"And application for bond, Your Honor," Lang added.
Roads was on his feet. "Your Honor, the defendant is charged with trafficking in narcotics, a serious felony..."
She silenced him with a frown and a cocked eyebrow. "Have a seat, Mr. Roads. It's customary to hear the defendant's plea before a bond application."
Flustered, the assistant US attorney sat back down and began thumbing through one of the file folders.
Judge Carver began reading the charges, a long, repetitious list of misdeeds and offenses. When she finished, she looked up. "How does the defendant plead?"
Lang was still standing. "Not guilty, Your Honor."
There was a tug at the back of his suit jacket. Larry had a question.
"May I confer with my client?" he asked the judge.
After receiving an affirmative nod, he knelt beside Larry.
"I done it, done what they said. I unnerstan' from the
folks down to the jail you get a lighter sentence, you admit what you done"
"I didn't say you didn't do what they charge," Lang whispered. "I said you were not guilty. Believe me, there's a difference. Besides, if we have to, we can change our plea."
"But how—?"
Lang held out a hand for him to be quiet. He understood Larry's discomfort. His fate in the hands of a system he did not comprehend, he understandably relied on what he knew usually worked: honesty and candor, two traits virtually unknown to the judicial system.
"Do we still have a 'not guilty'?" the judge asked impatiently.
"We do, Your Honor. Now, if I may, I'd like to ask the court to set bond. Mr. Henderson is a lifelong resident of Lamar County, where he was born and grew up as did both his father and grandfather. He owns considerable real estate and has family there. As far as I know, this is his first brush with the criminal justice system. He has been incarcerated since his arrest. I don't understand why he wasn't promptly brought before a magistrate a week or so ago."
It never hurt to point out your client's rights had already been compromised.
Judge Carver was scanning the file in front of her, presumably verifying what Lang had said. "It says here your office informed the clerk you were out of the country. For once the glitch wasn't in the system."
Whoever kept the file on this case did a more meticulous job than Lang was used to. He made a mental note to go easy on the righteous indignation in the future.
"Mr. Roads?"
Dusty was already on his feet. "The government opposes, Your Honor. Mr. Henderson was using his 'considerable property' to grow marijuana. Under the law, he stands to forfeit every square foot of it as contraband. He has no incentive not to flee."
Lang started to reply but the judge silenced him with a wave of the hand. "Bail is set at one million dollars, cash or property. Does Mr. Henderson possess a passport?"
Lang looked at Larry, who shook his head.
"No, Your Honor."
"Very well, then. He may bond out anytime after this hearing."
Dusty half stood. "But—"
"And, Mr. Roads, don't even think about the government interfering with Mr. Henderson putting his real estate up as collateral. You might be able to condemn it as contraband under the law, but not unless and until he's convicted. Understood?"
A hangdog. "Yes, ma'am."
Judge Carver glanced at her watch, seemed satisfied the time so far had been well spent and said, "Now, then, scheduling. Mr. Reilly, what do you propose?"
With his client about to be freed on bond, there was little incentive for a speedy trial. In fact, just the opposite. "Motions in ninety days, trial in six months?"
Again, Dusty was about to stand. The judge waved him back into his seat. "A little prolonged, Mr. Reilly. All motions will be filed not later than sixty days of today." She consulted a computer terminal on the right corner of the bench. "We will begin striking a jury sixty days thereafter."
"That's mighty quick, Your Honor," Lang complained mildly.
"We move a little faster here in the middle district, Mr. Reilly. We don't have the caseloads judges have where you practice. Anything eke gentlemen? No?" She stood. "Good. I'm glad we're all in agreement."
Then she disappeared.
Dusty intercepted Lang in the hallway. "Don't suppose you're interested in discussing savin' the taxpayers the cost of a trial, seein' if we can make a deal?"
Lang shifted his briefcase from his right hand to his left and punched the elevator's "down" button. "You're right, I'm not."
Dusty studied his face a moment as if trying to ascertain if he were serious. "You shittin' me? Your man was growing marijuana, acres of it. We got witnesses, photographs. He's guilty as hell."
The elevator door pinged open and Lang stepped inside. "Maybe. Question is, can you prove it?"
Dusty s expression of incredulity was erased by the closing door.
Lang was certain of the course his defense of Larry would take. There would be no point in challenging the government's case but every reason to prevent them from proving it. The bird-watcher was the obvious starting point.
III.
Piazza dei Cavalleri di Malta
Aventine Hill
Rome
Later that Day
There were perhaps a hundred seats in the priory chapel, Santa Maria del Priorato. Through the arched doorway, men draped in the black hooded robes of next door's Dominican church entered singly or in small groups. Inside, the ancient stone walls were decorated not with figures of saints but with coats of arms bearing the family names of European royalty as well as those of more contemporary princes of international commerce. Instead of large stained glass, the only windows were small and high up the walls as if the builder had wanted to limit not only access but light as well. The impression was that this place could be converted to a fortress in very little time. Through the open door could be seen the famous view of the Vatican. Closer, obelisks and other military trophies were placed around sculpted rose gardens and the tomb of Piranesi, the man whose name had become synonymous with detailed pen-and-ink architectural drawings and who had redesigned the church in the eighteenth century.
When the last man entered, the doors swung silently shut on well-oiled hinges. Overhead lights gave a dim, buttery illumination that softened the old stone walls and flooded corners with shadows. General conversation muted to a few murmurs, then went silent as a single figure proceeded down the center aisle toward the block of marble that was the altar. No doubt it was a combination of the light and his dark floor-length robe that gave the illusion he was floating rather than walking. Just before reaching the altar, he turned, pulling back his hood. A full head of silver hair reflected the light into a golden halo.
He looked around the small church like a man just now deciding what he was going to say before he spoke in Italian. "Brothers, welcome and thank you for obeying my summons on such short notice."
There was the sound of people shifting in their seats, the sound of impatience.
"We are faced today with a peril greater than any we have seen since the Ottoman Turks stood at the gates of Vienna four hundred years ago. It consists of heretical documents defaming our blessed St. Peter, holding the rock of our church up to scorn, opprobrium and ridicule, challenging his and subsequent popes' most holy position as head of the one true faith."
Angry mutters rippled through the assembly. "No!"
"We cannot permit it!"
"I will describe this calumny in more detail shortly," the speaker continued. "First, though, let me remind you of the nature of our order. Most of our brothers, over 95 percent, view their membership as a great honor with the responsibility only of generosity. They have no idea of what we do and lack the strength of will to do it themselves. Without them, though, we would not receive the funds necessary to exist as an order. I mention this because, in less than two weeks, the annual gathering of the entire order will take place. Bankers, stockbrokers, merchants will fill this place for the fellowship and pleasure the order gives them. Under no circumstances must the danger to which I allude still exist. Knowledge of that danger, and the means we must use to combat it, could mean not only the end of our order but also Christ's church as we know it."
He was silent for one, two seconds, letting the urgency of his message sink into the minds of his audience.
Then he continued. "As you know, nearly two millennia ago, the church fathers met at Nicaea to establish commonality of beliefs including the text of what would become the New Testament. The decisions were made and all texts and their copies not included were ordered destroyed as heretical. Until very recently, I had thought the only remaining copies were safely in the Vatican's most secret archives, preserved solely for study. Such is not the case; one has surfaced.
"I will not burden you with the content of this document but only the fact it presents a danger to Holy Mother Church. It and any who may become aware of its blasphemy must be destroyed. Regrettably, this has included some otherwise devout Christians such as one Greek Orthodox priest and, just hours ago, a patriarch of the same faith who somehow let Himself become ensnared in this hideous apostasy."
"Greek or not," someone in the back shouted, "they were fellow Christians!"
There were several more comments against a background of unhappy muttering.
The speaker held up his hands for quiet. "I tell you this, my brothers, only to emphasize the severity of the danger we face. My purpose today is to involve all of you in this most holy crusade to protect the very foundations of the church."
"We are not assassins," a voice protested.
"No," the speaker agreed, "but we all gave the oath of allegiance to the holy church, to oppose her enemies and to obey the orders of our superiors."
"We didn't give an oath to kill," another person said.
"Obedience to one's superiors includes anything that superior, with God's help, deems necessary for the good of the order."
No one could muster an argument against that logic.
Satisfied there would be no further disagreement, the speaker continued. "Here is what we must do ..."
IV.
Park Place
2660 Peachtree Road Atlanta
Two Days Later
Lang had to do something about completing the restoration of the burned-out shell that had been his home. Letters from management imploring action had turned into pleas from the condominium association invoking sympathy for his fellow residents' property values. Now he was receiving angry demands citing association rules. Management had called his office almost daily as unwanted and unordered appliances arrived from Home Depot. Repeated calls from Lang's secretary, Sara, to the company had elicited promises to remove not only the bidet, dishwasher and huge stove but also two shower stalls, two sinks (one porcelain, the other stainless steel), the newest in minimum water usage toilet arid a giant gas barbeque "grill that would have been at home on any patio that included a football field. Instead, each arrival of the delivery truck heralded the appearance of more home furnishings that had already overflowed Lang's small unit and the building's basement storage area as well.
The company's explanation was always the same: a computer glitch, a gremlin in the system who had, so far, eluded whatever efforts Home Depot had exerted. Lang guessed that somewhere a contractor was sliding into bankruptcy as item after item failed to materialize at one job site after another while the supply company's posse chased fruitlessly through cyberspace. As is often the case, technology had replaced reality.
It had become clear the problem wasn't going to get solved by phone. Besides, Lang was eager to prepare the place for sale and look for more spacious quarters for his new family before the homeowners' association filed suit. He had an even greater incentive to find a new home: Now that Judge Carver had prohibited any forfeiture action by the government, the US Marshals Service had lost interest in surveillance. The farm was no longer secure.
He would have to at least begin making repairs to the condo to mollify his neighbors. He could hardly consult with a contractor without pointing out the work he wanted done. The problem, of course, was the condo was an obvious place to keep under observation by those who had tried to kill him.
Wearing jeans and a shirt, Gurt pulled the rented SUV under the porte cochere, surrendering the vehicle to an acne-faced young man in a white shirt and black clip-on bow tie who fidgeted impatiently while she released Manfred from the constraints of his kiddie seat. Hand in hand, mother and child entered the building.
Moments later, a man walking a very ugly dog turned in from the sidewalk. His stooped back and deliberate step gave a sense of age's infirmity, an impression difficult to verify since the pedestrian wore a cap pulled low on his forehead and the collar of his shirt turned up as if to ward off a chill despite the warmth of the day. Whatever his decrepitude, the greeting by the concierge at the desk evidenced he and the dog belonged in the building.