Chapter Five
I.
Alitalia Flight 171
Between Rome and Atlanta
Four Hours Later
Lang luxuriated in the first-class seat as he accepted his second glass of champagne. Well, Spumante, a discrepancy more than compensated for by being able to actually extend his legs while he enjoyed it. The past few days hadn't exactly been the rehab his surgeon had recommended. Wriggling his toes in the thick airline-issue socks, he gazed down on the rugged Alpine region below, replaying his last hours in Rome.
After a hasty exit from Father Strentenoplis's apartment building and shedding priestly garb, he had headed back toward the Vatican, stopping only long enough to dump the.45 from the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele into the sluggish green Tiber.
He had not even considered returning to Viktor's to collect his passport. It was too likely the men he had encountered in the ghetto yesterday had observed him coming in or out of the building. That they knew about the priest only strengthened this supposition. He would need to find translation of the gospel elsewhere, preferably somewhere someone wasn't trying to kill him.
He had used his BlackBerry as he walked to call up Delta's stored number. With surprising accommodation, they booked him on that afternoon's flight on Alitalia.
He had no sooner disconnected than the device buzzed, this time showing his office number.
'Sara?'
'It's me, Lang. You all right?'
Just swell, Sara. Twice in as many days, somebody has tried to kill me. I've been forced to seriously burn one man, maybe crack the skull of another and shoot one more to death. I'm not forgetting being responsible for yet one more getting his throat slit and the disappearance of a priest. I'm a one-man plague, but I'm just peachy keen. 'What's up?'
'I thought you'd like to know, a Larry Henderson called last night. Says he knows you. He's in the federal pretrial detention center in Macon on what I gather are a number of charges related to growing marijuana. He's got an arraignment in front of a magistrate coming up.'
Larry Henderson.
The name was familiar but just out of his memory's reach. Lang was puzzled for other reasons, too.
'I'm still on medical leave of absence from the various courts, I don't practice outside the Atlanta area and I sure as hell don't defend dope dealers. None of this is news. What's special about this guy?'
'He said to remind you of your home in Lamar County.'
It all came back to Lang like a yo-yo on a string. Shit! A real pain in the ass when you owe someone, really owe them, and they come around to collect. Especially when your own plate is full of assassins who want you dead.
On the other hand…
'Have someone tell Mr. Henderson I'll drive down to Macon tomorrow. Call and make arrangements with the Fed Bureau of Prisons people.'
Lang terminated the call and made another, this one to Gurt.
'There's been a change of plans,' he told her.
When he got back to the Vatican to throw his few clothes into his single bag, Francis was waiting for him. The priest was sitting on one of the twin beds, fingering the rosary in his lap.
'Lang, what have you gotten into?' were the first words he said.
'You already know as much as I do,' Lang replied, crossing to the small closet and taking out a pair of slacks. 'What brings this up?'
Francis hesitated before answering as though carefully constructing an answer. 'That Greek Orthodox priest you asked to translate for you, the one visiting from Istanbul…'
'Strentenoplis.'
'Father Strentenoplis. He was found an hour ago.'
Lang felt as though he had tried to swallow something without chewing, something very large. 'Found?'
'In the Tiber.'
'He fell into the river?'
Lang knew better.
'Not unless he was carrying the hundred-pound anchor tied to his legs.'
'Who…? I mean, you can't just throw somebody tied to an anchor into a river in broad daylight without a couple hundred witnesses. Somebody must have seen it.'
Francis arched an eyebrow. 'And what makes you think it was done in daylight?'
A warm coffeepot, a clerical collar with studs on a dresser, a breakfast not eaten.
But Lang said, 'Lucky guess?'
Francis shook his head. 'A dozen or so people called the police. Of course, each had a different idea of the make of the truck they used, its color, even how many people were involved.'
'And, of course, nobody got a tag number.'
'Oh, they did, all right. According to Vatican security, the Rome police found the truck abandoned. It had been stolen.' He stood, staring at Lang intensely. 'Lang, you're not telling me something.'
Lang laid his suitcase out on the other bed and began transferring shirts and underwear into it from the bureau. He was acutely aware someone in addition to Francis was probably listening. 'More than one something, Francis. Unless you want to end up like Father Strentenoplis, I'm doing you a favor.' He stopped in midpacking. 'The anchor, it's the symbol for…?'
'St. Clement. He was tossed overboard at sea tied to an anchor.'
Lang zipped his bag shut. 'Crude but efficient. Even considering the Tiber is, what, ten feet deep? I'll see you when you get back.'
'You're going back to Atlanta?'
A fact the eavesdroppers either knew or would soon.
'It's a starting place.'
Francis stood. 'Lang, please. Drop this search for a translation of that gospel. It's not worth your life. Give it to whoever wants it. No more killing, no more…'
Lang gave his friend a bear hug. 'Always the man of peace, Francis. Problem is, I wouldn't know who to give it to or that they'd call off the dogs if I did.'
Lang's thoughts were interrupted by the flight attendant extending a pair of tongs holding a hot towel. He mopped his face and dropped the towel onto the seat divider to be collected by the same set of tongs.
One of his problems was he had no real clues as to who it was that wanted him to drop the matter of the Gospel of James. The obvious answer was some fanatical religious splinter group of Catholics. Problem was, which one? He couldn't name them all. He could eliminate the Pegasus organization as having too much to lose in the event of his violent death. Besides, Pegasus's killers were professionals. The men who had made attempts on his life, at least in Rome and Prague, hadn't been, a fact for which he was extremely grateful. There was no way to tell whether the bombing of his condo had been the work of a true pro or some Timothy McVeigh wannabe. Ever since the tragedy in Oklahoma City, anyone could mix up an explosive mixture of sulphur nitrate from recipes on the Internet. And this particular bomber hadn't had to. Natural gas had worked just fine.
A comforting thought.
He had no clue, nothing other than the untranslated gospel and the hope it would help identify those who were more willing to kill him than have it see daylight.
He pushed his seat back to a near-reclining position, punched a series of buttons on the in-flight entertainment system and began watching some mindless comedy.
