Diem leaned across the desk. “If such is the case, we may be assured they have passed along the fact that the People’s Republic may have been involved in the Venice affair and change policy accordingly.”
“And if not?”
The undersecretary shrugged; it was a matter of no consequence. “Either way, what they might have seen presents a future risk. Eliminate them.”
472 Lafayette Drive, Atlanta
19:42 the next evening
Lang Reilly was sprawled into his favorite chair in the house’s paneled library/den, a Waterford crystal tumbler containing the remnants of a scotch and water on a leather-inlaid desk beside him. The flames danced across shelves of polished spines of leather-bound books Lang had collected and read. Works of Scott, Burns’s poetry.. . All were in English, not the Danish or Swedish popular for decorative purposes sold in antique stores. From the sound system, John Denver was extolling a Rocky Mountain high. The singer, dead these many years, had been a favorite of Dawn’s and a voice Lang associated with a particularly happy part of his earlier life. The music was more nostalgia than entertainment.
He was watching his six-year-old son, Manfred, seated on the muted Kerman rug in front of a fire crackling behind a brass screen. Opposite the boy, Francis sat splay legged, holding a deck of oversized cards. The priest dealt slowly, faceup, one on top of the one before. At the appearance of a jack, both attempted to be the first to slap an open palm on it as it hit the floor, thereby claiming not only the knave but the stack of cards beneath.
The disproportionate size of the piles accumulated by the competitors was attributable to Francis’s reluctance to slap the jack with full force for fear of hurting Manfred, plus the fact the latter’s shorter arms and unrestrained enthusiasm gave him a distinct advantage. Curled up touching Manfred, Grumps, the family’s dog of undetermined age and breed, opened an eye, either the blue one or the brown one, annoyed at each shriek his young master gave as he claimed another jack.
Lang stood up, crossed the room and stood at the built-in bar. “One more scotch before dinner?”
Francis looked up, card in midair. “No thanks. I’m afraid it’ll dull my competitive edge.”
Lang helped himself before nodding toward the relatively small stack of cards the priest had won. “What competitive edge?”
John Denver was imploring the country roads of West Virginia to take him home.
“Abendessen! ” Gurt was standing in the doorway to announce dinner. When possible, she and Lang spoke German around their son in hopes of preserving his bilingual abilities.
“Aw, Mom,” Manfred protested in words and tone familiar to any American six-year-old’s parents. “I was beating the socks off Uncle Fancy…”
Francis slowly got up. “And I expect you will after dinner, too.”
Gurt shook her head at her son. “I will bet you did not whine so at coming to dinner while you were staying with Mr. and Mrs. Charles while your father and I were gone.”
She referred to their next-door neighbors, who had a son slightly less than two years Manfred’s junior. Even though the difference between four and six is large at their ages, the two boys had been fast friends since Lang and Gurt’s participation in rescuing the younger from kidnappers the year before. The Charleses, Wynton and Paige, were more than eager to babysit as a small return for Lang and Gurt’s efforts, a return both Lang and Gurt insisted was not due.
“But Mom,” Manfred said innocently, “Mrs. Charles is an awesome cook.”
Lang tousled his son’s hair, speaking English for Francis’s benefit. “Meaning from what I heard that you and Wynn Three had a steady diet of hot dogs, hamburgers and peanut butter.”
“And the best apple pie in the world!”
Smiling, Gurt led her son to his seat in the dining room. “Auf Wiedersehen apple pie and peanut butter; wie geht’s roast chicken and vegetables?”
Having outgrown his high chair, Manfred climbed up on top of two sofa cushions that got his head and shoulders above table level.
Sitting, Lang turned to Francis. “OK, padre, see if you can finish saying grace before dinner gets cold.”
When Francis had completed an admirably brief blessing, Manfred piped up. “Why does Uncle Fancy always do that, thank God for the food, when Mommy buys it at the store herself?”
Francis gave Lang an amused look. “Your son’s spiritual education seems to be somewhat lacking.”
Gurt and Lang exchanged glances before Lang looked back at Francis. “You said the blessing; you explain.”
Francis cleared his throat. “Well, we thank God that your mother has the ability, the money, to buy…”
The phone rang.
Family custom decreed a ringing phone be ignored during dinner. If the call was important, there would be a message. If unimportant, why bother to answer in the first place?
This time, though, Lang wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood. “Excuse me. The federal grand jury was meeting this afternoon, and the indictment of the Reverend Bishop Groom was one of the things they were considering.”
“I thought grand-jury proceedings were secret,” Francis observed.
Lang was headed back to the den and the ringing phone. “They are. That’s why I need to take this. My source isn’t free to call at just any time.”
Lang noticed it the second he put the phone to his ear, a faint hum that had not been on the line when he used the telephone earlier that evening. “Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Dean?” a man’s voice responded. “Is this David Dean?”
The humming seemed to waver like an echo with each word.
“Just a moment,” Lang replied evenly.
Leaving the cordless receiver off its base, he went to the two windows closest to the street. The curtains were already pulled for the night. Reaching up behind the heavy drapes, Lang grasped a handle. He pulled, lowering a metal sheet. He repeated the process at the other window.
When he returned to the phone, the caller had gone. So had the hum.
As he returned to the table, Gurt studied his face. “Who was that, a wrong number?”
Lang shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then, who…?”
Lang’s expression said he clearly didn’t intend to discuss it in front of Manfred or Francis.
Thirty minutes later, the two men were back in the den. Now, with thudding guitars, the more-recently deceased baritone voice of Johnny Cash was lamenting his confinement in Folsom Prison. Francis was watching as Lang carefully decanted a bottle of twenty-five-year-old vintage Graham’s port.
“What makes a certain year ‘vintage’?” Francis asked.
Lang’s eyes were on the remains of crumbled cork collecting in the silver port filter along with the residue, or “mud,” of crushed fruit with which the distilled wine had been fortified before being stored in oak barrels. “A vintage year is when one vineyard declares it. That’s why the year of this Graham’s, say, might not be declared a vintage by another house, say, Sandeman’s, Cockburne’s or Fonseca.”
“What’s to stop a port manufacturer from declaring every year a vintage? I mean, the price of a vintage is double or triple that of a late-vintage ruby or other port.”
Lang placed the full decanter on the bar. “Nothing except the fact that if a house puts out an inferior year’s product as vintage, it won’t keep its customers long.” He filled a small crystal glass, holding it to the light to admire its ruby color. “You might say the free market keeps the port makers honest.”
Lang handed the glass to Francis, who took a tentative sip. “As always, delicious!”
Lang poured and sampled a glass of his own. “You’re right, it is good but…”
“But what?”
Lang looked longingly at the coffee table where a mahogany humidor sat. “It would be better with a good cubano.”
Francis shook his head slowly as he sat on the sofa. “Don’t even think about going back on your word.”
When Manfred arrived in Atlanta, Gurt and Lang had made promises to each other concerning the child’s
