by Gregg Loomis
How had Brian made this genealogical discovery? He never said but he was quite certain his own mother was a covert Nazi as indicated by the swastika design on some of her china. He was not dissuaded by the fact that that particular symbol predated recorded history.
The maternal Nazi was followed in Brian’s visits by the fact that no less than a United States senator had directed the CIA to kill Brian, a plot revealed by the number of helicopters that followed him everywhere.
Paranoia on steroids.
Exchanging a knowing glance with Sara, Lang nodded his visitor into his office.
It would have been much more practical, she had repeatedly observed, to simply order Brian out of the office rather than submit to his bizarre and time-wasteful fantasies of persons in high places who uniformly “had it in” for him for imaginary reasons. And it was never a neighbor or casual acquaintance but someone of national or international recognition.
Lang had to agree with Sara, he supposed. But his southern upbringing abhorred the rudeness and confrontation required to summarily eject the young man. He rationalized that doing so without at least token attention to the latest delusion seemed cruel, like kicking an injured puppy. Yes, it was irrational; yes, listening to the ravings only encouraged more time spent doing the same. But it was Lang’s time and patience to waste.
Lang had rather face down armed killers than engage in personal confrontation. Exchanging angry words was . . . uncivilized. It was a character flaw Gurt had noted and to which he readily admitted.
Brian plopped down in one of the Louis XV chairs with an insouciance indicative of a lack of knowledge or concern that his rear end was resting in the equivalent in price of a number of luxury vehicles ranging from high-end Mercedes, BMW, Audi, or Porsche. He started to cross his legs; but, as though declining what little comfort that chair might have provided, straightened them out again.
“I wanted you to know we were back from Mexico,” he began.
“We?”
“John and I,” Brian said with an annoyance that said Lang should have known who he was talking about. “We had been there in San Migule de Allende.”
“The artist colony?” Lang interrupted, feigning more interest than he had.
If Brian and John had been living in Mexico, someone had footed the bill. Most likely his maligned mother. As far as Lang knew, Brian had never held a job.
“Yes, yes,” Brian said impatiently, attempting to cross his legs again and again changing his mind. “The people down there, all the American ex-pats. They are planning to overthrow the government.”
“Which government?”
“The Mexican government.” Brian seemed to resent the question. “That’s why we, John and me, notified Enrique Nieto.”
“Who?”
“The president of Mexico,” Brian answered in a tone that said only an idiot would not know that. “We tried to call him, tell him but they would not let us through.”
From experience, Lang knew better than to inquire as to the identity of the anonymous pronoun so common in clinical paranoia. “So, you left Mexico.”
Brian nodded. “We thought our safety depended on it.”
The phone on Lang’s desk rang.
He reached for it, listened a moment and said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, but I have an appointment outside the office.”
Brian nodded and stood, well aware how busy important men like he and Lang were. “I understand. I have to call President Obama to alert him to the situation in Mexico.”
Lang leaned across the desk, shaking hands. “It’s urgent you do so.”
Sara and Lang followed Brian to the door and stood watching as he summoned an elevator.
“Tell me again why you put up with him.” she said.
Lang closed the office door and shrugged. “I can’t, really. I mean, he’s just as handicapped as someone in a wheelchair. Maybe letting him talk is some sort of therapy.”
She raised an eyebrow as she returned to her desk. “So, now you’re not only practicing law but psychotherapy as well?”
Lang couldn’t explain the annoyance he felt, the more so because, as usual, she was quite right. He swallowed the urge to snap back at her, retreating into his office and slamming the door.
41.
The Varsity
65 North Avenue
Atlanta
Two Hours Later
The telephone call, the real telephone call, not the one invented by Sara to shake Lang loose from Brian, had come only minutes after the young man’s departure.
“Professor Wildstein on three,” Sara had announced, adding, “It’s that guy you consulted at Tech.”
Lang punched the appropriate button on his phone, frowning. Of course he knew who Wildstein was. Had he become so forgetful Sara felt she needed to remind him?
“Mr. Reilly, Adam Wildstein,” the professor said needlessly. “I was wondering if you have time to drop by. I have something for you I think you might find quite interesting.”
“You found the whatchamacallit, the thing that was stolen from your office?”
“Er no, not quite. But I have a strong idea what its purpose was.”
“I’m on the way,” Lang had responded.
“Perhaps it would be best if we met off campus, what with the burglary . . .”
“The Varsity in thirty minutes?”
“Reschedule everything on for this afternoon,” Lange had tossed over a shoulder as he headed out the door.
He stopped, door still in hand. “I don’t have any judicial conferences, right?”
Once again the cocked eyebrow from his secretary. “No, but you have two meetings with potentially paying clients, one looking at possible mail- and bank-fraud charges, the other about to be indicted on multiple embezzlement counts.”
“Reschedule. Never hurts the fee negotiations when the client thinks you might be too busy to take their case.”
And then he was gone.
Had Lang not known the way, he could have followed the fragrance of fried onions from a mile away. The Varsity was just across the I75-85 Downtown Connector from the Tech campus. It was Atlanta’s oldest and the world’s largest drive-in fast food establishment. Since 1928, the place had been serving hot dogs, hamburgers, and the like. In Lang’s opinion, the Varsity chilidogs had no peer. Judging by the place’s longevity, a number of Atlantans and Tech students agreed.
Eschewing the 1950’s style curb service, Lang parked and went in. He inhaled the aroma. Whether it was natural reflex or reaction to Gurt’s strictly healthy diet, he could swear he was salivating.
He spotted Wildstein in one of six lines before chest high counters, behind which white-capped servers shouted, “Whattalyahave?” and filled trays with a speed only years of experience could provide.
Clientele ranged from jeans- and shirt-clad students to uniformed service techs with plumbing or electrical company logos on their uniforms, to helmeted construction workers, to suited professionals. The Varsity was a microcosm of democracy.
Lang had two chilidogs all the way (mustard, chili, and onions), fried (onion) rings and a Coke. He successfully resisted the temptation to add a fried apple or peach pie. It took him a minute or two to relocate Wildstein in one of the four rooms where rows of school desk-type chairs were arranged in front of a TV set tuned to the three major networks and one of the cable news channels.
He sat next to the professor whose tray held a chili steak (hamburger), a pile of strings (French fries) and a Varsity Orange, the original carbonated orange drink.
A generic TV blonde was on the screen, cheerfully narrating the latest death toll from a suicide bomb in . . . where? Afghanistan? Pakistan? One of the Stans, Lang was certain from burka-clad women surrounding the smoldering rubble in the background. The scene could be current or several years old. It had been playing out for what seemed an eternity.
The two ate in silence for a few minutes before the blonde was replaced with a handsome young ma
n who displayed the perfection of the orthodontist’s art and an expression far too grave to be taken seriously.
Lang asked, “Well?”
Wildstein used a paper napkin to staunch a dribble of grease, the Varsity’s main product. “Remember I told you the pin on the dial stopped moving at precisely 7:55 pm and began again at 7:00 am?”
Lang dumped an onion ring into his mouth, nodding. “I recall something like that, yes.”
On the TV screen, the Russian President was speaking, although the room was too noisy to hear what he was saying. Not that it mattered.
Choose one: denial Russian troops were the ones involved in another land grab, the United States was behind the crash of the Russian economy, America’s unreasonableness was the reason Russia could not sign the newest nuclear arms limitation treaty, all of the above.
The professor said, “That day, the thing quit a minute later, began two minutes earlier the next day.”
Lang’s expression must have given away the fact he was totally baffled.
“We are post-spring equinox. At this latitude, the time the sun is above the horizon increases roughly three minutes a day, not interpolating for tidal acceleration, which is only fractional seconds.”
Lang’s half-eaten chili dog stopped in midair. “Are you saying that instrument somehow reacts to the sun?”
“I’m guessing not to the sun itself but to the sun’s magnetic field. Magnetic or energy fields of atoms, ions and molecules form ascertainable lines which can be measured, the Zeeman Effect.”
Lang knew better than to let an academic stray off subject: A train off track if slightly less destructive. He held up a silencing hand. “Precisely how does this thing react to the sun?”
Wildstein, open mouthed, blinked twice in puzzlement. Then, “I’m not sure but its cycles of operation paralleling dawn to sunset couldn’t be coincidental.”
Now one of the post-civil rights leaders occupied the TV screen, animatedly addressing a crowd carrying signs far too professional-looking to be spontaneous. Lang was too far away to read them but he was fairly certain they were not commending anything.
Sometimes he wondered why he bothered watching the news at all.
Lang put down the chili dog, unconsciously wiping the brown drippings from his finger tips with another paper napkin. “OK, let’s go at it this way: Of what possible use could such an instrument be?”
This time the professor had a definite answer. “In Dee’s time, latitude was reasonably easy to ascertain. Longitude, though, was mostly educated guess work. Hence, navigation, particularly at sea, was almost as much luck as skill. Since the sun’s position in the sky on any day was known . . .”
Another raised hand. “People in the sixteenth century had progressed to that point?”
“People in pre-history had advanced that far and farther. Look at Stonehenge where the rising sun of spring and fall equinox and summer and winter solstice shines through specific orifices. Same for any number of other henges as well as Central and South American aboriginal structures.”
The chili dog was forgotten. “Just how did the thing work?”
“I’m guessing, but if the object were placed so a needle pointed to the sun, the markings would give other directions.”
“But a compass would do that.”
The professor shook his head, his lunch also cooling. “Not necessarily. As you no doubt know, a compass points to magnetic north, as opposed to true north, the terrestrial north pole. The farther north one travels, the greater the angle of disparity is likely to be. If one were in the Arctic Circle, south would be the only compass direction.”
Lang thought for a moment. “What about navigation today? I mean, with navigation satellites, who would still need the Dee device?”
“Anyone operating in the Arctic or the Antarctic. At either pole, the angle with most satellites is so acute as to be frequently unreliable. Plus the thing would work only as long as the sun was above the horizon, whether it was visible or not. You can imagine the type of foul weather that frequents the polar regions.”
Lang noticed a woman two seats over on the same row, some sort of medical professional, judging by the blue scrubs. Emory midtown was within walking distance.
Perhaps Brian’s paranoia was contagious, perhaps the woman really could hear the TV better with her head cocked toward Lang and the professor, perhaps she caught enough snatches of the conversation to make tuning in interesting.
Lang put a finger to his lips, a gesture the professor and possible eavesdropper could not help but see. She scowled as she drained the last of the contents of a paper cup, stood, and placed her tray on the return rack. Shrouded in indignation, she stalked out of the room.
Dr. Wildstein watched her departure. “You think . . .?”
Lang shook his head, no. “What we were talking about was apparently more interesting than the news, but let’s finish our conversation later.”
42.
Law Offices of Langford Reilly
45 Minutes Later
Sara handed Lang a fistful of pink call-back slips as he passed her desk.
A quick glance showed a request for confirmation of his agreement to speak at a continuing legal-education seminar in September. For an hour’s presentation, he would get the full-year’s requisite credit without having to attend the stiflingly boring and surprisingly uninformative sessions that were more window dressing for the public than educational for attendees.
A call from the Fulton County District Attorney himself. Since Lang had no cases pending in the county at the moment, it required little imagination to guess what that was about, what with the DA up for reelection this fall. Lang slid behind his desk, pondering a system in which the man he had opposed in court so often and most likely would again saw nothing improper in seeking money from his adversaries. The man was known to keep lists. Those lawyers who failed to contribute would be likely to try, rather than settle, cases in the future. Lang privately decried what he saw as legalized extortion but he would send a check. He owed future clients the best representation he could provide.
The rest of the return calls were made in a few minutes, allowing Lang time to Google a number of subjects. Within an hour he had learned of the existence of The Arctic Council, established by the 1996 Ottawa Declaration. The organization included Canada, The United States, Denmark (representing Greenland and the Faroe Islands), Finland, Iceland, Russia, and Sweden, those countries bordering the Arctic Circle. “Observing States,” those with no vote, included South Korea but not their northern neighbor.
The Council’s stated purpose was agreement on environmental issues affecting the polar region.
The alliance was interesting for several reasons. Foremost, Russia historically regarded the environment as something to be ignored at best, raped at worst, not preserved. The failure to follow safety precautions at Chernobyl, the diversion of rivers that had reduced the Aral Sea to ten percent of its former size, severe industrial pollution of the country’s major rivers. The list went on and on.
If Russia was a member of the Arctic Council, it wasn’t to save the polar bear but to make sure it exploited as much of the region’s mineral wealth as it could while keeping watch on the other members.
That might explain the Russians’ interest in what Lang had come to think of as the Dee object, assuming they knew of its purpose, a conjecture at best.
North Korea’s interest, though, made no sense. As far as Google knew, the secretive dictatorship had shown no attention to either pole. A country that could not feed its people had more urgent matters at home on which to direct its efforts and limited resources.
So, why were they pursuing the thing?
According to Wildstein, the Dee object might have had value to the Elizabethan Sea Dogs but its usefulness in today’s world seemed to be limited to the Arctic and Antarctic, neither of which was an area to which The Peoples’ Democratic Republic of Korea had paid any attention. That fact made Lang believe t
he North Koreans knew only that the Russians wanted it and assumed it had some military value.
Lang pushed his chair back from the desk and stared at the ceiling. Jeez, the Russians and North Koreans squabbling like two kids in a sandbox over an object, the purpose of which was known to neither. Were the stakes not deadly, the game would be comical.
The thought brought him slamming forward in his desk chair.
Deadly!
Jesus! He should have warned the professor!
“Sara, use the call back feature to contact Wildstein, the professor at Tech,” Lang said toward the open door. “I need to speak to him ASAP!
“You need not shout, Lang,” she responded, annoyed. “I’m not deaf. Not yet, anyway.”
“I wasn’t . . .”
He shut his mouth, all too aware of the futility of arguing with his secretary.
He wouldn’t have had time to, anyway.
“Dr. Wildstein.”
“Er, yes, Doctor. I was following up on our conversation at lunch.”
How do you explain to someone that you may well have put their life in jeopardy?
Unperturbed, the professor plowed ahead, an interrupted lecture resumed. “What I was going to say was that there is no explanation in today’s science as to just how this man Dee might have used, captured, if you will, the sun’s magnetic field by this device. But then today’s science still doesn’t know the cause of gravity, how the earth was formed, etcetera.”
Equating himself with “today’s science?”
But Lang said, “Actually, I wasn’t calling to finish our conversation as much as I was to warn you.”
“Warn? Of what?”
“Professor, take my word for it, that John Dee instrument, whatever, could be dangerous.”
Pause. Lang sensed incredulity.
“Dangerous? How so?”
Lang told him, adding, “It was worth stealing to somebody. It might be worth killing for to someone who is unaware you no longer have it.”
