has yet to be determined as has any motive for the kidnapping and murder.
Inspector Dylan Fitzwilliam said, 'I doubt the motive was entirely robbery. Since the manuscripts are related to a murder, they would be difficult to sell on the open market'
The inspector did not exclude the possibility the theft was a 'contract' job, that is, that the robbers were commissioned by a collector who wished the manuscripts for himself.
The British Museum declined to place a value on the stolen objects.
The abduction of Weatherston-Wilby took place…
II.
Delta Flight 1701
Gatwick-Atlanta
Lang Reilly reread the article for the third time. He had only seen it because the airline's supply of USA Today had not been delivered prior to the first leg of the Atlanta- London-Atlanta trip the 777 would make that day. For that matter, Lang usually took the foundation's Gulfstream IV to the UK purely as a protest against the Labour government's latest manifestation of wealth envy, a $250 tax on first-class seats.
Right up there in the league with abolishing foxhunting.
The remonstration had been impossible this trip. The Gulfstream's annual inspection was in process and the aircraft grounded for at least a week.
A flight attendant, regulation smile painted across her face, dangled a steaming hot towel in front of him. Without thought, he murmured his thanks and took it.
Lang spread the hot towel across his face as though preparing for an old-fashioned barbershop shave before dropping it on the wide seat divider.
He was lost in thought when the other attendant with an identical smile retrieved it.
Why kill Eon?
If the texts were the point of the robbery, murder made no sense. If for some reason they wanted Eon dead, why take the books? If Eon were complicit in the theft, the thieves might want to eliminate him, but why would he arrange to steal something he was donating? Unless the robbers feared identification, killing Eon was pointless. Lang examined his memory like a student reviewing a text for a final exam. Had Eon given any evidence of recognition? If so, Lang had missed it.
No, none of the possible solutions so far was the correct one.
The only clue was throwing a man from St. Paul's and then stoning him to death if he wasn't already dead. The only purpose for that exercise had to be to send a message.
But what?
And to whom?
Lang slid down the window shade and reclined his seat to the full extent. Perhaps he could get a little sleep before the airline committed the gastronomic atrocity known euphemistically as 'an in-flight meal.' The only purpose served by airline food, Lang mused, was to ensure the British did not have the world's worst.
He closed his eyes but the vision of Eon being led away would not fade. He hadn't exactly put up a fight but he hadn't gone willingly, either. Lang tried to banish the thought but it was as stubborn as one of Atlanta's panhandlers.
Admitting defeat, he sat up and thumbed through a paperback he had bought at the airport, well aware of his inability to sleep on airplanes. He knew the compulsion to be alert at all times was irrational. If something went seriously south at 37,000 feet, there wasn't a lot he could do about it, awake or asleep.
He began the book, hoping it would banish Eon for the moment.
III.
Park Place
2660 Peachtree Road
Atlanta, Georgia
That Evening
His single suitcase at his feet, Lang was fumbling in his pocket for the key to his condominium. Once inside, he'd take a shower and head for the kennel where Grumps, arguably the world's ugliest dog, would be impatiently waiting.
Why the mutt was so eager to leave what appeared to be, by canine standards, luxurious digs, Lang never knew. Plus the fact the dog always put on a pound or two. Lang's hand closed around his key ring. He slipped the brass key into the lock, turned and eased the door open.
Simultaneously, he smelled the strong odor of gas and there was an audible click, a sound like someone snapping a cigarette lighter.
He may have imagined seeing a spark but there was one, visible or not.
Instinctively, he lunged backward, pulling the door shut but not soon enough.
An explosion was accompanied by heat, a burning, searing monster that tried to devour him as it flung him across the hall and against the far wall as easily as a child might toss away a rag doll.
He never heard the snap of bones the impact caused.
IV.
Henry Grady Memorial Hospital
Trauma & Burn Unit
Butler Street
Atlanta, Georgia
Three Weeks Later
Lang was dead.
He was sure.
Otherwise, why would he be visited by the persons he knew were deceased?
On the other hand, being dead meant an end to pain, right? His pain was far from at an end. Sometimes he ached and burned over every inch of his body; at others he could localize his suffering to a leg, an arm, his back. The pain was always red, blurring his dim sight like a curtain of misery that separated him from whatever world he was in, either real or ephemeral.
The only real thing was the pain.
It was like a slowly rising and receding tide. At times he could get his head above it, see the universal Light that blinded and feel the agony wash over him. It was all featureless, soundless red. Then, he would be pulled back under into a wet, warm stygian black he had begun to think of as 'the Womb,' a place where there was no discomfort, only a mellowness and a sensation of floating in space.
That was where the dead were.
As though in a fever dream, he saw his cubicle at the agency's Frankfurt station: a dim, grimy building across from the Bahnhof, where he had spent the bulk of his career. He had graduated from college with a liberal arts degree that, outside of academe, proved worthless. When he was looking around for a job, the agency had a certain appeal: lurking in the shadows of Eastern European cities while countering the machinations of beautiful spies…
The experience had proved to be more Dilbert than Bond.
After months of training, Lang had been assigned not to Operations but to Intelligence. Instead of glamour and
