aristocrat who fell victim to the guillotine, she escaped the same fate only by the overthrow of Robespierre. ^ 4 She is the daughter of a plantation owner in the West Indies ^ 5 impoverished by a hurricane. Older than the general by several years, she is far from beautiful but has a charm and grace that, according to gossip, have enslaved many of her lovers. From the beginning, she treated the general with scorn, while he adored her. Now things are upside down, she begging forgiveness while he ignores her. I can do nothing to improve his dark state and have quit trying lest I draw his ire. Even remarking that we will not miss Egypt’s searing heat brought forth nothing more than a glare. Other than meeting daily with his staff and walks in the small garden , ^ 6 the general keeps to himself, reading and dictating letters to me. He has become fascinated by the history of Alexander the Great. Only this morning, he commented to me that a great battle ^ 7 had been fought along the Nile for possession of Alexander’s body, for it had been prophesied that the nation that possessed the remains of the god-king would never be defeated. ^ 8 Though he does not say, he believes himself to be a second Alexander, his conquests in Europe rather than the East. The only constant in the general’s life is the mysterious box he brought from Egypt. It is never out of his sight.
Law offices of Langford Reilly
The next day
Gurt was the only person who regularly called Lang on his cell phone while he was at work and then only if she had reason to short-circuit Sara’s phone-answering duties. So why was she doing it now?
Lang pushed back from his desk, where he had been proofreading a motion to be filed the next day, dragged the cell from a pocket and pressed “start.”
“Yes ma’am?”
“Lang, there is someone in our house.”
It took a second for her meaning to register. She wasn’t referring to Allard, the man who did twice-a-week cleaning, and he couldn’t recall anyone else who had a key. “You mean, like a burglar? In broad daylight?”
Her voice was perfectly calm, the way it always was when she was facing danger. “I took Manfred to kindergarten, went to the grocery store, came home and the red light was blinking.”
Another of the home’s security features was a series of perimeter sensors that illuminated small warning lights discreetly placed beside front and rear doors.
“Any sign of entry? Our locks aren’t the kind that can easily be forced.”
“Whoever is inside the house had to have special equipment. The locks on both doors are intact and I can see no broken windows. Shall I call the police?”
Response time for Atlanta’s emergency services had been the subject of TV and newspaper articles after several houses had burned to the ground and one or two home invasions had taken place between notifying 911 responders and arrival of the police. Callers had an equal chance of being put on hold or having the emergency crews sent to the wrong addresses. The director of the service blamed budget cuts. Most citizens realistically blamed stupidity and the city’s civil-service system, which made death almost the only cause to terminate inept employees.
“Whoever’s in there isn’t going anywhere and he might be armed. I take it you’re not.”
“I do not carry weapons to drive Manfred to kindergarten, no.”
“Call 911. I’m on my way.”
Less than twenty minutes later, Lang parked in front of his home. It must have been a slow day at the 911 number. Already, the driveway was filled with police cruisers, lights flashing and the street filled with curious neighbors. A van bearing the logo ATLANTA POLICE S.W.A.T. TEAM was disgorging a number of figures in paramilitary dress carrying M16 rifles, who were running toward the uniformed officers already surrounding the house. Lang climbed out of his Porsche just as a tall black man in a suit exited an unmarked but obviously official car.
“Well, Mr. Reilly! I shoulda knowed this be your house, the place where there always some kinda trouble.”
Lang smiled. “Good to see you again, too, Detective Morse.”
Morse shook his head as he followed Lang up the path to the front door. “Reckon I should be thankful you called us, someone in your house, instead of you bagging him yourself like usual.”
Lang didn’t break stride. “Be fair, Detective. The only times you’ve arrived after someone got hurt was when I had to defend myself.”
Morse shook his head. “Still a mess. Between somebody taking a walk off your twenty-fourth-story balcony at your condo, blowing up your car, killing a professor down to Georgia Tech, you just plain trouble. Not to mention your condo exploding.”
Lang spied Gurt in conversation with a man who appeared to be the leader of the SWAT Team. “At least it’s never dull, Detective.”
“Maybe ain’t dull but sure gonna make retirement enjoyable.”
Gurt recognized Morse and turned from the other man. “Ah, Detective! So glad you could come!”
“Ain’t by choice, ma’am, tell you that.” His eyes focused on a small blinking red light under the mailbox. “That gizmo there what tell you somebody inside? Hate to think we got all these folks and hardware out here ’cause of a false alarm,” he added dubiously.
“I made sure…,” she began.
Reaching past her and the detective, Lang flipped open the mailbox beside the door and pushed a small button. The back of a very ordinary looking postal receptacle fell away, revealing a small TV screen. The picture was black-and-white. It showed a figure pacing up and down a room, a gun in his hand.
“Our foyer,” Lang explained. “You can see there’s someone there.”
Morse’s eyes widened. “So we seeing a burglary in real time? But why ain’t he trying to get away? He gotta have heard the sirens.”
“He can’t. The minute he stepped into the room, activating the security system, steel screens dropped down from the ceiling, trapping him in the foyer. Same thing would have happened if he had broken in anywhere else.”
Morse gave Lang the expression of a man who thinks he may be the butt of a joke. “Get outta here!”
“If you liked that, you’re gonna love this.”
Lang pushed another button and a panel next to the video mailbox popped open, revealing what looked like a small speaker. Those standing close by could hear the footsteps of the man inside.
“Voice activated,” Lang explained as he leaned forward. “You, in the house!”
The figure on the screen froze for a second before turning around, looking for the source of the voice.
“You! You’ve got exactly ten seconds to drop your weapon, lie down of the floor and put your hands on your head. Now, nine seconds before we shoot in the cyanide gas.”
The man seemed paralyzed.
“Seven seconds or you’ll be dead in less than thirty.”
That got his attention. He did as ordered.
“Now what?” Morse asked.
Lang produced a key and opened the door, standing back to let the SWAT team enter. Its leader glanced nervously at Lang.
“The gas was a bluff.”
Morse watched the men enter, cuff the intruder and drag him to his feet before speaking. “Who the hell’s the architect for your house, Mr. Reilly, James Bond?”
Lang chose to laugh rather than explain how many close calls he had had in the last few years. Morse was aware of a number of them.
Conversation stopped as the SWAT members dragged the invader toward the open doors of a van.
“Caught in the act- in flagrante delicto, as you lawyers say,” the detective observed. “Even the Fulton County DA should be able to get a conviction if the sheriff can hold on to him.”
He referred to the fact that the current county prosecutor’s office chronically saw criminals go free for reasons of failure to timely prosecute, misplaced evidence and general incompetence. In the last year, several high-profile suspects had walked out of the county’s jail by simply giving a false name to sheriff’s deputies. In Atlanta, Fulton County, Georgia, the wheels of justice did not just grind slowly, they frequently ran with stripped gears.
