faster movement. Checked bags, though, did not get the thorough inspection carry-ons did. If he wanted the Browning in Paris, he had little choice.
He reluctantly watched his bag disappear on the conveyor belt. He’d get out of Egypt and worry about his problems later. The answer to some of them might well be in Paris.
472 Lafayette Drive, Atlanta
The previous evening
Gurt was also dealing with luggage, piling it into the maw of the Hummer in the garage. She had no idea how long she, Manfred and Grumps would be gone. The hour was late and the little boy was up past his bedtime. The novelty of a reprieve was beginning to wear off, leaving him cranky.
“Vati wouldn’t talk with me,” he said irritably, referring to Lang’s brief phone call. “I want him to come home!”
Me, too. But Gurt made soothing sounds. “He will be home soon enough. But while he is gone, we will drive to the farm.”
The child brightened. “Can we go fishing?”
There was a small pond on the property from which Manfred took great delight in catching bream with his own small fishing rod. He was less eager to eat them, however, resulting in most being thrown back.
Gurt had a brief picture of standing in the winter wind waiting for some unfortunate fish to find the worm- baited hook in the muddy water. “We will see.”
Manfred’s face squeezed into a pout. He was old enough to recognize the expression as meaning he would likely be told no, later.
A tapping on the garage door prevented potential unpleasantness.
“Mrs. Reilly?”
“In a moment,” she answered, recognizing the voice of Jake of the security service. The hapless Randy had been furloughed with the beginnings of a bad cold.
“Let me in.”
Turning off the lights that would have illuminated the garage like a theater’s stage, Gurt pushed the button to lift the door. “What.. .?”
Jake ducked under the door before it had fully lifted and pushed the “down” button with one hand, waving a device that looked like one of those used by security screeners at airports. “Just want to sweep your car.”
“Sweep? Ach! Of course. For homing devices. I cannot see how someone could have gotten in here…”
“You went to the grocery store yesterday. It’s possible we didn’t see someone hide a bug.” Jake was waving the device around the SUV’s perimeter, a Merlin of electronics with his magic wand, casting a contemporary spell. “Can’t be too careful.”
Moments later, the Hummer backed out of the garage, tires crackling on ice, and the door rolled shut. There was a certain security in being in a vehicle that was larger than some pickup trucks. Its very mass was the reason she had selected a car whose appetite for gas was insatiable and whose very size made it difficult to park. Its weight, she felt, formed the maximum protection for Manfred, securely strapped in his child seat. He would be unharmed in a collision with anything smaller than an eighteen wheeler. As the SUV reached the street, a Cadillac Escalade pulled in behind and another took its place. Gurt knew four armed men were in the following vehicle. They would stay in her wake until certain she was not being followed. She had insisted a car remain in front of the house to give the appearance of normality. Over Jake’s protests, she had also demanded the escort be broken off at a prearranged place if there seemed to be no need for it.
Four husky men in suits driving a shiny black SUV with tinted windows would draw as much attention in Lamar County as a painted fancy woman in the local Baptist church.
In the car’s mirrors, Gurt saw lights blink once, a periodic signal that the vehicle behind was Jake’s. The security men followed her through a tortuous course that took advantage of Ansley Park’s meandering streets and byways. So far, no other vehicle had joined the two, but Gurt was not satisfied. She took another tour of homes to be certain.
She made a left on Piedmont Road, one of the main streets of the northern section of the city. The traffic was moderate, making a tail difficult to spot. When she pulled through a service station to reverse course, only Jake’s vehicle followed.
Once southbound on the interstate, she was relieved to note the ice had melted except for a few dark patches along the exit lanes. The rhythm of the tires soothed her and put Manfred asleep in his child seat. Grumps snored from the back. Every two minutes, the blink from Jake. He was still in place behind her. Twice she exited the expressway only to drive back up the entry ramp and reenter.
No one other than Jake followed.
Once outside I-285, the perimeter surrounding the city, traffic became decidedly lighter, but it still would have been difficult to notice a car following them.
Aware of the problem, Gurt exited the four-lane, choosing a two-lane state highway instead. As shabby storage buildings and truck stops melted into a semirural landscape, there were a series of flashes in Gurt’s mirrors. Two plus two plus two.
Jake had picked up a possible tail.
As planned, she hit the accelerator, sending the big car rocketing down a short straightaway before braking for a curve. Jake’s headlights were fading quickly. He was slowing to block whoever might be following.
Gurt rounded the curve, praying she was now south of the effects of the ice storm. At this speed, she would not have time to avoid the slick patches. She shifted into four-wheel drive. Thanks to modern technology developed on the Formula One circuit, she would sacrifice no speed and be less likely to wind up in a ditch. But she was no Michael Schumacher; sooner or later she would have to slow down if road conditions did not improve.
She need not have worried-the decision was not hers.
Accelerating out of yet another curve, her headlights painted what she first thought was some sort of mirage: Two cars were pulled across the road. One had the markings of a local sheriff’s department, its Christmas tree of lights flashing malignantly. The other was an unmarked sedan, its very anonymity threatening. As she streaked closer, she could see two men in uniforms. Four others wore dark windbreakers with yellow lettering: FBI.
Charles de Gaulle International Airport
Roissy (just outside Paris) 10:42
Lang was in the CDG 2, the airport’s second terminal, waiting for the Metro train into the city. He had much for which to be thankful. His passport had received no more than a glance, his bag had not ventured off on an excursion of its own and he was clear of Egypt. Apparently there was no international “want” on him, not yet anyway. He guessed Major Saleem would query the English authorities first, unwilling to admit the British Airways reservation had duped him.
As soon as he cleared customs and passport control, he had retreated to the nearest men’s room to reassemble the Browning now comfortably at his back. He looked around, taking in the people sharing the platform. One or two tourists, noses in guidebooks, who had accepted the city’s miserable winter weather in exchange for deeply discounted airfares. Several businessmen armed with briefcases, suits sharply creased despite airline seats. Two families trying to quiet small children made restless by the inactivity of flight.
The sight made Lang think of Manfred. He missed his son and really should not have cut Manfred off last night. Ah well, Paris was full of toy shops that would buy childish forgiveness. He smiled, visualizing the joy his son demonstrated when Lang came home from a trip.
Yeah, so does Grumps, and you don’t have to bring him gifts.
Two train changes and forty minutes later, Lang exited the Opera station into the cold drizzle that characterizes Paris’s winters. His suitcase trailing behind him, he dodged traffic crossing one of the city’s busiest intersections, the place de l’Opera, and entered a nondescript building facing the ornate Opera Garnier. Inside, Lang passed an antique birdcage elevator to climb steps covered in worn carpeting. At the top he turned right, facing an old-fashioned glass door. He knew the opaque glass was the hardest bullet and blast proof available. He lifted his head, and the dim light reflected dully from the lens of a camera almost hidden in the shadows that hung from the ceiling like dull drapes.
Had he any doubts that the person he sought was still here, they were resolved.
A knock on the door caused it to silently open, leaving him facing another, this one of steel.
“Oui?” a woman’s voice asked from a speaker.
