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find on whatever excuse they could manufacture. This wasn’t a time to be unarmed.
    “You got a warrant?” Lang parried.
    Morse sighed. “Not only you dangerous to be around, you a smartass, too. You want a warrant, I can get one.”
    He apparently intended to bluff it out.
    “From whom, the Wizard of Oz? You got zip for probable cause.”
    Morse gave Lang a glare. “Okay, keep your artillery. We ain’t gettin’ ennywhere thisaway. You ever see this dude before?”
    Lang set the overturned chair upright and sat in it, motioning Morse to the other. “Never.”
    The policeman sat as he shook his head. “You sure? Ain’t easy believein’ perp goes to all the trouble to sneak into the buildin’, come up here jus’ to kill a stranger. You tellin’ me ever’thin’?”
    “Sure,” Lang said. “Least I can do to assist our law enforcement personnel.”
    Morse grunted. “ ’Nough wise-assin’.” He grew serious. “You mus’ think I’m some kinda stupid, I’d believe a guy come up here t’kill a perfect stranger an’ wind up taking a long walk off a short balcony. You know somethin’ you not tellin’. You know itsa crime, lie to the police?”
    Lang’s hand touched the pocket with the pendant in it. “You think I’m being less than candid?”
    Morse leaned forward. “You know somethin’ you not tellin’.”
    The bald photographer and the woman with the suitcase were standing by the door, their investigation complete.
    Lang went to the door and opened it. “Detective, I give the police every bit of credit they’re due.” He extended a hand. “Nice to have met you, although I can’t say much for the circumstances.”
    Morse’s grip was strong, consistent with what Lang would have expected of the lean body, like a runner’s. It was easy to imagine the detective winning a foot race with a fugitive.
    “We may well be back.”
    “Any time.”
5
     
    Atlanta

Later that night
     
    Lang was too tense to sleep. Instead his mind spun in what seemed like endless circles.
    Was the pendant a clue or simply a bit of personal jewelry? Lang was unaware he was shaking his head no. A man who didn’t even carry a wallet would hardly wear an individualized item.
    Unlikely Lang was dealing with a sole person. A lone individual would have a hard time conducting twenty-four- hour surveillance, a harder time planning the theft of military thermite.
    And why would a reproduction of a painting by a minor artist be worth the lives of whoever possessed it? Whoever they were, they had the fanaticism of zealots, a willingness to die for something Lang did not understand.
    Yet.
    It was all too bizarre. Perhaps it involved wackos, nut- balls who had a serious if irrational grudge against that picture and anyone who had anything to do with it.
    Lang had already made up his mind to find out.
    If there was an organization, people other than the body on the pavement below his condominium, responsible for Janet and Jeff, he had to know or be looking over his shoulder the rest of his life. And given the murderous nature of these people, that might not be very long. Besides, if others were involved, Janet and Jeff demanded he get even.
    Lang knew precious little to begin with, but he was fairly certain the answers were not in Atlanta. He was due a little vacation anyway.
    Once at the office, he had Sara begin preparing requests for a leave of absence in each of his cases. He had to specify the time, so he gave himself a month. He didn’t have to state where he was going, though. Just as well. He wasn’t certain.
    He wasn’t certain what he would be searching for, nor for whom. What did the painting have to do with it? Was the pendant significant?
    He was certain of only one thing: The vendetta had begun.

 
THE TEMPLARS:
THE END OF AN ORDER
    An Account by Pietro of Sicily
Translation from the medieval Latin by Nigel Wolffe, Ph.D.
1
     
T HE C ROSS AND THE S WORD
     
    The crimson cross on his surcoat was elongated, emulating