Rome
Two hours later
Pegasusltd@gb.com was the address, found easily enough by Jacob. The sales staff at the electronic store had been very helpful in programming the new computer, including Lang's own e-mail address and password so he could use his existing. Internet service.
At the kitchen table, Gurt and Jacob peered over his shoulder as he slowly typed in the message all three had agreed upon:
Wish to meet to discuss matters of mutual interest. Reply before matters made public.
Reilly
Short if not sweet.
An hour passed. Unable to concentrate, Lang reread the same page of Friday's International Herald Tribune a dozen or so times. Jacob dozed in front of the window while Gurt listened to a German-language broadcast of what she said was a soccer match. For all Lang knew, it could have been The Best of Adolph sSpeeches. The reaction by the audience would have been the same.
The Herald Tribune is the only place "Calvin and Hobbes" still exists. For once, Lang didn't find the strip amusing. He was too busy trying to think how an e-mail could be traced to a specific phone line.
An hour had just passed when the computer made a sound like a gong and words appeared on the screen. The picture of an unopened envelope made understanding Italian for "you've got mail" unnecessary.
Name time, place, conditions.
That was all it said-brief, succinct. Obviously Pegasus hadn't referred the question to the legal department. Lang had previously asked Gurt and Jacob for their input in anticipation of just this question.
Church of San Clemente, Viadi San Giovanni in Laterano. Rome. Triclinium of Mithras. 1530 hrs. Tues next.
One person only.
Gurt had thought of the forty-eight-hour period. In that time, Lang could reach Rome from anywhere, therefore he could be anywhere when the e-mail was sent. The place was Jacob's idea. San Clemente was typical of Rome in that the site contained several periods of history. At street level, or actually slightly below, the simple eighteenth century facade at the bottom of the Esquiline Hill indicated a church that had been in use since the twelfth century. Beneath the carved altar and mosaics of the drowning of Saint Clement were the ruins of a fourth century Christian place of worship. Deeper yet were the ruins of a Temple of Mithras, a first-century male fertility cult that drifted into Rome from Persia to become popular among Rome's military.
Lang recalled that the site had been maintained and continually excavated since the seventeenth century by an order of Irish Dominican monks. So far as he knew, they haven't found any whisky yet.
The advantages of the site for a potentially hostile meeting were several. First, few if any tourists knew about the place. Second, the Mithran temple consisted of passages wide enough for only one person at a time. Finally, the church was at or near the bottom of a steep hill where Jacob could keep watch in secret, calling Lang on a cell phone if a trap appeared imminent. Also, Gurt and her rifle could easily cover the only entrance.
3
Rome, Laterano
1530 hours the next Tuesday
Churches in Rome close at half past noon on weekdays, reopening three and a half hours later. Jacob and Gurt had been in a second-story storage area of a shoe store across the Via di San Giovanni since ten 0'clock. In the normal Italian manner of doing business, the shopkeeper had accepted a handful of bills without a single question in exchange for use of the premises. After all, it was money the hated tax man would never know about and, therefore, would not take.
With punctuality uncharacteristic of Rome, a brown-robed monk opened the doors at precisely three-thirty. The sharp edges of a hammerless.38 stuck in Lang's belt under a jacket dug into his backside as he followed the brother inside and past the ornately carved choir enclosure to their left.
The monk disappeared and Lang was alone. Approaching the altar, he noted the detailed animals and leaves depicted in the mosaics of the apse: To the right was an open door and a staircase.
The darkness into which Lang descended was interrupted by weak lightbulbs hung every twenty or so feet from the low ceiling. Somewhere below, water was rushing, a reminder that Rome is located on a number of aquifers, so many that almost all of the hundreds of fountains spout potable water. The passageway was square, wide enough for two persons to pass, and hewn through rock that the dim lights gave a reddish color. Lugubrious faces, whole and in part, stared down from pieces of frescoes, most of which had succumbed to time, neglect and moisture.
In what had been the fourth-century sanctuary, there was little other than a slightly higher ceiling that would have announced its purpose to the uninformed. Lang stood still for a moment, listening to rushing water. Anyone who says silence has no sound, he mused, has never been in a dimly lit ancient ruin, listening for the footsteps of a possible assassin.
A winding metal staircase led to the next level, some fifty feet below the streets of the modern world. What was left of the Mithran temple seemed even more poorly lit than the floor above. A narrow space separated ruined walls that barely reached Lang's hips. Around every turn, skeletons of steel scaffolding reached to the low vaulted ceiling. Lang wasn't sure it was there as part of the excavation or to hold up the ancient brick above his head.
This was not a place for the claustrophobic.
Through occasional grates in the outer walls, water black as oil in the dark was visible as it raced by with an roar of anger at its confinement. At every turn, piles of brick and masonry attested to the archaeology in progress, but there was no one at work. The thought of how truly alone he was down here under centuries of ruins added to the chilly dampness that was not entirely his imagination.
At last the narrow path came to a central room. Along each side, a single long bench was carved into the stone walls. In the center was a chest-high block of white marble, the carved figures of Mithras slaying a bull standing in a bold relief caused by the shadows of the few overhead bulbs.
This was it, the triclinium, the room used for ritual banquets. Lang checked the time, squinting to see the luminous numbers on his watch. Three-thirty-seven. Sitting on one of the benches-to wait, his only company was the boisterous voice of the water and spirits of feasting Romans dead two thousand years.
There was no breeze to move the string of lights, yet the darkness seemed to creep from the corners, making silhouettes of fanciful monsters on the walls. The jab of the.38 in his belt was no longer uncomfortable but reassuring.
He was about to check his watch again when he heard something other than water. Standing, he turned to get a direction as the sound became more distinct, then recognizable as footsteps on stone.
With the revolver in hand, Lang moved to the far side of the room, putting the altar between him and whoever was approaching. He wished that Gurt had had time to secure a better weapon, a large-bore automatic with a full clip rather than the puny six shots the revolver held. But at least he had the advantage of surprise.
Or so he thought.
Although darkness hid the man's face, Lang recognized the shining silver hair as the Templar stood at the entrance to the room. "Come, Mr. Reilly, there is no need for you to hide. If I'd wanted to harm you, you would not have lived past the first level."
Gripping the gun's butt with both hands, Lang placed the stubby front sight of the.38 squarely on the newcomer's chest. A miss at this range would. be unlikely. "Okay, so I'm a little paranoid. You weren't the one who got your balls singed. Now keep your hands where I can see them and away from your body, step forward and place both palms against the altar."
The Templar did as he was told. A quick pat-down revealed no weapons. "Now that you're satisfied I'm no threat," he said, "perhaps you'll tell me why you wanted to meet."
Lang motioned to one of the benches and sat so that Silver Hair was between him and the entrance. "Someone walks through that doorway and you're history."