"Below that, I think. The necropolis is open, but only by reservation with the Vatican Archaeological Office."
"Use your influence-see how soon you can get me in."
"I understand all admittance is by guided tour. You're not going to have a chance to explore on your own."
Lang grinned. ''You take care of getting me in. I'll take care of any unauthorized exploration. If I can find the indictment, whatever it is, I may find out why somebody is willing to kill to keep me from it. I'll see how quick I can get to Rome."
The room was featureless. Only a door marked the four gray walls. Brilliant overhead lights sanitized shadows from the corners. The only furnishings were a metal desk and office chair, the latter filled by the room's sole occupant, a man intent on a series of monitors.
A sequence of letters marched across one screen, an electronic transcript of the words coming through the man's headset at the same time: "I may find out why somebody is willing to kill…"
Without looking away from the procession of words, he picked up the receiver of a surprisingly ordinary looking phone. "He's planning on going, all right."
"All as -planned," came the reply.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Law Offices of Langford-Reilly
229 Peachtree Street
The next morning
Lang sat, his back to his desk, facing the window with a view of the street below, a view of which he was unaware at the moment. Instead, he saw a face, the face he had dreamed of last night. Or, at least, he thought he'd dreamed it.
Either way, he had awakened as suddenly as a cork's pop from a champagne bottle. He had jerked to a sitting position in bed, uncertain exactly what had roused him so abruptly. Then he remembered the question in his mind earlier that evening. His subconscious had evidently retained the query, resolving it suddenly, like a flash, remembering where you left the car keys or an errand temporarily forgotten.
But the answer at best made no sense, and at worse was downright insane. Still, Lang had trusted even less rational impulses and been thankful for it.
Scowling at his inability to simply forget the matter, Lang reached for the phone and dialed a number from memory.
"Yeah?" The answer was characteristically abrupt. "Charlie?" Lang asked. ''You doing anything in the next day or two?"
Charlie Clough. Disbarred lawyer, thrice divorced, total failure in everything. Except getting information that most people assumed didn't exist. Shortly after the State Bar of Georgia had seen fit to remove Attorney Charles M. Clough from its rolls, Charlie had visited nearly every criminal lawyer in the Atlanta area, seeking work as an investigator. More from sympathy than expectation, Lang had given Charlie the task of locating a witness in an upcoming trial who had successfully evaded service of a subpoena. Predictably, the county sheriff's department had given up after one halfhearted attempt. They were, after all, far too underpaid and overworked to do anything not related to raising pay and lowering hours. The firm Lang normally used to locate reluctant witnesses spent a week and an inordinate amount of his client's money before coming up empty.
Charlie found the man, followed his car, and handed him the subpoena at a stoplight.
"Of course I'm doing something," Charlie growled. "You think I'm some rich lawyer, can afford to sit around on my ass?"
And what an ass. At over three hundred pounds, Charlie had his suits made specially, probably by Omar the Tent-Maker. Airlines insisted he buy two seats, an added expense since he refused to fly any way but first class.
"I got a job for you. Airfare, expenses, a grand a day."
"I gotta kill who?"
"Not that difficult. I want some public records examined."
Charlie was instantly skeptical. "Public records? Most states, you can call 'em up on your computer."
Lang nodded to the unseen Charlie. "That's the point. I have reason to believe the public part of these records may have been altered. I want you to sniff around, take a look at the actual hard copies, see if there's anything suspicious."
There was a sigh. "Lemme get something to write on. Okay, shoot."
Lang told him.
''You nuts? You think I can find anything hasn't already been looked at, examined, and generally gone over?"
"A grand a day, Charlie."
"Can't get on it till next week," the investigator said crossly. "That's fine." It was only after he hung up that Lang realized Char lie hadn't even asked to whom he was speaking.
Lang had come to the office an hour sooner than usual to make sure he arrived before Sara, his secretary, ostensibly to see what needed to be handled before he left. The earliness of his arrival was confirmed by the fact that the daily phalanx of aggressive panhandlers were still asleep in doorways, in bus stop booths, and on park benches. The city evidently believed the streets, doorways, and parks belonged equally to all, but those who slept, drank, and relieved themselves there were more equal than others.
Gratified he had succeeded in arriving before Sara, Lang reached into his center desk drawer. His fingers fumbled until there was a click and the false back came out in his hand. Reaching back into the drawer, Lang removed what could have passed for an ordinary cell phone. He had taken the device, along with the Sig Sauer, when he left the Agency. The IACD, intra-agency communicating device, was actually a radio using the Agency's exclusive satellite to reach, with the push of a single button, the person represented by a three-letter identifier no matter where on the globe their location. All conversations were automatically scrambled and sorted out on the other end. Although ordinary by today's rapidly changing technology, the thing had been a marvel fifteen years ago. It still had the advantage of allowing Lang to reach old comrades direct.
He called up three letters on the screen, punched, and waited, listening to the whisper and crackle of low space orbit.
There were three clicks and then: "Lang Reilly! Goddamn if I thought I'd ever hear from you again!"
" 'Lo, George," Lang said, a smile spreading across his face. "I figured if anyone had kept anything as outdated as an IACD, it'd be you."
"Outdated my ass! Thing's still very much in use, although I doubt yours-has the updates, night or day picture-transmitting capability, GPS, all the bells and whistles."
Lang thought of the BlackBerry-like device Eddie Reavers had given him. Didn't it have GPS? "So, George, where they got you stationed now?"
Even the tinny quality of the sound of the receiver couldn't take the jolly out of George's voice. "Classified, Lang, you know that. I tell ya, I gotta kill ya. Besides, you didn't call just to locate me on some map of the Agency's unrelenting fight against terrorism, tyranny, injustice, overtime, and low salaries. What's up?"
Lang's grin widened. George Hemphill's assignment to Frankfurt had overlapped Lang's. George had been only partially successful in concealing an uncanny linguistic ability with almost supernatural instincts behind the facade of a perpetual college sophomore. From mere inflections in languages Lang had barely heard of, let alone spoken, George had predicted coups and assassinations. It had been this ability that had saved him from the trouble caused by his love of whoopy cushions and electronics placed in inappropriate places.
Like wiring and amplifying the women's restroom.
"I got a favor to ask, George."
"If you want help crashing the next White House ball, forget it." Lang became serious. "Remember Don Huff?"
"Older guy. Was in Ops, wasn't he? I seem to remember something about him saving your sorry ass at Checkpoint Charlie back in the bad old days."
"He was murdered. So was Gurt Fuchs."
There was a long pause. "Gurt, the Kraut goddess who looked like she might have stepped off a German travel poster?"