"If you prefer," the older man said, "we can handcuff you and have you bodily carried to a proper place to ask you questions. The grand master has kindly consented to give us an office for the purpose."
Hardly good news.
At the moment, there were only three possibilities, none attractive: Either he would be inside the building when Jacob's contraption went off or he was about to meet the grand master himself. Or both. Lang doubted he would be greeted with anything resembling traditional hospitality.
"And what did you have in mind, Mr. Reilly?" the voice on Jacob's cell phone asked. "I'm not sure I know why you called."
"I think you have a bleeding good notion," Jacob said as he managed to insert a thumbnail into the seam between the two plastic parts of the door opener's plastic casing. Taking care not to drop it again, or dislodge the battery, he pried the two halves apart and blew gently. If condensation on the contact point had been the problem, that should take care of it. If not, Lang was in for a spot of bother.
"What's that you say?" The grand master's temper was getting shorter and shorter.
As slowly as he could manage, Lang let himself be pushed through the gates. The piazza was tastefully lit, hidden lights accenting a number of monuments as well as the facades of buildings. A double file of cypress trees were columns reaching into infinity. In the distance, Rome's lights sparkled like a handful of jewels.
He was being taken to the building he and Jacob had entered that morning.
"I said, we have something to talk about." Jacob fumbled in the dark, trying to get the two halves back together. Across the street, those formidable doors were beginning to swing shut.
He forced himself to take a deep breath. Somewhere there was a catch. He ran fingers made clumsy by anxiety around the edge, found the protruding piece of plastic.
With a snap, the device closed.
Lang and the police were less than
fifty
yards away from the building.
"Ah, Mr. Reilly?" A man was standing in the open door. "Then who is the grand master talking
to ... ?"
He turned to dash inside.
"I'm curious how the grand master of the Knights of Malta knew who you were," one of the policemen said.
Lang wondered. Did the order's power reach into the police, too?
He would never know.
At that moment, night became day, a day with the light of a dozen suns. A wall of heat knocked Lang over as an explosion clapped silencing hands over his ears.
Groggy, he got to his knees, able to see only streaks of light as though someone had fired a flashbulb in his face. His ears felt pressure as if he were in a rapidly descending aircraft. The grip on his arms was gone. He could only guess at the direction of the way out of the piazza and stumbled that way.
Blurs of vision were returning as he reached the gates and squeezed through before they completely shut.
He felt a hand on his arm. "This way, lad!"
His last sight of the piazza was of blazing rubble where the building had been. The flames reflected from the windows of the nearby church. Not a one had been damaged. Then the gates clicked shut, sealing off pursuit.
Lang's sight and hearing had returned by the time they reached the bottom of the hill, just in time to hear the wail of fire trucks on the way. He turned and looked behind him to see a flickering glow that turned the Aventine into a contemporary Vesuvius. The curious, singly and in small groups, were already filling the street as they hurried uphill to see what had happened.
Minutes later, Lang and Jacob were on the metro again.
"You destroyed the entire building," Lang finally said in wonderment, "but I saw not even a crack in the church's windows."
Jacob was sucking on an empty pipe. Public transportation was one of the few places in Rome where smoking bans were actually enforced. "Better bomb than I thought. Artistry is not confined to painting and sculpture."
Lang believed him.
They got off at different stations, since the police, if the two inspectors reacted in time, would be looking for two men rather a single traveler. Jacob at Termini, where they had paid a porter to keep a watchful eye on their suitcases. Lang went on to Tiburtina, from where he would take an Appian Line bus to Venice, cross over into Slovenia and, eventually, to Vienna and a flight to Paris and then home.
XIV.
Excerpt from the next day's
International Herald Tribune
:
Explosion Rocks Rome Landmark
ROME—A building at the headquarters of the Order of St. James, internationally known as the Knights of Malta, was destroyed yesterday in a blast that killed the grand master and a number of full-time rank-and-file members.
The order's headquarters, known as a "priory," was filled with members visiting Rome for the every-fifth-year election of leadership and members of the supreme council. Fortunately, all the visiting members were attending a function at the Vatican at the time of the explosion or the casualty list would have been far greater, according to a spokesman for the order who declined to be identified.
Also unharmed were three members of Rome's police force who were on the premises at the time. The police declined to state why they were present.
The same spokesman for the order attributed the explosion to a leaking gas main.
The Order of St. James became known as the Knights of
Malta ...
XV.
472 LaFayette Drive
Atlanta
A Month Later
Lang and Gurt stood on a grassy lawn, looking at the house. Lang thought it had vaguely Victorian lines; Gurt saw something slightly more contemporary. Either way, it was typical of Ansley Park, Atlanta's upscale, midtown neighborhood where mansions of frame and shingle were as common as Craftsman cottages. Built in the first decades of the last century, The Park, as it was known to its residents, featured towering oaks, winding streets, a number of parks and grassy squares and a small-town atmosphere. You always knew your neighbors and they always knew your business.
Lang had spent a lot of time at his sister's home only a short distance away. Janice and Jeff, her adopted son, had loved the area. Lang had often thought if he ever had a child of his own, this would be a good place to live. Now he had a son who had already made himself at home on the swing set in the backyard before the final papers had been signed.
The condominium at Park Place had sold for somewhat more than Lang had anticipated. The new buyer loved the fixtures, those that had actually been paid for and installed. The deliveries from Home Depot, as
far
as Lang knew, continued. Lang suspected the decline in the price of the company's stock might well be attributable to the sizable inventory overflowing Park Place's storage space. For certain, any needs for his future residence would be fulfilled by Sears, Lowe's or some other vendor that did not view itself as a cornucopia of unordered and unwanted merchandise.
"It is good, no?" Gurt said.
Lang reached out to take her hand. "It is good, yes. Manfred seems to like it."
"Few European children have a room and bath of their own."
"Neither does Manfred, not unless he can get Grumps to sleep elsewhere."
Neither spoke, enjoying the euphoria of travelers who have finally managed to return from a long and perilous journey. The homely shingled two-story was surrounded on three sides by a porch, the roof of which ran just below the upstairs windows. The effect was of the house having the beetle-browed expression of the genetically witless. But then, the sheer ugliness of most of the neighboring houses gave the area its unique character. Still, it had a certain cozy charm that had infected both Lang and Gurt. They had not debated buying it; they both knew this was home the minute they walked in.
Behind them, a car door opened. As one, they turned to see Francis climbing out of the church's six-year-old Toyota.
"Hi! Was visiting parishioners and thought I'd stop by!"
Lang smiled. The chances of overwhelmingly white, protestant Ansley Park inhabitants leaving their million-dollar homes to attend a Catholic church, mostly black, poor and in south Atlanta was a stretch, even for the wildly liberal views professed by many of the residents.
Francis was meddling. Lang had no doubt his friend had his and Gurt's best interests at heart, at least as the priest perceived those interests to be, but meddling nonetheless.
Lang and Gurt exchanged glances, knowing what was coming.
Francis, hands behind his back, joined them in viewing the house. "A fine place for Manfred to grow up."
Silence.
The priest cleared his throat. "Exactly when do you two plan to get married?"
Deeper silence.
Undeterred, Francis cleared his throat again and continued. "It would be difficult but I might, just might, be able to get a special dispensation to allow me to perform the ceremony. I mean, with neither of you being practicing
Catholics..."
"There's no one I'd rather have marry us," Lang said.
"
If
we got married," Gurt added.
"But you must." Now Francis was facing them. "Think of your obligation to your son. You want the other children snickering behind his back when he starts school? Do you want—"
"If I wanted a husband, it would be one who does not bring danger to his family," Gurt said with finality. "A man who doesn't become a target."
The remark was patently unfair. Danger had followed Lang like an unwanted stray dog. He had never sought trouble. Well, almost never. Besides, Gurt enjoyed the thrill of life-and-death action as much as he.
Motherhood, he thought, had changed her viewpoint, a she-bear protective of her cub.
But he kept his mouth shut.
Francis looked from one to the other, well aware of the facts. "Suppose both of you disavow violence, promise each other to live like normal people?"
Boring people.
Gurt shrugged nonchalantly. "If he so agrees, so will I."
Lang wasn't sure he had heard correctly. "You mean you'll quit working for the agency, come live permanently in the United States?"
Gurt grinned, the first evidence she was enjoying the exchange. "With a rich husband I should work?"
Francis touched his clerical collar, a gesture of which he was unaware. "Good! Then it's all settled."
Lang was far from sure but hoped so. He wasn't, as they say, getting any younger and a little peace and quiet might even do him some good. And spending every day with the two people he loved more than anything was a prospect of nothing but joy.
His BlackBerry chimed as though to remind him of the real world outside Ansley Park. Without taking it out of his pocket, he turned it off.
The real world could wait.
Thirteen books of the Nag Hammadi Library were recovered. The Bedouins who found them were uncertain how many their mother had actually used to start cooking fires nor were the authorities ever completely sure none of the volumes were sold on Cairo's thriving antiquities black market.
Most city building codes prohibit use of gas in high-rise buildings, an effort to prevent what happened to Lang occurring by accident. Atlanta allows exceptions upon special permit.
Honesty requires acknowledgment of sources even if used in fictionalized form. Additionally, readers frequently e-mail me, requesting the place they can find more on some of the historical facts that form the basis of plots.
For both reasons, I include the following:
Ron Cameron's translation of the text of the Secret Book of James was most helpful, although I took considerable liberties with it to make the plotline work. I used Paul Tobin's
The Rejection of Pascal's Wager: A Skeptic's Guide to Christianity
and
James the Brother of Jesus
by Robert Eisenman in dealing with James as the blood brother of Jesus and the perpetual virginity of Mary. The description of the discovery of the Nag Hammadi Library is based on Elaine Pagels's
The Gnostic Gospels.
I would be ungrateful as well as in deep trouble if I didn't also note here that my wife, Suzanne, constantly frequents history's curio shop in search of dusty and forgotten scraps of the past.
My agent, Mary Jack Wald, has infinite patience, certainly more than I deserve. Don D'Auria and his wonderful artistic, publicity and editing staff at Dorchester deserve a great deal of credit for any success of the Lang Reilly yarns.