during his stay with the Agency, old aphorisms notwithstanding, what you didn't know was anything but benign. Classic example was Kennedy's decision to withhold air support, un-communicated until troops were already on the beaches of the Bay of Pigs. Bet you couldn't find a veteran of that fiasco who believed what you didn't know couldn't hurt you.
EDFA, the Agency's acronym for 'Educate yourself as to the problem, Decide upon the desired result, Formulate the plan most likely to achieve that result, Act.'
Sure. Nothing is impossible for he who doesn't have to do it.
Lang had only part of the information he needed. He knew that an organization, possibly of historic origin, certainly of vast economic power, wanted him dead, dead like Jeff and Janet. The desired result was to make the bastards wish they had never heard of Lang Reilly: a payback of cosmic proportions.
And Lang still hadn't done the hard part, formulating a plan. Time to go back to the 'educate' stage and start over. Without understanding Pegasus, he would never be able to put a hurt on it. To learn if Pegasus really was somehow connected to the Templars.
Pretty heavy stuff.
Lang had never been particularly religious, probably because as a child he had been dragged out of bed every Sunday morning and forced to spend an hour on the most uncomfortable pew that ever existed in the entire Episcopal Church. Admittedly, he was a little old still to be rebelling. Even in the hours spent in involuntary worship, he didn't remember ever hearing about Jesus being married, let alone surviving the crucifixion like that Lobineau guy Dr. Wolffe mentioned in one of his footnotes.
Medieval religious orders in the twenty-first century? Pretty bogus.
Education.
So far, more questions than answers.
Like, how had They known to come to Jacob's flat? Lang was all but positive he hadn't been followed to the Temple Bar or from Oxford. But if not followed, how? What was it Sherlock Holmes said? Something like, 'If you eliminate all possible solutions, only the impossible remains.' Impossible someone had discovered his relationship with Jacob through his service records. Impossible.
Therefore the answer?
Lang had been thinking along those lines already when he decided to renew another old acquaintance, one who wouldn't be in any service file.
Lang checked his watch as he climbed up. the steps to street level. Quarter after nine, just after four in Atlanta. When he had called the office from Rome, Sara had referred to Chen, the client Lang had called from the pay phone downstairs in his building. With the cops in the office, she hadn't been able to expressly mention the pay phone but that would have been the only reason to name a client from four or five years ago.
From a public phone in the station, he made, a collect call, a somewhat easier job than it would. have been through an Italian-speaking operator. He assumed there was a tap on the office phone, so he made the call brief.
'Sara, remember Mr. Chen?' he asked. And hung up.
If they could trace that, technology had really improved more than he thought. Star-69, of course, didn't work with international calls. By the time computer records of calls to his office could be searched, he could go around the world on a very slow boat.
He switched phones and used Herr Schneller's Visa card to charge the call. Happily, Gurt hadn't terminated his credit quite yet. Lang was hoping he remembered the right phone number in the office building, that he wasn't calling the deli across the lobby.
'Lang?'
Sara's voice could have been an angel's, he was so happy to hear it.
'It's me. You okay?'
'Fine now. I thought that detective was going to bring his toothbrush and move into the office, much time as he spent there. What about you? I understand you've been accused of a murder in London as well as the one here.'
'To paraphrase Mark Twain, the reports are much exaggerated. Listen, I can't talk long. Call the priest, ask him to stand by tonight. I need to speak with him.'
'You mean Father…'
'No names!' Lang almost shouted with a harshness he regretted. He could imagine Echelon's programming listening for names of his current friends. Unlikely but possible… 'This call is being transmitted by satellite. It isn't secure.'
Sara was willing to take his word for it. 'I'll alert him. And Lang… I know you didn't kill anybody.'
Lang had a vision of two bodies lying in the street, one with two bullets he had fired. 'Thanks, Sara. It'll all work out.'
Lang hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.
CHAPTER FOUR
1
London, Piccadilly
1740 hours
Cloaked in Piccadilly's evening crowd, Lang stopped to look at window displays every few feet. He didn't see any faces reflected more than once. He circled the block delineated by Regent Street and Jermyn Street twice, pausing to examine an equestrian stature of William of Orange apparently in the dress of a Roman emperor. Despite. his problems, Lang smiled. The king in drag. Before the royal scandals of the late nineties – Di, Fergie, the lot – the English took their monarchs way too seriously.
Lang still recognized no faces from a few minutes earlier.
He checked his watch and hurried along like a man suddenly realizing his wife is waiting at dinner or the theater. At 47 Jermyn, he stopped at an unmarked door. A column of names and bell buttons were to the left next to the rusted grille of a speaker. Lang had to squint to see the names. He was in luck; she was still here. When he pressed a button, a woman's voice, tinny over the wire but Cockney accent nevertheless clear, replied, ''Oo's there?'
Lang leaned close to the speaker, both not wanting to be overheard by people on the street but to be sure to be understood by the voice at the other end. 'Tell Nellie an old friend, the one who looked but didn't touch.'
The speaker clicked off.
Nellie O'Dwyer, formerly Neleska Dwvorsik, had been the madam of one of London's more exclusive call-girl rings since before Lang had known her. Although prostitution was technically illegal, the Brits were smart enough not to waste time and money battling a business no government had ever completely suppressed. As long as Nellie's girls caused no complaints, she was left alone to operate her 'escort' service.
Once safely out of some East European workers' paradise, a significant number of defectors' first wish was a woman. Whisky came in a distant second. A relaxed and happy man was a lot easier to debrief than one tense and resentful. When Lang had first been stationed in London, it had fallen his lot as low man on the pole to find a regular source to satisfy the need. The item was creatively entered under 'counseling' in the expense accounts that were subject to Congressional oversight.
It was unlikely this service to his country appeared in Lang's service jacket. If somebody had his file, he doubted they would see Nellie's name in it.
As one formerly accustomed to the machinations of Marxist-Leninist states, Nellie had expected Lang to demand a percentage, or at least a sample of the goods. It didn't take a genius to see the downside of being a partner – or a customer – of a brothel keeper. Not smart when employed by a nation with Ozzie and Harriet
