trade.”
Gurt smiled. “I have seen everything from bones to a vial with a drop of Christ’s blood to a nail from the cross. In Rome, there is a church that displays the chains in which Peter was confined, the ones which miraculously fell away.”
Lang considered another refill but put his glass down on the table beside the chair instead. “San Pietro in Vincoli. Same one that has Michelangelo’s Moses. But yeah, like that. Thing is, what would duPaar want with relics, Alexander’s or Saint Mark’s?”
Gurt was looking at him over the top of her wineglass. “I suppose that is what Miles wants you to find out.”
Lang got up and surveyed the bookshelves as though looking for a volume. “We made a deal when you and Manfred came to live here: we were finished with the Agency. Neither of us would go romping off on adventures without the other’s agreement.”
“Some of the ‘adventures’ came looking for us. We certainly did not ask to be shot at in Venice or have our house broken into.” She pointed to a shuttered window. “Neither of us wish the need to have our home guarded by a security service or use our special devices forever. Soon or late, we will want to live like normal people.”
He turned away from the books, nodding agreement. “That’s why I didn’t turn down Miles’s request flat.”
“Flat?”
“On the spot. Immediately.”
He could visualize Gurt filing this Americanism away wherever she kept such things. “Speak with Francis, then with Miles again. Let us talk after you have some idea what you may be searching for and where it might be.”
Good idea.
Manuel’s Tavern
602 North Highlands Avenue, Atlanta
19:02 the next evening
For over fifty years, Manuel’s Tavern has been the gathering place for Emory University students and faculty, the local Democratic Party elite and those who would like to be either. Jimmy Carter, his hand firmly in that of the business’s founder, Manuel Maloof, smiles down from the wall behind the bar that runs along one wall. Bill Clinton’s autograph is scrawled across a photograph from the waist up. As a local wag speculated, perhaps a full-body shot had been discarded when closer scrutiny revealed the former president’s fly was unzipped.
Across from the bar, wooden booths bear the carved initials of students and fraternities as well as graffiti in Latin and Greek as well as English and other modern languages. The house specializes in political debate, funky atmosphere, generous pitchers of beer, and cuisine that is arguably the worst in any licensed food establishment in the city if not the Southeast.
When Lang and Francis had begun their friendship, it was also one of the few places where a black man in a clerical collar could share a meal with a white man in solemn lawyer garb without drawing stares of curiosity. Among the motley clientele of Manuel’s, the pair hardly drew a glance.
They entered through the back door from the parking lot.
Spurning the tables that occupied the “new” expansion to the bar that had been added nearly thirty years ago, Lang and Francis seated themselves at one of the booths that had been part of the original operation.
Francis turned to look back the way they had come. “I’ve got to say, riding in that SUV beats cramping into your Porsche.”
Lang picked up the menu, something he could have recited in his sleep. “I’ll bet you loved Max, the armed driver, too.”
Francis watched the beefy bodyguard survey the room before taking a seat at the bar. “It seems impolite not to let him join us.”
Lang lifted his eyes from the menu to look at his security escort. Just under six feet, with close-cropped hair beginning to streak with silver, the man moved with a catlike precision that would have revealed his special military background had his resume not already done so. He constantly scanned his surroundings without being obvious about it. “His job isn’t an exercise in manners. He can’t keep an eye on the whole room sitting with us.”
“You really are concerned about you and your family’s safety. You’ve had problems like this before and you didn’t hire a security service.”
Lang put the menu down. “I didn’t have a family, either. I’m not worried about taking care of myself, but when Gurt’s busy tending to Manfred, she can’t be looking over her shoulder.”
“So, how long does this go on?”
Larry, their usual waiter, appeared, a foaming pitcher of beer in each hand. He set one on the table. “I’ll be back with your glasses. The usual, folks?”
“Unless you have something truly fit to eat for a change,” Lang muttered.
Unperturbed, Larry smiled. “Manuel’s: an Atlanta tradition you can rely on.”
“Like warm beer, lousy food and indifferent service.”
Larry turned away with a cheery “But our prices are quite reasonable.”
Both men watched him go, as did Max at the bar.
Francis repeated his question. “How long are you keeping these security guys around?”
“As long as it takes. That’s part of the reason we’re here tonight.”
“And I thought you were yearning for ecclesiastical enlightenment.”
“Maybe some other time. Right now, I need information.”
Francis reached behind himself, producing a book. “You wanted to borrow Chugg’s book, the one about Alexander’s tomb.”
Lang took it. “Yeah, that’s the one. Thanks.”
Francis looked around as though making sure no one was listening. What they would be discussing was esoteric, perhaps even too far-out even for the patrons of Manuel’s. “It’s only a theory, you know, that the Venetian merchants who thought they were stealing Saint Mark’s relics actually wound up with those of Alexander, and a pretty wild one at that.”
Lang was thumbing the pages. “So far, a theory is all I have. I can’t imagine why the Chinese would want the relics of a Christian saint.”
“Or of a pagan general, albeit perhaps the greatest ever.”
“You told me, according to our friend Chugg here, the ancients believed Alexander’s body was some sort of talisman, one that guaranteed victory in battle. That was one of the justifications Ptolemy gave for hijacking it. That could be why a nutcase like duPaar wants it.”
Francis freshened his and Lang’s glasses before holding up the near-empty pitcher. “The ancients also believed in oracles, augury and a panoply of rather ill-behaved gods and goddesses. Do you suppose duPaar also does?”
“Decided, gentlemen?” Larry had pen and pad in hand.
“The salmon,” Francis said with all the enthusiasm of a man approaching the gallows. “And try not to overcook it this time.”
Lang handed his menu to the waiter. “The cheeseburger. Tell the chef I’d like it somewhere between cremated and steak tartare.”
Larry shrugged. “Chef? At these prices you think we can afford a chef? I just throw stuff on the stove and leave it there until I have to make room for something else.”
Both men watched his departure.
“I wish I thought he was kidding,” Francis said ruefully.
Lang became serious. “You were right about Alexander’s remains, relics, whatever, being just a theory, but I have to start somewhere. This book is as good a place as any.”
“You think that book is going to help you find Alexander’s tomb? Its location is one of history’s great mysteries. People have been looking for it since the fourth century AD and no one has even come close. Unless, of course, those Venetian merchants who thought they were stealing Saint Mark actually had Alexander.”
“Maybe, but no one’s life depended on finding Alexander before, either.”
“But you don’t even know if Alexander’s tomb, or his remains, if they still exist, have anything to do with the
