A faint smile flickered across her face. 'Benjamin was Jewish by birth only. I doubt he had been in a synagogue since he was a child.' She sighed deeply. 'In fact, today was the first time in years that I have been.'
So much for proscribed shellfish.
Lang and Louis began to patiently examine each book, thumbing its pages before returning each to its place on the shelf.
Louis blew gently across the cover of one, sending dust spinning into the air like planets in a tiny universe. 'What are we looking for?'
Lang was exchanging one tome for another that had illustrations of some sort of metallurgical process. 'I'm not sure, but if the good professor kept any sort of records besides the electronic ones, this would sure be a good place.'
Louis took a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his hands. 'Why would Yadish want to hide his research notes and records?'
'I'm not sure he would, but if he kept an extra set, maybe some handwritten notes, the library would be logical.'
On impulse, Lang reached for the radio. He was curious to see if it worked. He turned the volume knob, half expecting to hear something from the era before television, a dialogue between Jack Benny and Rochester, or 'Thanks for the Memories,' Bob Hope's theme song.
Instead there was a mechanical click, and the face of the dial swung open.
Louis reshelved a book and came over to join Lang in peering into the radio's plastic case. Lang reached his thumb and forefinger in, removing a sheaf of papers rolled with a rubber band. He carefully slid the band off. He was looking at perhaps twenty or so pages in what looked like Hebrew characters.
'From his cousin Joseph in Vienna,' Mary commented from the doorway. 'He was killed in a motor accident not long ago.'
'So he kept papers hidden in a radio?' Lang asked, truly puzzled.
'Benjamin and Joseph were very close. Benjamin went to Vienna for a service for Joseph. Just before he died Joseph mailed those papers to Benjamin, some sort of research he was going to publish. Benjamin checked his cousin's home computer. He never accepted that the accident was that-accidental. The police never found the other vehicle or driver. My husband half believed his cousin was killed for what was on those papers.'
Lang put the pages down. 'From where did Dr. Yadish's cousin send them?'
She shook her head. 'The postmark said Durnstein.' She thought a moment. 'It may be nothing, but we never knew. His laptop was missing from the wreckage, but his wife said he left with it that morning.'
'Obviously your husband thought these were important.'
She shrugged. 'We did not know. Neither of us read Hebrew, but Benjamin said he thought they were related to some project he was working on, perhaps the one for you.'
Interesting but less than helpful, Lang thought. But if
Yadish thought he needed to hide them, perhaps the papers had some answers concerning his death. Lang knew someone as proficient in Hebrew as he and Francis were in Latin. 'May I borrow it long enough to make a copy?'
She shrugged, a gesture more of surrender than assent. 'It could not hurt.'
'One more thing and we'll leave you alone,' Lang began.
'No hurry,' she said slowly. 'I will be alone for a very long time now.'
Lang was unsure how to reply, so he said, 'I'd also like a look at your husband's laboratory.'
She pointed at Louis. 'He can take you there. It's only a few blocks away. But you must arrive before the university locks the building for the night.'
As soon as he and Lang were back on the street, Louis stopped. 'Vorstaat said the woman had been visited only once by the police. That is why you asked her so closely about the second policeman, Hooy, rather than Inspector Van Decker, no?'
'Yes,' Lang said, thinking about the faux FBI man, Witherspoon. Mrs. Yadish's description fit him, too. He tried to dismiss the notion as illogical. How many millions of men in their mid-thirties were over six feet with dark hair? But the idea wouldn't go away. It continued to circle his mind like a stray dog seeking a handout.
FIFTEEN
Five Minutes Later
Louis was saying something.
'Pardon?'
The Belgian pointed to a shop with a copy machine visible through the plate-glass window. 'We can make a Xerox there.'
Lang turned and stopped. Was it his imagination or had the corner of his eye caught the reflection of someone whirling at exactly the same time to study a handbill posted on a stand? The man was certainly there, and he certainly wasn't the size of Witherspoon. He wore a leather jacket open, with nondescript slacks and black socks under the sandals so loved by Europeans.
Lang handed the rerolled pages to Louis. 'Please, if you don't mind, make us two copies of each page.'
Louis looked at him questioningly before ducking inside.
Lang studied the surrounding architecture, the boats along the adjacent canal, marijuana plants growing in pots in a coffeehouse window. But mostly he studied the man in the jacket, who seemed as intent on wasting time as did Lang.
Police? Perhaps, but law enforcement officers would be unlikely to waste resources following him when all they had to do was stop him and ask questions. There was a chance, slim as it might be, that Leather Jacket was simply early for an appointment of some kind.
The coincidence that a stranger would suddenly appear idling at exactly the same spot where Lang and Louis were was unbelievable. There were also the coincidences of two bogus cops, and that both the murder victims had been working on the fringes of the same project.
Agency training had included extreme skepticism of mere happenstance. If you refused to accept similarities as flukes, you might be wrong ten percent of the time. Conversely, accepting coincidence at face value was frequently fatal.
Then there was the question of those shots fired in Underground Atlanta. He had been certain they had been a warning. If the shooter had wanted him dead, Lang wouldn't be here right now. Yet the guys who had hijacked him at the Brussels airport weren't out to just warn him.
What was the connection?
Louis emerged from the shop with a bulging paper bag in each hand. He handed one to Lang. 'The laboratory is just ahead.'
Leather Jacket was still inspecting a window as they left.
'This is the Oost-Indisch Huis,' Louis proclaimed, pointing to an attractive seventeenth-century brick-and- concrete building. 'It was the offices of the Dutch East India Company. Now it belongs to the university. You have heard of the Dutch East India Company, yes?'
Lang was not so much interested in one of the world's most outrageously successful commercial enterprises as he was in making sure they weren't followed. 'Yes.'
Louis stopped before an ornate entranceway, waiting for Lang to catch up. Both men entered what looked from the street to be a series of buildings between two tree-lined canals with a block-long bicycle rack in front. As Lang soon discovered, he was in one of many passageways linking a large number of structures.
They passed through a courtyard, an outdoor cafe filled with students. One, a large blonde, followed him with blue eyes. Once again Gurt rose as a specter, this time dressed in motorcycle leathers, the same ones she had worn when she saved his life in Italy, her long blond hair flowing around her face. Two women, Dawn and Gurt: one his wife, one he wished had been. Both gone from his life.
He shook his head as though he could scatter the memories.
