The Sinai Secret

NINE

Peachtree Center

227 Peachtree Street

Atlanta, Georgia

1:42 p.m. EST

Lang's day deteriorated further.

He suspected it would as soon as he entered his suite of offices and saw Sara's face.

"Louis deVille called from Brussels. The Belgian police contacted him to confirm that Benjamin Yadish worked for us. He was murdered in Belgium last night," she announced.

It took Lang a moment to recall the name. "Isn't he one of the physiochemists working on the foundation's alternatives-to-fossil-fuel program?"

"That's him. He was in Brussels to meet with the European project manger. Apparently he decided to drive to Bruges for some reason. That's where he was shot."

"Any information, like who or why?"

"None yet."

Lang had never met the man, but his credentials were emerging from his memory. "Lived in Amsterdam, didn't he?"

Sara had a file open in front of her. She nodded. "Wife, no children."

Lang put down the stack of pink callback slips he had picked up from her desk. "He's the one who has a degree from just about every university in Western Europe, right?"

"That's the one."

Lang went into his office and closed the door before he reached for the phone and punched 011 for international, 32 for Belgium, 2 for Brussels, and seven numbers for the person. He checked his watch as the line bleeped and peeped. Well after 1900-seven 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."