The Elizabethan Secret (Lang Reilly Series Book 9) (9 page)

              “Not sure I trust you, Reilly,” Semitz said.             

              “Not sure you have a choice. Other than getting the hell out of my house.”

              Rogers stood, eyeing the pile his clothes. “Any chance I could take a shower first?”

18.

837 State Street

Physics Building

Office of Abram Wildstein, Ph.D.

Four Days Later

              The professor was distraught and with good reason. Every drawer in the tiny office hung open, vomiting paper, notebooks, photographs and other material. The door to a small supply closet hung ajar, its shelves empty, the floor awash in paper, file folders, and text books.

              He shook his head, sending Einstein-like hair bobbing as he announced the obvious. “Someone ransacked the place!”

              From the door Lang Reilly surveyed the disarray. “And the thing I left with you, it’s gone?”

              Wildstein stood up from going through a blizzard of papers on the floor. “How did . . .?”

              “Good guess.”

              The professor pointed. “I had it locked in my desk. There was no way to know someone would want to steal it.”

              Lang said nothing, mentally kicking himself for not telling Wildstein he should put the object in a secure place. With students’ constant coming and going, anyone could have observed Lang’s visit. For that matter, given the resources, it would have been simple enough to monitor the phone call making the initial appointment. Whoever had stolen the thing had taken substantial risk and had clearly planned the theft carefully to avoid alarms as well as the school’s highly visible security force. Not your average random smash and grab.

              “Campus police have already called the Atlanta Police,” the professor announced with resignation.

              If experience was any guide, they may as well have called the San Francisco police for all the help Atlanta’s finest was going to be.

              Lang made his way to the office’s sole visitor chair and sat. “Did you reach any conclusion as to what the thing might be?”

              Clearly relieved there were no recriminations forthcoming, Wildstein sat across the desk from Lang. He lifted a battered briefcase from the floor and opened the flap. “I had this with me.”

              He pushed a series of photographs toward Lang. “As you can see, I placed a needle on the brass pin. Then I made hourly observations. You’ll note from the series of snapshots the needle moved although in relation to what, I can’t say.”

              “Which means?”

              A shake of the professorial head. “Other than the fact it is the pin, not the needle itself, that moves, or, rather, turns. In other words, it’s not a compass. What’s really strange is no movement at all was noted between the hours of 7:55 p.m. and 7:00 the next morning.”

              “What do you make of that?”

              A shrug. “I’m stumped.”

             
Perhaps the first such admission Lang had heard from an academic.

              “So, where do we go from here?” Lang asked.

              Another shrug. “Without the, er, object itself, it’s going to be difficult if not impossible to figure out its purpose.”

              “Could you duplicate those photos?”

              Obviously glad to receive a request he could fulfill, the Professor scooped up the pictures. “There’s a high-resolution copier just down the hall.”

              A fifteen-minute drive and Lang was turning into his monthly parking spot, a multi-story building just behind the towers that constituted Peachtree Center. He centered the car in the numbered reserved space. Like most Porsche owners, he visually measured the distance from the car on the right, the one with its driver’s side next to his space. Satisfied that a careless neighbor’s door was too far away to nick the Porsche’s, he got out and beeped the lock signal on his key.

              Only then he became aware he had been too intent on preserving his car’s paint job to notice the two men converging from opposite directions. The one approaching from his left could have just exited the elevator. The one on his right had either chosen to walk down multiple floors of parking deck or had an agenda. Although there wasn’t enough light to be sure at this distance, Lang thought he recognized the two Russians from London.

19.

Off Saint Augustine

Spanish Florida

Aboard the Carrack
Bonaventure

May 29, 1586

              Sir Francis Drake stood akimbo, watching the parabolas described by balls from the ship’s one-and-a-half-ton guns. The high sterncastle provided an excellent observation platform.

              Not only was the
Bonaventure
pounding the sod and timber fort of
San Juan
less than a  mile away, the barrage from six other large ships were no less accurate as were the shots from the smaller guns of twenty or so lesser ships. The bombardment was in its second day, giving cover to a landing party making its way through dense growth toward the besieged fort.

              A second man, somewhat taller than Drake, approached the commander. “Yon Dons
can but soon surrender.”

              Drake turned, smiling through his reddish beard. “Ah, Frobisher! I heard not thy approach. Good morrow to thee! With God’s help, let it be so.”

              “And why should it not? Hath not we singed King Phillip’s beard? One hundred thirty thousand ducats to ransom Cartagena and Santo Domingo alone, accounting not those cities of lesser rank which we burned.”

              Drake pointed ashore. “Such as we hath here. A fort not of stone on a sand spit guarding a miserable collection of hovels. There will be no ransom money. Hardly worth the balls and powder.”

              “We may reach yon hovels with ship’s guns but noteworthy is the water between them and the fort. Me thinks it shallow, thus doth it prevent even a pinnace from reaching it.”

              Drake nodded agreement. “It matters not. Once the fort is reduced, Phillip will have to send more men, men who cannot then harass Raleigh’s settlement in Virginia. Sooth, that instrument of thine ‘tis of greater value. It brought us here without fail.”

              Frobisher chuckled as he withdrew a brass object from his pocket.  “ ’Tis not mine but an invention of the conjurer John Dee.”

              “Whatever its source, be it of the angels with whom he consorts or demons from below, it hath saved us running down a westing, following a single latitude until we sight shore and then north or south.”

              The hiss of a cannon ball overhead from another carrack delayed a reply. Both men watched it arch toward the fort and disappear in a cloud of dust from shattered breastworks.

              “Aye,” Frobisher agreed, “it spared us many days during mine voyages to the northern regions. T’was also helpful. . .”

              The rest of the sentence was lost in a ragged broadside from the gun decks below.

20.

Peachtree Center

              Lang took another look at both men. They were approaching as casually as a trapper might advance on an ensnared animal. As well they might. The parking deck advertised 24/7 live security as any such business in downtown Atlanta was obligated to do if it wished to survive in an environment of panhandlers, junkies, and criminals in search of opportunity. Besides cameras, which would be helpful only after the fact, the safety of this parking lot’s clientele rested with Hutchinson, the friendly if obese driver who overflowed the golf cart patrolling the various decks with such predictable timing as to be virtually useless, his uniform and claim of previous employment in law enforcement notwithstanding.

              And Hutchinson had given Lang a wave as he had passed by scarcely a minute earlier.

              Lang stopped, putting an exclamatory hand to his head, a man who had forgotten something. Muttering, he spun on his heel and took the two steps to the Porsche. The car’s tail and parking lights blinked as it acknowledged the signal from the key in Lang’s hand. In a single smooth motion, he was behind the wheel. The locks clicked shut.

              One of the men was behind the car, so close that the rearview mirror only showed him from the waist down.

              He must have seen the backup lights because he dodged the Porsche’s rearward acceleration with the grace of a matador side-stepping a charging bull.

              Before he could recover, Lang jammed the six-speed transmission into first gear and floor-boarded it as he wrenched the wheel. The second man was neither as agile nor lucky as the first. With a fleshy thump, the car’s right front fender tossed him over the hood, the passenger compartment, and rear spoiler.

              Driving at speed here was like an auto slalom. There was little time for Lang to take his eyes off the continuing circle that was the parking lot’s ramp, but Lang guessed the impact he had felt had removed the second man from play for some time if not permanently.

              He had to slam on the brakes to insert his monthly parking pass and exit onto the street.

              Now what?

              The bad news: The crumpled fender was sure to draw attention. The good news: It was highly doubtful the pair of assassins--if that’s what they were--would go to the police.

              Bad idea to go to the office now. If the two had meant him harm, it was likely a confederate or two was covering that possibility. Instead, he circled the block and headed to Piedmont Avenue. A couple of miles later, he pulled into the underground parking lot of the Piedmont Driving Club.

              At one time one of, if not the most exclusive clubs in the City, the Driving Club had hosted such notables as President Grover Cleveland, John Phillip Sousa, Clark Gable, and Vivian Leigh. The
contemporary
current
affliction of political correctness had prevented contemporary luminaries’ visiting the place until admission standards had been considerably broadened at which time the club was no longer exclusive and, therefore, no longer desirable to the glitterati.

              It was restrictive enough, however, that there was some chance 
that
the drowsy rent-a-cop might stop a non-member’s car entering the premises had Lang been followed. He found a space among lunching members’ cars, parked and got out.

             
He walked up to the entrance and
 
 
 
  
   
 
    
 

pulled out his iPhone in flagrant violation of club prohibition of the use of such items on the premises. Basking in the glare of a senior member from his walker, Lang called Gurt.

              He told her what had happened so far that morning.

              “Then who were the men in the parking lot?” she asked. “The Naval Intelligence people thought we had whatever it is and if the Russians stole it, why would they want to harm you?”

              The same question that had been rattling around in Lang’s head for the last few minutes.

              “They wouldn’t unless there’s some reason they want to keep its existence secret . . . in which case, you and Francis are in danger.”

              “Or the Russians don’t know the thing has been stolen.”

              Lang hadn’t thought of that. “But, who? I mean, those jerks from ONI (pronounced “o-nee”) and the Russians were the only people who . . .”

              “Who
expressed
an interest,” Gurt completed the sentence. “Doesn’t mean no one else has.”

              “But who . . .?”

              “Who, who? You are beginning to sound like a
Eule.”

             
“There are enough questions here to perplex the wisest of owls.”

              “Then you had best figure out ‘who.’ ”

              Lang pressed the “end” key.
Nothing is impossible for him who doesn’t have to do it.

21
.

Shrine of the Immaculate Conception

48 Martin Luther King, Jr. Drive

Atlanta

9:17 The Next Morning

              The Shrine of the Immaculate Conception is the oldest standing church in North Georgia and, arguably, the oldest building in downtown Atlanta, attributable to the fact it was not burned when Sherman left the City to begin his March to the Sea. One Father Thomas O’Reilly stood on the church steps that summer day in 1864 with dire predictions as to the soul of the first northern soldier to put a match to the building. The priest’s words were taken seriously by the troops assigned to the task, largely New York Irish-Catholics.

              That Sherman didn’t press the matter demonstrates perhaps Uncle Billy wasn’t the Yankee cutthroat who was so careless with matches portrayed by generations of Atlantans.

              As the City rebuilt itself as a rail hub and center of the New South, the diocese outgrew Father O’Reilly’s church and the additions soon were larger than the original structure. The city grew around the old church. In the second half of the twentieth century, Atlanta’s white citizens largely fled a downtown area populated by recipients of public housing, street people, druggies, winos, and others who would not exactly qualify for membership in the City’s finer clubs. The result was Immaculate Conception’s congregation grew darker skinned and had become something of a center for a growing African immigrant population.  

              Lang Reilly pulled into a parking lot across the six busy lanes of Martin Luther King Jr. Drive from the church. He paid his five dollars and locked the car, looking around him. Most of the patrons, he guessed, either had business at the State Capital and surrounding government buildings a block east or at the Fulton County court complex half a block west. No one came to this area of downtown otherwise. There was nothing to draw the public but government in one form or another. Two national grocery chains had opened small stores here, both of which failed in their effort to lure the business of the limited number of urban pioneers who inhabited the lofts and condos which, fifty years earlier, had been viable retail establishments. All of which had either perished or moved to the malls or both.

              Aware of the morning’s traffic, Lang walked east to the intersection of MLK and Courtland, availing himself of the comparative safety of the stop light.

              Once across, he went along the edge of the red brick, neo-gothic church until he came to a lone tree. Lang smiled when he noted tiny green buds were already visible despite years of automotive exhaust and neglect.

              Francis always alluded to it as symbol of hope in the face of adversity. Perhaps he was right.

              Almost hidden by its lower branches was a door. Lang went in.

              He was standing in a hallway from which a number of vinyl tiles were missing. It smelled of coffee and grease, a sure sign Immaculate Conception’s weekly breakfast for the homeless had taken place not too long ago. From overhead, organ music. Either morning Mass had run over or someone was practicing for the Sunday service.

              Turning left, he reached the end of the short hall. The opaque glass that was the top half of the door bore chipped black lettering, “Reverend Father Francis Narumba.”

              Lang entered a reception room barely large enough for a wooden desk with a good part of its dark veneer missing and two uncomfortable looking folding chairs. On the wall behind the desk a haloed and benevolent Jesus extended a benediction-giving hand from a gilt frame.

              At the desk, a young black woman lifted her corn-rowed head from a computer screen to flash Lang a mega-watt smile. “How you doin’, Mr. Reilly?”

              “I’m good, Sherika. Francis in?”

              She screwed up her face in a mock pout. “An’ I was hopin’ you come to see
me
.”

              “I always come to see you, Sherika. The good father is just a cover.”

              The door behind Sherika opened, revealing Francis in clerical dog collar, short sleeved, black clerical shirt, and dark pants. He threw up his hands in feigned amazement. “Are we experiencing a miracle? The mountain has come to Mohammad! The apostate has actually come to the church!
Gloria in Excelsis Deo!”

              “Francis, you don’t do sarcasm well. Stick to straight comedy.”

              Sherika giggled. She was used to the exchanges between the white lawyer and black priest.

              “Might I ask what brings the heathen to consecrated ground?”

              Lang stepped around the desk, shaking his friend’s hand. “It sure isn’t the coffee you serve. Last time I had a cup here it all but took the enamel off my teeth.”

              “If it’s not epicurean beverage, then, what?”

              “Actually, I wanted to tap your infinite reservoir of irrelevant historical knowledge.”

              Francis stood aside, ushering him into his office. “If you want to know something, I submit, it is hardly irrelevant.”

              Lang stepped inside a space that, if possible, was smaller than the reception area. The same print of Jesus overlooked what had to be a former government-issue metal desk facing a matching pair of chairs, its top bare other than a computer screen and a worn Bible. A gray steel file cabinet under a print of De Troy’s
The Ascension
filled what little space there was left.

              Francis squeezed between the file cabinet and the edge of the desk. “Get you anything?”

              Lang sat, noting his memory of how uncomfortable the chairs were had not diminished. “No, thanks. Particularly the coffee.”

              Francis hands, fingers interlocked, were on the desk. “Don’t mean to be rude but I’m supposed to be meeting with the flower guild in fifteen minutes, so let’s get to the point: What can I help you with?”

              “The other night you were explaining about the Celtic cross. . . .”              

              For the first time, Lang noted the priest was wearing a rosary with the normal cross around his neck. “I wanted to show you these.”

              Lang shoved a half dozen photographs across the desk.

              “I take it this is the mysterious object you bought at auction in London.”

              Lang pointed. “Yeah. But see the markings around the face? I really hadn’t noticed them until my guy over at Tech took pictures. Each set is exactly ninety degrees of the circumference from the one before and after.”
              “Did he figure out what the thing was?”

              Agency training plus years of law practice had made Lang a miser of information. Almost without conscious thought, he made the decision to keep the theft to himself. “Not yet but he thinks the marks might be a clue.”

              Francis picked a photo up, turning around. “And just what about the Celtic Cross makes you think I would know what they mean?”

              Lang shrugged. “Nothing in particular but you’ve got to admit you’ve had some success in solving historical riddles before.”

              The two were silent as Francis started at the pictures on the desk as though ordering them to give up their secrets.

              Finally, he said, “I think it’s significant that there are four sets of marks, symbols, if you will. Four was a magical number to the Celts, more particularly to their Druid priests. There were four elements: fire, water, air, and earth. And there were four directions: north, south, east, and west.”

              He leaned over the desk, his face only inches from the one of the pictures. “In fact,” he pointed, “you might say that is a tree, that thing with what could be limbs.”

              “So?”

              “A tree could well symbolize earth, just as this jagged line could be flames. Then you have a face with its cheeks swollen, maybe like its blowing air. Or that could be Bel, the sun god and god of crops whose face is always shown on a sunburst. . . .”

              “Take it as wind, air. What’s the last one?”

              “Those wavy lines? I’d say water.”

              Lang sat back in his chair insofar as the thing permitted, which wasn’t a lot. “OK, so suppose we have the four elements here. So what?”

              Francis picked up the photos, evening the edges against the desk top. “The Celts equated the four elements with the four directions: Earth was south, fire east, air north, and water west. I’d say what you have here is some sort of compass. Or a navigational instrument at the least.”

              “But Celtic symbols? That, that whatever it is, was supposedly designed by Jon Dee, a prominent Elizabethan. By that time the Celts, even those in Ireland, had become Christianized, had been for centuries.”

              Francis nodded. “I’m sure. But a man like Dee, a magician, necromancer, and spiritualist would have been well aware of their symbols, a convenient way to mask the uses that thing might have had should it have fallen into the hands of the enemy, say the Spanish.”

              Lang reached for and pocketed the photographs. “But if it’s some sort of compass, why would it be desirable? I think Gurt told you about the Russians wanting it right after I bought it. I mean, the compass has been around since, what, the Second Century BC?”

              “That’s when the Chinese are credited with inventing it, yes.”

              “So, why all the fuss about something that’s been around more than two millennia?”

              Francis shook his head. “I can think of two reasons: first, there’s something of intrinsic value to an instrument devised by John Dee. The Russians have never impressed me as antique collectors. After all, they sold off most of the royal family’s art collection at the end of the revolution.”

              “And the second?”

              “That thing, that object, is not your ordinary compass.”

              By the time he reached and unlocked his car across the street from the church, Lang was uncertain if he knew more than he had when he arrived.