the dead, not identify them.
Lang moved mechanically, straining to keep his mind concentrated on the tasks at hand. He stooped to retrieve the camera from where it had fallen when the blast had knocked him down. Surprisingly, it was unbroken. Using the rope still in place, he descended through the shaft. Unlocking the car's trunk, he took out Gurt's purse. His control momentarily slipped as a rogue memory of how he had teased her about its size interrupted the routine and tears wet his cheeks. Checking the bag's contents to make certain it contained nothing of significance, he returned it to the trunk. Sliding into the front seat, he opened the glove box, pocketing only Gurt's passport. No need to involve her now.
The rented car would be traced to Joel Couch. His passport and the few human remains on the mountain should make Lang Reilly officially dead at least until DNA proved otherwise. That should keep the Frankfurt Police, if not all of Interpol, quiet for the time being.
Joel Couch would seek revenge.
He took a final look at the hilltop, from which smoke was still rising. Fists clenched, he spoke aloud through gritted teeth. 'You bastards, you fucking bastards! No matter who you-are, this world is too small for both of us, and I don't plan on leaving.'
He took some small comfort from the fact that the threat was not idle. He had tracked the killers of his sister and nephew, and, if necessary, he would end his days in pursuit of whoever was responsible for Gurt.
His hand involuntarily went to the pocket where he had put the paper with the Latin phrases on it. He'd get them this time, too. At least now he had a starting point.
Pocketing the car keys, he turned his back on the Mercedes and began to trudge along the narrow country road.
He had gone less than a mile before a pair of police cars, sirens wailing, blurred past, headed in the direction from which he had come. Minutes later, he hitched a ride in a tractor-towed wagon dusty with remains of winter wheat. Turning his back to the machine's driver, he released the tight grip on his emotions and sobbed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Frankfurt am Main 141 Mosel Strasse
The next day
Reavers put, both hands flat on the desk and stared at them. 'Gurt dead? You sure?'. Lang nodded wearily. 'There wasn't enough left to ID anybody without DNA.'
Reavers glanced up without moving his head, a move that made his eyes look even more like those of a raptor. 'But you searched anyway?'
Lang knew it wasn't his fault, but he couldn't shake the feeling there had been something he could have done. 'Other than the cave, there wasn't any place to hide. If she'd been there, I would have seen her.'
''And you're going to continue to try to find the sum'bitches who killed Huff.' It was not a question. 'God knows them cheap bastards in Washington aren't going to give us the budget to do it. Just once, I'd like to think the security of the United States and our agents is worth more than funding some turnip museum in Iowa.'
'Damn right I am. When I know that, I'll know who's responsible for Gurt.'
'Tell me again what I can do.'
Lang shrugged, the trivial nature of his requests overshadowed by Gurt's death. 'I'd like to keep the Couch identity, maybe acquire one other, preferably a citizen of an ED country. As for the credit cards, I can guarantee payment-'
The CIA chief of station made a dismissive gesture. 'Forgit paying the credit cards, pard'nuh. Budget cutbacks or not, we don' chintz when it comes to trackin' down people who hurt our people, you remember?'
Lang remembered the Agency of the eighties probably destroying countless forests with the paperwork required to justify any remotely unusual expense in anticipation of periodic congressional inquiries. Apparently, there really had been a peace dividend after all.
Or politicians occupied with other matters. ' 'Xactly how you plannin' on finding whoever you're lookin' for?'
Lang sat back 'in his chair and shrugged. 'There was an inscription on the cave wall, something about an indictment and the palace of the sole God.'
''You plannin' on trackin' a bunch o' killers from some sorta religious claptrap?'
Lang sighed deeply, all too aware of the task ahead.
'That carving dates back to the fourth century; they would have been there when Skorzeny looted whatever was there. He must have seen the same words.'
'So?'
'I can read them, know what the words say. I need to figure out what they mean. I'd guess the Germans did. If I follow wherever they lead, maybe I'll find out who wants me not to.'
Reavers picked a pen from a cup on his desk, working it through his fingers like a magician about to perform a trick. ''You're guessing the sum'bitches killed Huff an' Gurt are tryin' to protect some religious secret sixteen hundred years old?'
'It's the only lead I've got.'
Lang felt no need to point out he had nearly been killed a year ago by people trying to keep an even older secret. 'It's either that or some organization trying to prevent identifying old Nazis.'
The Agency man returned the pen to the cup and gave Lang pretty much the same look-he might have given someone seriously delusional. 'I don' see it, but okay.' He opened a drawer and fumbled through it. 'One more thing…' He slid a square object across the desktop. 'Take it.'
Lang picked it up. ''A BlackBerry? Thanks, I already have one.'
'With built-in scrambling and a global positioning system? You set you'sef a three-digit code, you press it, an' we know not only the caca has hit the ole ventilating device but 'xactly where it struck. They're special made for us.'
Lang dropped it into his pocket. 'It would be your ass, the Agency finds out you let me have this.'
Reavers leaned back in his chair, grinning. 'Or the passports, or the ID. Hell, at my age, gittin' fired ain't much threat. Tell ya, pard'nuh, best I can, I'm committed to findin' whoever killed that li'l gal.'
Lang could only imagine how Gurt would react to being referred to in the familiar diminutive. 'I appreciate you getting involved.'
' 'Involved'? Hell, I'm committed.'
Lang stood, thinking the conversation at an end. 'Involved, committed. I value any help you can give.' Reavers stood also, extending a hand. 'Y'know difference between 'involved' an' 'committed'?' Lang had a feeling he was going to learn. 'Ever' mornin' I have Speck und Ei, bacon and eggs.
The chicken's involved, but the pig, he's committed.' The Lone Star State's very own Jay Leno.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Frankfurt am Main Dusseldorf
Am Hauptbahnhof Strasse
That evening
Lang lay on the bed, staring at the abstract designs of the cracks in the ceiling without seeing them. He didn't notice the pulsating colors that came through the room's only window from neon signs outside advertising sex shops, pornographic movies, and cheap restaurants. If asked, it would have been doubtful if he could have named the cheap railroad hotel in which he was spending the night.
He was far too lost in his own self-pity.
First his wife, Dawn, then his sister and nephew. Now Gurt. All snatched away, exited from his life as if his existence were some cosmic revolving door turning in a single direction. Though neither religious nor superstitious,
