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Authors: Gregg Loomis
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clacking of hedge clippers and the woman's voice reached him. Then he stood, facing the three stones, saying farewell to the only family he had had. He turned and walked down the gentle slope where the Porsche waited on the narrow curving road.
He swiveled his head for a last look up the hill before he drove away.
ELEVEN
Brussels International Airport
Zaventem, Belgium
The Next Morning
Lang Reilly stretched and yawned as he sat up on the double bed in the main suite of the foundation's Gulfstream IV. Despite a dinner served on fine china along with a bottle of a fine old Bordeaux, despite a first-run comedy on DVD for after-dining entertainment and several brandies, he doubted he had had two hours of sleep. Lang simply did not sleep well on airplanes. The time when the very spooling up of engines lulled him had been replaced by an irrational fear of not having control of his environment. He had told himself the odds were better of being crushed in the Porsche by an SUV-driving, cell phone-talking soccer mom than of dying in the finest private jet yet produced, equipped with the most modern avionics.
Still, his stubborn phobia whispered, flying was an unnatural act.
Like submitting to a colonoscopy.
His irrational and rational minds had battled the issue while he tossed and turned. They had reached a temporary truce only minutes away from the destination.
Pulling aside the curtain over the bedroom's window, Lang saw a huge arched glass structure. Concourses extended both left and right, half of which were suckling aircraft from a potpourri of nations.
"We'll be at customs in about five minutes, Mr. Reilly." The pilot's tinny voice echoed through the plane's speaker system.
Lang scrambled into the tiny head and squeezed into the shower. He was tying his shoes when the twin Pratt & Whitneys whined down and stopped.
He could have taken a commercial carrier at considerably less expense. Considerably less privacy, too. It took little talent to hack into the airlines' reservations systems and ascertain the arrival time and destination of a flight. Although the same could be done with the flight plans of private aircraft, the task could be complicated by filing a separate plan for multiple legs of the journey, exactly why Lang had insisted on intermediate stops in New York and London, even though the Gulfstream was capable of making the trip nonstop.
There was also the matter of metal detectors, devices the SIG Sauer P226 would not pass through unnoticed. He was here to investigate the circumstances of one of two likely related murders. Being armed seemed only prudent. He jacked the action open, verifying there was a shell in the chamber, and released the clip to assure it was full, giving him a total of thirteen nine-millimeter parabellum bullets. He made sure the safety was on, pocketed two additional magazines, and stuffed the automatic into a holster on the back of his belt and covered it with a light windbreaker.
Next he stepped back into the head. He slid to his right the mirror over the aluminum sink, revealing a shallow hiding place. He took out a stack of hundred-euro bills and counted out ten before replacing the remaining money and easing the glass back into place. He stuffed the cash into a pocket.
Looking out of the window again, Lang noted wet tarmac and a steady drizzle beading on the Plexiglas. The aircraft's clamshell doors sighed open as an official car pulled up. Lang knew the crew would offer coffee and breakfast pastries to the customs officers, giving him slightly more time to get dressed than he needed.
After a brief greeting in his halting French to the two uniformed inspectors, Lang had his passport stamped, and deplaned while the arrival paperwork was being finished by the crew. His single bag would be delivered to his hotel.
At the bottom of the stairs a long, black, customized Mercedes waited, its exhaust pluming in the chilly air. It was the car the foundation used to meet VIPs. With
He swiveled his head for a last look up the hill before he drove away.
ELEVEN
Brussels International Airport
Zaventem, Belgium
The Next Morning
Lang Reilly stretched and yawned as he sat up on the double bed in the main suite of the foundation's Gulfstream IV. Despite a dinner served on fine china along with a bottle of a fine old Bordeaux, despite a first-run comedy on DVD for after-dining entertainment and several brandies, he doubted he had had two hours of sleep. Lang simply did not sleep well on airplanes. The time when the very spooling up of engines lulled him had been replaced by an irrational fear of not having control of his environment. He had told himself the odds were better of being crushed in the Porsche by an SUV-driving, cell phone-talking soccer mom than of dying in the finest private jet yet produced, equipped with the most modern avionics.
Still, his stubborn phobia whispered, flying was an unnatural act.
Like submitting to a colonoscopy.
His irrational and rational minds had battled the issue while he tossed and turned. They had reached a temporary truce only minutes away from the destination.
Pulling aside the curtain over the bedroom's window, Lang saw a huge arched glass structure. Concourses extended both left and right, half of which were suckling aircraft from a potpourri of nations.
"We'll be at customs in about five minutes, Mr. Reilly." The pilot's tinny voice echoed through the plane's speaker system.
Lang scrambled into the tiny head and squeezed into the shower. He was tying his shoes when the twin Pratt & Whitneys whined down and stopped.
He could have taken a commercial carrier at considerably less expense. Considerably less privacy, too. It took little talent to hack into the airlines' reservations systems and ascertain the arrival time and destination of a flight. Although the same could be done with the flight plans of private aircraft, the task could be complicated by filing a separate plan for multiple legs of the journey, exactly why Lang had insisted on intermediate stops in New York and London, even though the Gulfstream was capable of making the trip nonstop.
There was also the matter of metal detectors, devices the SIG Sauer P226 would not pass through unnoticed. He was here to investigate the circumstances of one of two likely related murders. Being armed seemed only prudent. He jacked the action open, verifying there was a shell in the chamber, and released the clip to assure it was full, giving him a total of thirteen nine-millimeter parabellum bullets. He made sure the safety was on, pocketed two additional magazines, and stuffed the automatic into a holster on the back of his belt and covered it with a light windbreaker.
Next he stepped back into the head. He slid to his right the mirror over the aluminum sink, revealing a shallow hiding place. He took out a stack of hundred-euro bills and counted out ten before replacing the remaining money and easing the glass back into place. He stuffed the cash into a pocket.
Looking out of the window again, Lang noted wet tarmac and a steady drizzle beading on the Plexiglas. The aircraft's clamshell doors sighed open as an official car pulled up. Lang knew the crew would offer coffee and breakfast pastries to the customs officers, giving him slightly more time to get dressed than he needed.
After a brief greeting in his halting French to the two uniformed inspectors, Lang had his passport stamped, and deplaned while the arrival paperwork was being finished by the crew. His single bag would be delivered to his hotel.
At the bottom of the stairs a long, black, customized Mercedes waited, its exhaust pluming in the chilly air. It was the car the foundation used to meet VIPs. With
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