From the dates on the various stelae in front of tombs and obelisks, we know the dates fit Amenhotep Four, previously known as Akhenaten. Interestingly, his tomb has never been found, although those of his predecessor and successor have. Perhaps because he was buried in Sinai by his new followers. Anyway, the Israelites, historically monotheistic, would have followed such a person.'
'And you call me a heretic.'
Francis smiled. 'I don't think the Church cares a lot about the genealogy of Moses, only that he was one of many Old Testament figures who set the stage for the coming of the Messiah.'
'But why would a former king want such a following? I mean, the Israelites were slaves, right?'
'No, not if we read Exodus. Joseph, the man of the many-colored coat, you may recall, was sold into slavery in Egypt, but he did well, became a confidant of that particular pharaoh, and invited his family to join him. Over the years between Joseph, who became Israel, and Moses-slash-Akhenaten, they were one of the many groups that had immigrated.'
'Like the U.S.,' Lang said, standing to refill his glass at the sink. Grumps gave a low growl of displeasure at having to move from under his master's feet. 'Like all immigrants who came here.'
Francis held his glass out for a refill also. 'One more and I've got to go. But yes, sort of like having Israelite- Egyptians, Nubian-Egyptians, all those hyphenated things some people use today because it feeds some sort of insecurity, as though simply being American isn't enough. One difference, though: The Egyptian immigrants probably became part of the country over many hundreds and hundreds of years, not just a couple of centuries. I'm afraid I have no comments on the gold and manna part of your papers. You'll need a chemist or physicist.'
Lang wasn't about to mention the fates of the ones who had already been involved.
'Again, though,' Lang persisted, 'why would a former king want followers who were just brick makers?'
Francis drained his glass and stood. 'Have you ever seen a politician refuse a constituency? Besides, he believed in the one God, as did they.'
He moved to the door, extending a hand. 'Fine food, good cigar, great company. As always. Thanks.' 'Sure you won't have another wee tot?'
The priest shook his head. 'God may be my copilot, but if I get stopped I'm the one who gets the DUI. The diocese frowns on the bishop having to get his minions out of the slammer at strange nocturnal hours.'
Lang stood at the door until he heard the chime of the elevator.
An hour later Lang lay on his back, listening to Grumps's snores. Reflections of passing traffic below played across the ceiling like some abstract black-and-white film.
Moses, who was not an Israelite but a king.
Israelites who were not Jews but Egyptians.
The form that had begun to emerge from the fog in Vienna still had no face, but it was getting clearer.
Vienna?
What was the name Shaffer had mentioned?
Bin Hamish in Cairo, a man who supposedly could explain the energy potential of the white powder.
Lang got out of bed and went into the living room, where a laptop sat on the desk part of the Thomas Elfe secretary. It took nearly an hour before Lang found the man he was certain Shaffer had had in mind.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Park Place
2660 Peachtree Road
Atlanta, Georgia
The Next Morning
Lang was on the phone before he was dressed, making airline reservations to Vienna via Paris. When he was finished he called the foundation's pilot and requested he prepare the Gulfstream for the same trip.
Whoever had placed the bug in the condo would not know he had no intention of going to either place.
Showered and dressed, he removed a panel from the back of the bedside table's drawer and removed a passport with his picture and the name of Joel Couch of Macon, Georgia. It purported to have been issued five years earlier by the United States Department of State. Only the picture bore any relation to the truth. In fact, the document had been issued at Gurt's request by the Agency's Frankfurt office three years ago, when she and Lang had both needed to travel under names other than their own. With it were a driver's license, a membership card to a health club, two credit cards now expired, an ATM card, and a wallet-size snapshot of a little girl he had never seen, presumably Couch's daughter.
Ratting the passport against the palm of a hand, he wondered if the intruder who had left the listening device had found the false back of the drawer and noted the Couch name. It was a chance he'd simply have to take.
He drove out of the condo and turned north instead of south toward downtown and his office. Stopping at a branch bank, where he made a substantial cash withdrawal, he drove a mile or so farther and parked the Porsche at Lenox Square, a high-end mall that included a Delta Airlines reservation office. The shopping center's doors were just opening for the day.
He was aware that paying for tickets in cash was sure to invite the attention of the Transportation Safety people, but a search of his baggage and person was the price he would pay for leaving whoever might be watching behind. He was fairly certain the Agency's passport would pass scrutiny both in appearance and in verifying the number.
He would, then, be traveling as Joel Couch, an eccentric who abhorred that most American of conveniences, the credit card.
Ticket in the pocket of his jacket, he stopped at a Starbucks to watch the mall slowly fill. He could see no one who showed any interest in him. He emptied his cup of a liquid that tasted more like confection than coffee, as well it should.
He smiled as he walked out, imagining one of the inner city's panhandlers: 'Hey, mister! Can you spare five bucks for a large chilled Kenyan mocha?'
That evening he had dinner at Alicia's. She lived in a small town house in Vinings, a residential community across the Chattahoochee River. It had a past as a semi- rural locale that included a few quaint cottages and a train station. The station was now an expensive boutique. Condos and gated subdivisions, equally indistinguishable, had reduced whatever bucolic aesthetic there might have been to a single rambling clapboard cottage reminiscent of another age. The house had survived only as the site of an upscale restaurant specializing in entrees cooked in fruit jellies.
In jeans and a T-shirt designed to display her figure, Alicia met him at the door. Her hair, shoulder-length, framed her face. A emerald in the shape of a heart sparkled on her finger.
Lang gave her a perfunctory hug. 'Don't you look nice! I don't remember the rock.'
She let him in, closing the door and holding up her hand for inspection. 'Don't usually wear it. It was an engagement ring, only good thing left of a bad marriage.'
Lang followed her toward the back of the house, noting tasteful contemporary furniture punctuated with an occasional antique. 'So why wear it tonight?'
She stopped so suddenly he almost ran into her. Turning, she took both of his hands in hers. 'Because I'm through brooding about a failure. I'm in a new house in a new city and with a man who's fun and entertaining.'
'I'm being damned with faint praise? Is that the female equivalent of, 'All the girls like her' or, 'She's a great cook'?'
'I'll bet it's the first nice thing anyone's said about you all day.'
'Maybe. But my dog loves me.'
She dropped one of his hands and led him to a small deck; a view of Atlanta's skyline serenely floated on a sea of trees. 'Single-malt Scotch, if I recall.'
He took the sweating glass she was offering. 'It's clear to me there's nothing wrong with your memory.'
There was an energy between them, the electricity a woman projected when she had something in mind more than an affectionate embrace. In college dorms Lang had participated in the ageless debate of whether a
