Read Online The Sinai Secret by Gregg Loomis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gregg Loomis
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tinted windows and a roll-up glass partition between the driver's position and the six passenger seats, it assured the privacy desirable for meetings en route to meetings.
It also would have been at home at a Mafia funeral.
Once headed southwest into the city, Lang let the metronome-like windshield wipers lull him into near sleep. Through half-closed eyes he noted street signs in both French and Flemish. The northern, Flemish part of the country had its linguistic and cultural roots in the nearby Netherlands and Germany, while the southern Walloons were similarly connected to France. In 1962 the country legally recognized what had been true for centuries and officially made Belgium linguistically schizophrenic. French was still the tongue of Brussels, however, rather than the guttural, consonant-rich Flemish.
The clutter surrounding the airport thinned, and the Mercedes accelerated smoothly to a speed Lang was certain exceeded whatever applicable limit was in place. He watched the countryside roll by with near-hypnotic sameness. Its flat character had been both blessing and curse: easy and rich to cultivate but an ideal invasion route between the sea and the rolling hills of the Ardennes since Roman times. Nearby, Wellington had vanquished Napoleon for the final time, and the German army had passed through twice to attack France in the first half of the last century.
Lang suddenly became fully awake.
The airport was less than ten miles from town, yet he saw little but fields and shallow farm canals.
He leaned forward to tap on the glass. "Excuse me, but I'm staying in the Lower Town. In the city."
If the driver heard, he paid no attention.
Lang pushed the button that lowered the glass.
Nothing happened.
He tested one of the doors. The handle was frozen.
Locked.
Shit!
He had made the mistake that had doomed more than one employee of the Agency: He had assumed. He had assumed that the car and driver were both sent by the foundation. There was little doubt the car was the same. But who was driving?
His hand touched the butt of the SIG Sauer in its holster. Even though the glass wasn't bulletproof, shooting the driver of a car hurtling along at nearly a hundred miles an hour did not seem wise. There was little to do but sit back, even if he was unlikely to enjoy the ride.
Twenty minutes later the car decelerated and exited the four-lane for a narrow farm road. It slowed even more before turning onto a rutted dirt path. There were buildings half a mile away. Cows grazed in a pasture, oblivious to the misting rain. Had it not been for a picture-postcard windmill, the scene could have come from rural America.
The Mercedes stopped in front of a small structure of gray limestone. Lang guessed it was a dwelling. The driver got out and trotted inside, leaving Lang in the car.
He did not have to wait long. The driver and two burly men carrying weapons approached. As they got closer, Lang recognized the armament: Heckler & Koch MP5s, the A3 model with the folding stocks of metal rather than plastic. The banana clips carried thirty rounds. The weapon was an international favorite of police in hostage-rescue operations, where close-range accuracy was most desirable, although you really didn't have to be a marksman to hit your target if you didn't care who or what else got shot. With firepower of over eight hundred nine-millimeter parabellum rounds a minute, those guns could fill a fairly large space with a lot of lead.
The newcomers positioned themselves on either side of the car. Mid-thirties, lean, tanned, short hair. The way they maintained their spacing and carried their weapons with familiar ease told Lang they were not amateurs but had had military training somewhere along the line.
The driver leaned over so his face was even with the passenger window. "Please show us your hands, Mr. Reilly."
The English was accentless.
Reilly held up one hand, middle finger extended. "Please tell me what the hell this is all
It also would have been at home at a Mafia funeral.
Once headed southwest into the city, Lang let the metronome-like windshield wipers lull him into near sleep. Through half-closed eyes he noted street signs in both French and Flemish. The northern, Flemish part of the country had its linguistic and cultural roots in the nearby Netherlands and Germany, while the southern Walloons were similarly connected to France. In 1962 the country legally recognized what had been true for centuries and officially made Belgium linguistically schizophrenic. French was still the tongue of Brussels, however, rather than the guttural, consonant-rich Flemish.
The clutter surrounding the airport thinned, and the Mercedes accelerated smoothly to a speed Lang was certain exceeded whatever applicable limit was in place. He watched the countryside roll by with near-hypnotic sameness. Its flat character had been both blessing and curse: easy and rich to cultivate but an ideal invasion route between the sea and the rolling hills of the Ardennes since Roman times. Nearby, Wellington had vanquished Napoleon for the final time, and the German army had passed through twice to attack France in the first half of the last century.
Lang suddenly became fully awake.
The airport was less than ten miles from town, yet he saw little but fields and shallow farm canals.
He leaned forward to tap on the glass. "Excuse me, but I'm staying in the Lower Town. In the city."
If the driver heard, he paid no attention.
Lang pushed the button that lowered the glass.
Nothing happened.
He tested one of the doors. The handle was frozen.
Locked.
Shit!
He had made the mistake that had doomed more than one employee of the Agency: He had assumed. He had assumed that the car and driver were both sent by the foundation. There was little doubt the car was the same. But who was driving?
His hand touched the butt of the SIG Sauer in its holster. Even though the glass wasn't bulletproof, shooting the driver of a car hurtling along at nearly a hundred miles an hour did not seem wise. There was little to do but sit back, even if he was unlikely to enjoy the ride.
Twenty minutes later the car decelerated and exited the four-lane for a narrow farm road. It slowed even more before turning onto a rutted dirt path. There were buildings half a mile away. Cows grazed in a pasture, oblivious to the misting rain. Had it not been for a picture-postcard windmill, the scene could have come from rural America.
The Mercedes stopped in front of a small structure of gray limestone. Lang guessed it was a dwelling. The driver got out and trotted inside, leaving Lang in the car.
He did not have to wait long. The driver and two burly men carrying weapons approached. As they got closer, Lang recognized the armament: Heckler & Koch MP5s, the A3 model with the folding stocks of metal rather than plastic. The banana clips carried thirty rounds. The weapon was an international favorite of police in hostage-rescue operations, where close-range accuracy was most desirable, although you really didn't have to be a marksman to hit your target if you didn't care who or what else got shot. With firepower of over eight hundred nine-millimeter parabellum rounds a minute, those guns could fill a fairly large space with a lot of lead.
The newcomers positioned themselves on either side of the car. Mid-thirties, lean, tanned, short hair. The way they maintained their spacing and carried their weapons with familiar ease told Lang they were not amateurs but had had military training somewhere along the line.
The driver leaned over so his face was even with the passenger window. "Please show us your hands, Mr. Reilly."
The English was accentless.
Reilly held up one hand, middle finger extended. "Please tell me what the hell this is all
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