Read Online The Elizabethan Secret (Lang Reilly Series Book 9) by Gregg Loomis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gregg Loomis
Ads: Link
been beaten to it?
Lang said nothing, waiting for further explanation. His visitors took in the pair of walnut Louis XV Fauteuils upholstered in red and gold Toil de Jouy, separated by a small period commode barely large enough to support a foot-high, fanciful Fratin bronze animalier, a dancing bear wearing slippers and a night cap. The desk was inlaid Boule and at a right angle to the Georgian breakfront through whose wavy, hand-blown glass a collection of antique, leather-bound books with gilt lettering was visible. Besides a genuine love of fine antiques, Lang’s intent in assembling the collection was to furnish his office so that even the least educated could recognize expensive taste, an advantage, he believed, when negotiating a fee.
“You made a purchase at Christie’s auction in London last week,” the one on the left, the one Lang determined as Tweedle Dum, blurted, shoving the wallet back into a coat pocket.
Lang sat slowly and deliberately. “Do either of you have names? I believe it is customary to begin with real introductions, not shoving plastic in one’s face.”
“Now, look here, Mr. Reilly. . . .” Tweedle Dee blustered.
Lang held up a hand, stop. “No, You look here,” he said in that soft tone Gurt said he used when very angry, “I don’t give a damn what federal bureaucracy you’re from, unless you have an appropriate warrant, you have no right to burst into my office like some drug raid on TV. Now, we will start with introductions.”
He stood, hand extended, “My name is Lang Reilly.”
The two, still standing, exchanged glances. It was obvious they weren’t used to being treated as ill- behaved children.
“You saw our ID,” Tweedle Dum said sullenly. “Our names were on them.”
“Too small to read from across the room and hardly an appropriate introduction. Now, shall we begin?”
Both the federal agents studied the muted colors of the Yazd carpet before Tweedle Dum held out a reluctant hand, “George Semitz.”
Lang leaned across the desk and shook. “Lang Reilly. Why don’t you have a seat, George?”
He turned to the other man expectantly.
“Rodgers, Sam Rodgers.”
Rodgers sat in the remaining chair as carefully as though it might be made of glass.
Lang dropped into his desk chair. “Fine. Now, you were saying something about an auction at Christie’s?”
Semiz leaned forward. “You purchased an item there. What was it?”
Lang leaned back, making a steeple with his fingers. “What interest does ONI have in what I may or may not have purchased?”
“That’s classified,” Rodgers snapped.
Lang gave a dry chuckle. “OK, so is whatever I may have won at auction.”
Semiz’s hands were on his knees. “Mr. Reilly, you were employed by the Agency for several years, served in Intel. Surely you of all people can understand the national security necessity for keeping some things secret.”
Irked, Lang came forward so suddenly both men winced. He put elbows on the desk. “I understand ‘classified’ is bullshit ninety percent of the time, ‘national security’ about as much. Half of that means the secret will embarrass whoever is keeping it, another thirty percent means ‘I don’t know.’ Hell, when I was with the Agency, we got our typewriter paper from the States rather than buying it locally because the amount used was classified. You and I both know the thing most often replaced in the
Lang said nothing, waiting for further explanation. His visitors took in the pair of walnut Louis XV Fauteuils upholstered in red and gold Toil de Jouy, separated by a small period commode barely large enough to support a foot-high, fanciful Fratin bronze animalier, a dancing bear wearing slippers and a night cap. The desk was inlaid Boule and at a right angle to the Georgian breakfront through whose wavy, hand-blown glass a collection of antique, leather-bound books with gilt lettering was visible. Besides a genuine love of fine antiques, Lang’s intent in assembling the collection was to furnish his office so that even the least educated could recognize expensive taste, an advantage, he believed, when negotiating a fee.
“You made a purchase at Christie’s auction in London last week,” the one on the left, the one Lang determined as Tweedle Dum, blurted, shoving the wallet back into a coat pocket.
Lang sat slowly and deliberately. “Do either of you have names? I believe it is customary to begin with real introductions, not shoving plastic in one’s face.”
“Now, look here, Mr. Reilly. . . .” Tweedle Dee blustered.
Lang held up a hand, stop. “No, You look here,” he said in that soft tone Gurt said he used when very angry, “I don’t give a damn what federal bureaucracy you’re from, unless you have an appropriate warrant, you have no right to burst into my office like some drug raid on TV. Now, we will start with introductions.”
He stood, hand extended, “My name is Lang Reilly.”
The two, still standing, exchanged glances. It was obvious they weren’t used to being treated as ill- behaved children.
“You saw our ID,” Tweedle Dum said sullenly. “Our names were on them.”
“Too small to read from across the room and hardly an appropriate introduction. Now, shall we begin?”
Both the federal agents studied the muted colors of the Yazd carpet before Tweedle Dum held out a reluctant hand, “George Semitz.”
Lang leaned across the desk and shook. “Lang Reilly. Why don’t you have a seat, George?”
He turned to the other man expectantly.
“Rodgers, Sam Rodgers.”
Rodgers sat in the remaining chair as carefully as though it might be made of glass.
Lang dropped into his desk chair. “Fine. Now, you were saying something about an auction at Christie’s?”
Semiz leaned forward. “You purchased an item there. What was it?”
Lang leaned back, making a steeple with his fingers. “What interest does ONI have in what I may or may not have purchased?”
“That’s classified,” Rodgers snapped.
Lang gave a dry chuckle. “OK, so is whatever I may have won at auction.”
Semiz’s hands were on his knees. “Mr. Reilly, you were employed by the Agency for several years, served in Intel. Surely you of all people can understand the national security necessity for keeping some things secret.”
Irked, Lang came forward so suddenly both men winced. He put elbows on the desk. “I understand ‘classified’ is bullshit ninety percent of the time, ‘national security’ about as much. Half of that means the secret will embarrass whoever is keeping it, another thirty percent means ‘I don’t know.’ Hell, when I was with the Agency, we got our typewriter paper from the States rather than buying it locally because the amount used was classified. You and I both know the thing most often replaced in the
Similar Books
