking for. She was hardly surprised to learn the van across the street had been “last seen” yesterday afternoon, presumably stolen.
She sat staring at the wall on the other side of the table for perhaps a full minute before she nodded as if agreeing with an unseen companion. Cell phone in hand, she eased out of the claustrophobic space and took up a position just beside one of the living room windows with a view of the van across the street. The van’s tinted windows prevented her from being certain but she thought she saw a flash of something, perhaps a light colored shirt, inside the vehicle.
She entered 911.
Gurt did not have long to wait.
A navy blue police cruiser, rack of blue lights flashing, slid in behind the van. Gurt could see its single occupant, his face reflecting light from the onboard computer’s screen, presumably verifying the license plate information she had just phoned in.
The cop’s attention to the computer apparently distracted him from noticing the brief jet of exhaust that betrayed the engine’s start.
The officer was just getting out of his car, hands adjusting his utility belt, when the van lurched forward, wheels spraying divots from the grassy edge of the park’s slope.
The cop jumped onto the pavement of the street, one hand outstretched, stop, the other groping for his weapon.
He might as well spared himself the effort.
Tires shrieking now against pavement, the van made a U-turn, sending the uniformed officer diving out of its path. There were serial metallic crunches as the larger vehicle smashed into the police car, backed up and hit it again. The second impact sent the cruiser edging, then tumbling down the bank as the van sped off in the direction of Peachtree Street.
The entire scenario had taken place in less than a minute.
By the time Gurt reached the chagrined officer, he was speaking into the Motorola handy-talkie attached to his uniform shirt. He gave a numerical code which she guessed best described what had happened and then a description of the van including the fact its front right side was “likely to be beat up” before addressing her.
“Any idea who that was driving?”
Gurt shook her head. “None, other than it was probably not someone from Reliable Plumbing.”
Not quite true.
She might not know the name of the driver or any other occupant but she was pretty certain of a number of things: Whoever was driving was anything but a plumber and his being there was not random. His most likely purpose had been surveillance, probably of the Reilly residence. Equally likely, it had to do with that thing Lang had bought at auction.
The only real unknown was, what is the police code for a trashed squad car?
38.
Split
The sound of footsteps slowed as they neared the top of the bell tower. By now, Lang was almost certain more than one person was on the stairs.
For the second or third time, he surveyed his position: alone a hundred or so feet up confined in an open space of no more than fifty square feet at best, once again cornered far above a Croatian city. Perhaps he should give up heights or develop a severe case of acrophobia.
Unlike Dubrovnik, there was no chance of escaping downwards. That left only. . .
Up.
He stared into the shadows of the tower’s peak at a huge brass bell, green with age and spotted white by the excreta of generations of resident pigeons. There had to be a mechanism for ringing, an electrical system, a lever. . .
A rope.
A plain, old fashioned rope the diameter of Lang’s wrist and fastened to what looked like some sort of gearing which he could see was then attached to the single bell.
Slinging the strap to his new bag across a shoulder, Lang grabbed the end of the rope, playing out what might be insufficient slack as he climbed onto a ledge between columns. He was no Quasimodo but, then, the bell ringer didn’t need to be.
Things happened in what he would remember mostly as a blur: A face emerged from the darkness of the stairway. The bell’s peal was deafening as Lang pushed off, swinging Tarzan-like across the small confines of the chamber on the bell rope. He felt as well as saw his
feet collide with a man’s chest, sending him sprawling backward into the man behind and both stumbling, tumbling down the narrow, winding stairs. Feathers of frightened pigeons flapped angrily against his face as though assaulting whoever had disturbed their peace. Nearly deafened by the sound of the bell, he was unsure if he heard a scream as at least one man pitched over slender bannisters into the well of the stairs and into the darkness that ended nearly a hundred feet below.
Lang was quite clear he made a dash for the stairs, felt the steel rail skid through his fist as he quickly spiraled downward, his feet seeming to barely touch the stone. He stumbled, nearly falling, as he collided with someone cursing in Russian, someone who grabbed at Lang’s feet, disengaging only when Lang delivered a kick to what he hoped was a jaw. Wherever the blow landed, it produced a muffled grunt and the grip around his ankles slacked enough for Lang to free himself and continue his rush downward.
At last he reached the bottom and melted into a curious crowd staring upwards into the murky dusk of the tower. He heard half a dozen languages, all interrogatory in tone. He edged his way across the sanctuary against the tide of the curious, all of whom seemed intent in viewing the remnants of whatever had gone on in the bell tower.
Lang was reminded of motorists slowing down to view a wreck on the expressway. The more grisly the accident, the slower the passing cars.
That said something about the human animal but Lang had scant time to ponder exactly what.
The blue lights of a police car were slowly making their way across a cobbled plaza whose builders had never contemplated motorized traffic as Lang stepped into sunlight and walked as slowly, calmly as he could toward the quay.
It was time to depart Split.
