If Lang had learned anything since Gurt had been in Atlanta, it was that he was not going to win this argument. Or any other. At first, he would believe he had won only to discover days later the dispute was far from over. If surrender was inevitable, he might as well hand over his sword as gracefully as possible.
'Okay, I'll do what I can to make sure I have no court dates for the next few days, and you take Grumps to the kennel.'
'You can call Sara, your secretary, and she will tell you more about your schedule than you could know. You take Grumps to the kennel.'
Although Grumps was well-mannered to the point of being docile on most issues, the kennel wasn't one of them.
Lang sighed with his second defeat in as many minutes.
CHAPTER THREE
Seville, Spain
Aeropuerto San Pablo
Five days later
Even with a bedroom in the foundation's Gulfstream v: Lang's basic distrust of anything that flew prevented sleep. There had been a time when he couldn't keep his eyes open on a plane, but somewhere he had come to dislike aviation even if he could not deny its convenience. The flight could have been worse-Atlanta to Madrid by commercial jet, then take Aviaco, the local feeder, to Seville. Lang's view was that if one plane had proved airworthy, it was folly to challenge fortune by changing to another.
That was why he was making one of his rare personal trips on the foundation's airplane. Scrupulous to the point of compulsive, he kept the line between his own life and the foundation's business delineated far clearer than even his battalion of accountants suggested. He had defended too many clients who had let their own needs extend into money they were managing for others. '
The irritation caused by lack of sleep was exacerbated by Gurt's deep, regular breathing, which lasted until he got up and went forward to watch one of the movies the plane carried, one described by the critics as a sophisticated, sexy comedy, 'two thumbs up.' The first twenty minutes went from trite to corny and back again. Lang suspected the leading man, if not the producer, was one of the critics' in-laws.
He never knew if the film got better. He awoke in front of a blank screen when the plane's steward, chef, and majordomo gently shook him with one hand while placing a steaming plate of eggs Benedict on the tray in front of him and announcing that they would be on the ground in an hour.
Having wakened Gurt, Lang showered and shaved. Although minuscule, the Gulfstream's toilet facilities were a vast improvement over the commercial airlines'. So were its storage capabilities. Lang took a sports shirt and slacks from a closet rather than donning attire wrinkled by storage in a suitcase. Minutes after the Gulfstream's tires kissed the runway, the aircraft's clamshell doors wheezed open and Lang and Gurt squinted into brilliant morning sunlight made all the brighter by their confinement aboard the plane.
Leaving the crew to deal with the paperwork generated by international travel, Lang and Gurt carried one suitcase each to the customs area, where a uniformed official spent more time trying not to be obvious in his admiration of Gurt than on his cursory inspection of their luggage. Chagrined at the brevity of the examination of bags, Lang realized he could have easily brought the Sig Sauer P226 automatic that had resided in his bedside table since his retirement. But why? he consoled himself. He was here to nominally investigate a murder while giving such consolation as he could to the bereaved child of a man who had saved his life. What use would he have for a firearm?
None, he hoped.
'Mr. Reilly?'
Both Lang and Gurt turned to look at the young girl. Petite, almost elfin. Her face was longish but with a small nose that looked as though it had been added as an afterthought. Only a closer look told him she was an adult, not a child. There was something in her dark eyes that made Lang think of a small animal about to bolt for its burrow.
'You are Don's daughter?' he asked.
She shook her head slowly. 'No,' she said in English, 'I am Sonia, Mr. Huff's assistant. His daughter is at the house, waiting for you.'
The voice had only a trace of the languid Spanish, spoken at a much slower pace than its New World counterparts.
It took a few minutes for Lang to make sure the flight crew had found accommodations and that they would remain in touch with both him and the foundation in case needed by either. He and Gurt followed the woman to the parking lot, where she indicated a sleek, clean Mercedes of recent vintage.
''A beautiful car,' Gurt commented, her first words of the morning.
Sonia shook her head sadly. 'It is, was, Senor Don's, Mr. Huff's. He was very proud of it.' She opened the back door. 'Please.'
After tossing the bags into the trunk, Lang helped Gurt in, choosing the more informal arrangement of sitting next to Sonia in the front. 'Kind of you to meet us. You are taking us to the house?'
The engine started with a purr. 'No, Mr. Reilly. Senorita, Miss Huff, has made hotel reservations for you within walking distance.'
The ride was through a city virtually indistinguishable from any other in Europe. The greatest difference, Lang thought, was the unhurried pace of traffic. The blaring horns and screeching brakes of Rome and Paris would feel isolated here. If anything, the drivers were courteous, something most cities, including those in America, would find novel. A few minutes more brought them to the sluggish brown waters of the Rio Guadalquivir. Below the Puente de Isabell II, foot-powered paddle boats traced lazy S-curves and fishermen stood on the banks.
Once on the eastern side of the river, Sonia turned left on the Paseo de Crisobal Colon and the streets became narrow and twisted. Stuccoed buildings hid behind walls of handmade brick, their orange tiled roofs visible. They were in the old part of the city.
The Hotel Alfonso XII was a structure in an impressive mock-Mudejar style. Its abundance of Moorish flourishes, impeccable service, and lavish accommodations were such that, according to Sonia, the guests to Spain's most recent regal wedding had stayed there, having only to cross Calle San Francisco and the small Plaza de Jerez to the cathedral to watch the eldest royal daughter marry a Spanish nobleman.
But they would have had trouble reaching the venerable church today. The street was filled from curb to curb by men in black robes, peaked hats, masks, and with bare feet. Most dragged wooden crosses.
'What is that-who are those volk?' Gurt asked from the backseat. 'Looks like the Ku Klux Klan,' Lang observed. 'Except they're wearing the wrong color.'
'Penitents,' Sonia explained. 'This is Good Friday, the Friday before Easter. This is the next-to-Last Seana Santa, Holy Week, celebration. The men in the robes seek forgiveness of sins committed the year past.'
'Not hard to see where Nathan Bedford Forrest got his idea for the Invisible Empire,' Lang muttered.
'Who?' Gurt wanted to know.
If there was anything Lang did not want to have to explain, Justify, or apologize for, it was a post-Civil War organization that had morphed into one of America's most famous hate groups. 'Nothing. Can we edge by into the parking lot?'
An hour later, the streets were empty of those hoping to clear their souls. Lang and Gurt rode with Sonia down narrow cobblestone streets until huge wrought iron gates opened to admit them to the loveliest patio Lang had ever seen.
Lang got out on the street. 'We could have walked.' Sonia nodded in agreement. 'I had to bring the car back.'
Lang hesitated before entering the enclosure, reaching up to pick a ripe orange from one of a line of trees. He followed the Mercedes into the patio as the gates slowly swung shut, peeling the fruit as he went. The first bite brought such an explosion of sour acid into his mouth that he spat the pulp without thinking.
Sonia, unsuccessful at hiding a grin at his discomfort, said, 'Anglese. We call those oranges 'English' because
