p.m.—on the other end of the line, but he was calling one of the few remaining European countries where employees worked with both eyes on the task at hand rather than one on the clock.
"'Allo?"
Relieved, Lang sat back in his chair. "Louis, it's Lang Reilly."
The voice, heavily French accented, sounded pleased to hear from Lang so soon. Perhaps deVille had forgotten Americans had no aversion to work, either. "Oui, Monsieur Reilly. Your secretary has told you of the terrible thing that has happened, no?"
Louis deVille was in charge of the foundation's European research and operations. An administrator rather than a scientist, he had the ability to unwind the varying degrees of red tape spun by individual countries. He also had a talent for recruiting the better minds in whatever field the foundation sought at any given time. Since Brussels was the seat of the European Union's economic and political arms as well as the site of the European office of hundreds of multinational corporations, locating the foundation's overseas office there had seemed natural.
"Sara said he was in Bruges and was shot. What else can you tell me?"
"The police have told me nothing more."
"Okay, get hold of his wife in Amsterdam, find out if we can be of any help, maybe expedite the return of the body, funeral expenses, any cash shortage, stuff like that."
Lang thought for a moment, dark clouds forming a pattern he could see only vaguely. "And I'll be in Brussels no later than the day after tomorrow."
First Yadish, then Lewis, followed by a clear threat. The foundation's research was making someone unhappy. Very unhappy.
But who?
It had been two years since Lang had faced real danger, two years of defending those who could afford to pay to evade justice, two years of administering a foundation that did tremendous good but offered little in the way of excitement. Even if Lang was no longer a member of the shadowy intelligence community, he wasn't without experience and assets, either. Whoever had killed those two men hadn't known that; he was sure.
They were about to find out.
"Sara, I'm taking a few days off. Tell whoever calls that I should be back in a week."
She looked up. "And the mayor?"
"Particularly the mayor."
TEN
Westview Cemetery
Atlanta, Georgia
That Afternoon
Lang supposed others might find the ritual macabre, but he really didn't care. He rarely left the country without coming here to the oak-shaded knoll where three marble stones faced a city skyline already blurred by summer's smog. He was never sure if the trip to say good-bye again to the three people he had so loved was a habit or some ritual to ensure a safe journey.
It didn't matter; he came.
Dawn, his wife; Janice, his sister; and Jeff, her adopted son and Lang's best ten-year-old buddy. There had been times when the tears flowed on a daily basis at the thought of his wife dying as she was devoured by cancer, or of the murderous explosion that had taken the other two. Now there was a certain peace to be had here among the silent inhabitants, a few moments to think without intrusion. It was the only place where he was immune to the demands of his profession and those of the foundation.
There had been a time when the two newer graves had commanded him to seek out an organization of killers. He had known he would know no rest until he did.
Beside two of the headstones he had placed the customary dozen roses like sacrifices on a pagan altar. By Jeff's marker were sunflowers. The kid had been fascinated by the gold petals around a face as brown as his own. It had never occurred to Lang that they would serve as Jeff's funerary decoration.
He sat On the dry grass, momentarily thinking of the uncertainties that constituted life. He watched an elderly woman in black lean on a cane as she hobbled up the hill followed by a chauffeur carrying gardening tools. He guessed she was headed for the azalea bushes a few plots over.
He stayed a few more minutes, until the
"'Allo?"
Relieved, Lang sat back in his chair. "Louis, it's Lang Reilly."
The voice, heavily French accented, sounded pleased to hear from Lang so soon. Perhaps deVille had forgotten Americans had no aversion to work, either. "Oui, Monsieur Reilly. Your secretary has told you of the terrible thing that has happened, no?"
Louis deVille was in charge of the foundation's European research and operations. An administrator rather than a scientist, he had the ability to unwind the varying degrees of red tape spun by individual countries. He also had a talent for recruiting the better minds in whatever field the foundation sought at any given time. Since Brussels was the seat of the European Union's economic and political arms as well as the site of the European office of hundreds of multinational corporations, locating the foundation's overseas office there had seemed natural.
"Sara said he was in Bruges and was shot. What else can you tell me?"
"The police have told me nothing more."
"Okay, get hold of his wife in Amsterdam, find out if we can be of any help, maybe expedite the return of the body, funeral expenses, any cash shortage, stuff like that."
Lang thought for a moment, dark clouds forming a pattern he could see only vaguely. "And I'll be in Brussels no later than the day after tomorrow."
First Yadish, then Lewis, followed by a clear threat. The foundation's research was making someone unhappy. Very unhappy.
But who?
It had been two years since Lang had faced real danger, two years of defending those who could afford to pay to evade justice, two years of administering a foundation that did tremendous good but offered little in the way of excitement. Even if Lang was no longer a member of the shadowy intelligence community, he wasn't without experience and assets, either. Whoever had killed those two men hadn't known that; he was sure.
They were about to find out.
"Sara, I'm taking a few days off. Tell whoever calls that I should be back in a week."
She looked up. "And the mayor?"
"Particularly the mayor."
TEN
Westview Cemetery
Atlanta, Georgia
That Afternoon
Lang supposed others might find the ritual macabre, but he really didn't care. He rarely left the country without coming here to the oak-shaded knoll where three marble stones faced a city skyline already blurred by summer's smog. He was never sure if the trip to say good-bye again to the three people he had so loved was a habit or some ritual to ensure a safe journey.
It didn't matter; he came.
Dawn, his wife; Janice, his sister; and Jeff, her adopted son and Lang's best ten-year-old buddy. There had been times when the tears flowed on a daily basis at the thought of his wife dying as she was devoured by cancer, or of the murderous explosion that had taken the other two. Now there was a certain peace to be had here among the silent inhabitants, a few moments to think without intrusion. It was the only place where he was immune to the demands of his profession and those of the foundation.
There had been a time when the two newer graves had commanded him to seek out an organization of killers. He had known he would know no rest until he did.
Beside two of the headstones he had placed the customary dozen roses like sacrifices on a pagan altar. By Jeff's marker were sunflowers. The kid had been fascinated by the gold petals around a face as brown as his own. It had never occurred to Lang that they would serve as Jeff's funerary decoration.
He sat On the dry grass, momentarily thinking of the uncertainties that constituted life. He watched an elderly woman in black lean on a cane as she hobbled up the hill followed by a chauffeur carrying gardening tools. He guessed she was headed for the azalea bushes a few plots over.
He stayed a few more minutes, until the
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