He jammed the key into the ignition and turned, ducking a shower of glass pebbles that an instant before had been the driver's window. He jammed the shift lever into drive and floored the accelerator.
The big car fishtailed, caught traction, and lunged ahead as the rear window went opaque in a spiderweb of safety glass.
As soon as Lang reached the four-lane highway, he checked the rearview mirror. He was not surprised to see a black car approaching fast. In seconds he could recognize it as a Land Rover, smaller than the custom job he was driving and, quite likely, faster.
Any doubt as to relative speeds evaporated as he floored the gas pedal and still the pursuing car gained on him.
If his vehicle was speed-handicapped by its size and weight, perhaps he could use those features to his advantage. Lang lifted his foot slightly.
As anticipated, the Land Rover pulled into the left lane, its occupants no doubt intending to spray him with gunfire as they drew even.
Lang looked back at the road, aware that he was going to get exactly one chance.
At least, in this lifetime.
The Land Rover behind had closed to slightly more than a single car length. Lang cut in front, the move of a man desperately trying to avoid what was inevitable.
He passed a Peugeot, pulling slightly ahead and blocking the Land Rover behind him. Driving in the left lane was illegal on European superhighways, a rule more uniformly enforced than speed limits. It was also frequently fatal.
He could see the Peugeot's perplexed driver in the mirror. Either the man was unwilling to share the road with a maniac or he had reached his destination. He took the next exit, leaving Lang alone with his pursuers.
Before Lang could return to the right lane, the car behind him pulled into the empty slot. The men in it preferred to force Lang to fire his weapon across the seat, if, in fact, he had a chance to fire at all before they did.
Lang backed off the accelerator, letting the Land Rover draw almost even before touching the brake. Before the driver of the Land Rover realized what had happened, it had shot past.
Lang sped up as the Land Rover slowed, trying to recover the best position for a shot.
As in the police chases on any American city's local news at six o'clock, Lang nudged the left rear of the Land Rover with the Mercedes's front right bumper.
The high center of gravity of the sport-utility vehicle combined with the wet surface and the German car's weight to break the adhesion between the tires of the Land Rover and the road. The British car began a slow but uncontrollable counterclockwise spin down the highway.
Lang tapped his brakes and watched the other car smash into the steel Armco barrier dividing the road.
He passed just as two dazed men were fighting ballooned air bags to climb out. He gave a cheery honk of the horn, noted the license plate, and headed back to Brussels.
TWELVE
Rue des Bouchers
Brussels, Belgium
Two Hours Later
Lang had returned the scarred Mercedes to the foundation's garage. The attendant gaped at what were obvious bullet holes. The man was staring openmouthed, too fascinated to notice as Lang dropped the keys into his hand.
'In America,' Lang said, 'we call it road rage.'
From there he walked to the offices on the flamboyant Grand Place, the geographic, historical, and commercial center of the city. Surrounded by elaborate seventeenth- century architecture, it housed statues of saints and busts of a ducal line peering from their lofty niches high above the bustling cobblestone square. The Hotel de Ville, city hall, with its fourteenth-century spire, competed for attention with the former palace of Belgium's Spanish monarchs.
Lang entered Le Pigeon, former residence of Victor Hugo during his exile from France. The grand old building had been converted into commercial space long ago.
Louis deVille dropped the telephone when Lang walked into his office. 'Monsieur Reilly!'
He came around the desk to clasp Lang with both hands. He was about to kiss him on each cheek when he recalled Lang's opinion of the traditional French greeting.
Instead he dropped his arms and gloved Lang's right hand in both of his own. 'The police were on the phone. Someone hijacked the car and the driver called them. Since your flight crew reported you had gotten in it at the airport…'
Lang extracted his hand as politely as possible. 'I took a tour of the countryside. I'm fine. The Mercedes needs to go to the body and glass shops, though.'
Louis took a step back. 'Who…?'
'Good question. I have a license plate number.'
Louis looked at a jeweled watch, the sort Of thing few American men would wear to any event other than a pimp's convention. 'It is near lunch. Have you eaten?'
Without waiting for a reply, Louis punched the intercom on his desk and rattled off a command in French.
'I have asked that the police inspector with whom I was speaking join us. He can ask his questions over a bowl of moules as well as here, no?'
Outside, blue was breaking through the dove gray skies. The drizzle had stopped altogether.
The two men crossed the square and walked along one of the Lower Town's main thoroughfares, Boulevard Anspach. Lang loitered, checking behind him by use of reflections in shop windows. Unlike in most U.S. cities, lunch was not a hurried affair here. It normally consisted of an hour and a half of throngs seeking good food and pleasant company. Consequently, spotting a tail in the crowd was difficult if not impossible.
A few blocks south, Louis stopped in front of the Eglise St-Nicolas, where a Gothic-style church marked the site of a twelfth-century marketplace. They turned left and strolled through the Galeries St-Hubert, a nineteenth- century glass-domed arcade, the location of familiar names such as Hermes and Chanel. Here it would be a lit- tle easier to discern a follower. Men hurried through; women idled in front of shop windows.
There was still no evidence that they were under surveillance.
An ornately decorated exit let out onto the Rue des Bouchers, in English the Street of the Butchers. The narrow alley was lined on both sides with restaurant after restaurant, each with an awning out front for al fresco dining and each featuring moules, mussels, boiled with onion, steamed with wine or beer, in sauce or butter. They were being served in the shell, in stews or cold, with horseradish, ketchup, or bearnaise sauce. Shiny, black-winged shellfish that could be prepared more ways than potatoes.
And Lang knew from experience they were all delicious.
Louis slid behind a small table around which four fragile chairs shouldered one another for room. He motioned Lang in beside him. The waiter had just delivered the menus when a thin man in a loosely cut suit approached.
'Mr. Reilly?' He extended a hand. The nails were bitten to the quick.
Lang stood, a question on his face as he shook.
'I am Inspector Henre Vorstaat.' He showed a badge and sat before an invitation could be extended. 'I was speaking with M. deVille about the theft of your car.'
The man's face seemed too narrow to accommodate the mouth, his expression doleful. Lang guessed the tiny folds around his eyes came more from frowning than laughing.
Hercule Poirot he wasn't.
His English had the hard edge of Flemish. 'I also understand Mr. Benjamin Yadish was employed by you. Having your foundation's car forcibly taken and a murder in the same week looks like a crime wave, no?'
'More like a tsunami.'
