Read Online The Julian Secret (Lang Reilly Thrillers) by Gregg Loomis - Free Book Online
Authors: Gregg Loomis
Tags: Action & Adventure
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asked the question.
Lang gave a brief summary of what had happened, finishing with, “I don’t know any more than before, but I do have a cell phone and an ID. I suppose it’s possible he was just a criminal looking for a score.”
“Getting out of a car to follow us?”
She was right, of course.
“Can you think of anyone at the Agency who owes you a favor, can run this ID, maybe find out to whom the number of the cell phone is registered?”
She stood to look out the window. “It is possible.”
The equivalent of a Social Security number in Europe would produce not only a credit history but everything from the names of relatives to the date and nature of the holder’s last visit to his state-subsidized physician.
Americans would find this intolerable. Fortunately, only a few were aware it was equally possible there.
“And also, see how we can find out to whom this cell phone number belongs.”
She cocked an annoyed eyebrow, clicked her heels, and gave him a Nazi salute.
“Jawohl
, Herr Gruppenfuhrer! Shall I also serve your dinner?”
Maybe she had not forgotten as much of World War II as he had thought.
He played it straight. “That won’t be necessary. While you’re calling favors due, I’m going to see if the hotel has a computer I can use, check out that CD.”
Despite its fourteenth-century Moorish appearance, the hotel had a business center equal to any similar facility in the United States. Lang showed his room key to the attractive young woman at the entrance, and she led him to a cubicle complete with computer and printer.
“Will that be all?” she asked in almost accentless English.
“Yes, er, no.” Lang was looking at the keyboard. “I want to print out some photographs on this disk, but I don’t read Spanish.”
She gave him a very professional smile, one he was sure she lavished on every dullard fortunate enough to be a guest here. “No problem. May I have the disk?”
She inserted it into the computer, pressed a couple of buttons, and stepped back. “That should work. If you have a problem, let me know.”
Lang sat in front of the screen as the printer hummed. Why was it technology was less intimidating the younger you were?
The black-and-white pictures were not quite as clear as he might have hoped, either because they were not exactly focused or because of something in the process of transferring ordinary film images to a digital format. The computer had caught the sepia tone of old photographs. Most were different views of the classical facade of the same building, a structure Lang recognized as St. Peter’s in Rome. One depicted a man in what might have been a black uniform, with what could have been part of the basilica as background. Lang studied the face. Perhaps mid-thirties, piercing eyes, and, most distinguishing, a scar across the right cheek. Lang looked closer. What was the insignia on the collar of his tunic? Too blurred to be certain. The other pictures seemed to have been taken at night or inside, and depicted the sameman, this time in mufti, standing in front of a rock face on which barely distinguishable letters were carved.
Lang stared at the man for a long time. His face was . . . familiar? Impossible. Lang was certain he had never seen the guy before, yet there was something recognizable about him. Perhaps a movie star or other celebrity of years past whose picture Lang had seen?
Hadn’t the inspector said the pictures were sixty or so years old? How did he know? The next photo answered the question. In this one, the man’s uniform was clearly visible and distinguishable from civilian clothes. He stood in front of the building. Lang looked closer. His attire was either black or very dark, perhaps navy. On the high collar was some sort of . . . Lang held the paper inches from his face and recognized the stylized lightning bolts of the SS, the elite of the Nazi military.
That made sense, Lang supposed, since Don had been writing about some long-dead
Lang gave a brief summary of what had happened, finishing with, “I don’t know any more than before, but I do have a cell phone and an ID. I suppose it’s possible he was just a criminal looking for a score.”
“Getting out of a car to follow us?”
She was right, of course.
“Can you think of anyone at the Agency who owes you a favor, can run this ID, maybe find out to whom the number of the cell phone is registered?”
She stood to look out the window. “It is possible.”
The equivalent of a Social Security number in Europe would produce not only a credit history but everything from the names of relatives to the date and nature of the holder’s last visit to his state-subsidized physician.
Americans would find this intolerable. Fortunately, only a few were aware it was equally possible there.
“And also, see how we can find out to whom this cell phone number belongs.”
She cocked an annoyed eyebrow, clicked her heels, and gave him a Nazi salute.
“Jawohl
, Herr Gruppenfuhrer! Shall I also serve your dinner?”
Maybe she had not forgotten as much of World War II as he had thought.
He played it straight. “That won’t be necessary. While you’re calling favors due, I’m going to see if the hotel has a computer I can use, check out that CD.”
Despite its fourteenth-century Moorish appearance, the hotel had a business center equal to any similar facility in the United States. Lang showed his room key to the attractive young woman at the entrance, and she led him to a cubicle complete with computer and printer.
“Will that be all?” she asked in almost accentless English.
“Yes, er, no.” Lang was looking at the keyboard. “I want to print out some photographs on this disk, but I don’t read Spanish.”
She gave him a very professional smile, one he was sure she lavished on every dullard fortunate enough to be a guest here. “No problem. May I have the disk?”
She inserted it into the computer, pressed a couple of buttons, and stepped back. “That should work. If you have a problem, let me know.”
Lang sat in front of the screen as the printer hummed. Why was it technology was less intimidating the younger you were?
The black-and-white pictures were not quite as clear as he might have hoped, either because they were not exactly focused or because of something in the process of transferring ordinary film images to a digital format. The computer had caught the sepia tone of old photographs. Most were different views of the classical facade of the same building, a structure Lang recognized as St. Peter’s in Rome. One depicted a man in what might have been a black uniform, with what could have been part of the basilica as background. Lang studied the face. Perhaps mid-thirties, piercing eyes, and, most distinguishing, a scar across the right cheek. Lang looked closer. What was the insignia on the collar of his tunic? Too blurred to be certain. The other pictures seemed to have been taken at night or inside, and depicted the sameman, this time in mufti, standing in front of a rock face on which barely distinguishable letters were carved.
Lang stared at the man for a long time. His face was . . . familiar? Impossible. Lang was certain he had never seen the guy before, yet there was something recognizable about him. Perhaps a movie star or other celebrity of years past whose picture Lang had seen?
Hadn’t the inspector said the pictures were sixty or so years old? How did he know? The next photo answered the question. In this one, the man’s uniform was clearly visible and distinguishable from civilian clothes. He stood in front of the building. Lang looked closer. His attire was either black or very dark, perhaps navy. On the high collar was some sort of . . . Lang held the paper inches from his face and recognized the stylized lightning bolts of the SS, the elite of the Nazi military.
That made sense, Lang supposed, since Don had been writing about some long-dead
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