The Sinai Secret

TWENTY-ONE

Intercontinental Amstel Hotel

Prof Tulpplen 1

Amsterdam

Thirty Minutes Later

Lang ignored the two tiers of pillars, the arches, and the gilded ceiling of the lobby as he and Louis headed for the elevators. The elegance of the suite they shared drew less attention than its condition. Drawers to period reproductions hung open, oil paintings hung askew on fabric- covered walls, and the hand-carved canopied bed in Lang's room was unmade, spilling its linen onto the rich carpeting.

Van Decker's crew had made no attempt at subtlety.

Intentionally, Lang guessed. The evidence of their search was designed to intimidate.

He was in the process of returning items to the single small bag he had brought when a cough drew his attention to the open door. A smallish man in the hotel's livery stood in the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Excuse me, Mr. Reilly," he said once he was certain Lang saw him. "I am Luyken, the hotel's manager. I trust you enjoyed your stay?"

The mart spoke impeccably, as Lang would have expected in the city's finest hotel. He even had an English accent.

Lang nodded. "We did."

He waited, certain the manager had not come to check on the accommodations.

"This is awkward for me," Luyken finally managed. "But I must ask you to terminate your stay. The police… the cars, the uniforms, they upset our other guests. I'm sure you understand."

Lang closed his bag just as Louis came from his bedroom. "Of course. We'll check out as soon as you have the bill ready."

The hotel manager glanced away, embarrassed. "It is at the desk right now." He turned to go, then spun around. "And thank you for your understanding."

Louis's eyes followed the man into the hall. "What…?"

"We're leaving at the request of management."

Louis eyebrows arched in a question. "The police?"

Lang picked up his bag. "We were leaving anyway." He gave the room a final inspection. "Nicest place I've ever been thrown out of."

Outside, Lang took the taxi summoned by the doorman, ordering it to the train station.

At the station he paid the cab as Louis took a bag in each hand and headed inside.

Lang grasped his arm, watching the car in which they had arrived. Instead of joining the queue of taxis outside the station, it drove off-perhaps returning to a designated area, perhaps having complied with instructions from the police.

Lang gently tugged Louis toward the line of waiting cabs. "I've never really seen the city." He signaled to the hack first in line. "And there's no time like now."

After ten minutes of aimless cruising, Lang was certain the cab was not being followed. He directed it to the copy shop, where he retrieved his weapon before returning to the station and making the next train to Brussels.

In their first-class compartment, Louis finally relaxed. "You have avoided the police now, yes?"

Lang leaned back in the seat. "For the moment, anyway."

The monotony of the steel wheels against iron rails was hypnotic. Lang was about to doze off when his BlackBerry beeped. Only Sara had that number, and it was unlikely she was calling just to see if he was enjoying himself.

"Yes, Sara?"

"A couple of matters, Lang," she began without preamble. "That detective, Morse, calls here daily. Won't tell me what he wants other than to see you as soon as you get back."

"I'm not sure when that might be."

"I am. You forgot you agreed to take part in the bar's CLE on criminal defense this Friday."

Lang groaned. "Surely-"

"Surely you'll do it. If you want to continue to practice, that is. As usual, you're behind."

Lang nodded his defeat. "Okay, okay. I'll be there."

CLE.

Continuing legal education, the Bar Association's greatest boon since Georgia had required all lawyers to become members upon passing the bar forty years ago. The association, like all bureaucracies, had taken on a life of its own not necessarily dedicated to the well-being of its members.

The bar made about four hundred dollars per lawyer a year for twelve hours of mind-numbing tedium. Most lectures were a cure for chronic insomnia. Any educational value would be-and was-equaled by simply reading current court decisions and statutes. Besides, no lawyer was likely to reveal tricks and tactics he had learned the hard way: that Judge Biddle down in Macon, Georgia, never granted attorney's fees on discovery motions, or that any questionable bit of evidence was best presented while Judge Whipple in Augusta was dozing after his lunchtime nip at the bottle.

Since the big firms largely controlled the association, they had quickly obtained the right to conduct CLE on their own, thereby avoiding an inconvenient loss of billable hours. In all his years of practice Lang had never heard an opponent from one of these legal behemoths beg off of a deposition because he was taking CLE that day.

In short, the program accomplished little other than enriching the association and presenting a less than accurate image to the public of lawyers always abreast of current developments, rather than well rested after napping through a seminar.

It was, however, possible to at least partially pay the legal equivalent of a future indulgence by participating in the program, giving a lecture in exchange for required CLE hours. Lang had promised to do just that, and now that promise was due.

Now Lang was faced with not only a sleepless night on the flight home but also an inattentive captive audience when he arrived.

While Lang had been on his phone, so had Louis.

"The boat," he began, "the registration. The craft belonged to a corporation out of Jersey."

The Channel Islands, where British law guaranteed secrecy of bank accounts and corporate ownership-the only appeal of arguably the most obscure and isolated place in Europe, along with the continent's worst weather. Without the encouragement of total business privacy, the populations of Jersey and Guernsey would soon consist only of the hardy cattle named for the islands.

"Did you get the name of the corporation?"

"Manna, Limited."

Same as the boat itself. Lang stored that bit of information away. "And platinum metals?" "I have no answer yet."

Lang sank back into the softness of the first-class seat. Manna. As in, from heaven-god-given food for wandering Israelites. What could the people of Exodus have to do with a fossil-fuel substitute?

The Book of Jereb

Chapter Three

1. And the Israelites were at the base of the mountain forty days while Moses returned to speak with the one God. But they again murmured among themselves, saying, "We have naught to eat, for the cattle we brought out of Egypt have long been consumed, as has the wheat, and we shall surely starve without meat or bread."

2. And Joshua quieted their fears, saying, "Has the one God brought you out of Egypt to perish here?" And the Israelites mocked him, saying, "Does the voice of the one God speak in your ear?"

3. Upon the morning the ground and bushes where the golden calf had been burned were covered with manna*, whereupon Joshua said unto them, "This is the bread your God has given you to eat." And the Israelites likened the manna unto honey, it was so sweet, and they feasted upon it until Moses returned from the mountain.

4. And Moses bade them to gather up the manna of which they had a thousand bushels and carry the same with them. *The Egyptian word mfkzt is used. The first-century Roman historian Falvius Josephus, a converted Jew, says the Israelites awoke to find the mysterious substance and thought it had snowed, although how people, generations of whom had lived in Egypt without the benefit of film or television, would even know of the existence of snow is anyone's guess. The Hebrew word man-hu means, "What is this?" It is more likely the term was introduced when the first drafts of what we know as the Old Testament were written, perhaps in the sixth century B.C., during the so- called Babylonian captivity. The same query comes from the Egyptian Book of the Dead, which depicts the pharaoh being served "schea food" for enlightenment and asking, "What is this?" or, "Mfkzt." Manna, then, likely had its origins in Egypt.