The Sinai Secret

TWENTY-EIGHT

Hotel Stafford

St. James

London

An Hour Later

The telltale was missing.

Either the hotel's housekeeping staff had already made its daily visit or Lang had an uninvited visitor. He stepped back from the door and reached behind his back to grip the butt of the SIG Sauer as though to make certain it had not somehow escaped.

This was one of those situations that simply had no safe solution. If anyone were in the room, the sound of the key in the lock would give them all the advance warning needed. Kicking in the door and entering with gun blazing worked great in action films but left a lot to explain, particularly if the room turned out to be empty. Besides, real doors tended to be somewhat less destruction-prone than the plywood of the movies.

He took his cell phone from his pocket. Reading the number from his room key, he called the hotel, requesting that room service deliver an early lunch. With the aplomb of the better British hotels, no one inquired why he was using an outside line to make such a request.

Lang backed down the short hall and waited, watching the door to his room.

Within fifteen minutes a liveried waiter was balancing a tray as he hurried from the opposite end of the hall.

Lang waited until he knocked, announcing himself as room service. By the time he was knocking again Lang was beside him, key in the lock and his other hand again resting on the concealed weapon. Arguably, any occupant of the room would not realize Lang had returned.

Gently pushing the young waiter aside from a potential line of fire, Lang eased the door open.

The room was empty.

The maid had not yet been there.

Lang took the linen-draped tray, thanked the lad, and handed him a five-pound note.

The lunch was typically British: attractively cut, nicely served, and without an iota of taste or flavor. Who but the English would put butter on a ham sandwich? As he munched what was at least fresh bread, Lang tried to remember exactly where he had placed things: Was his shave kit exactly where he had left it? Were the shirts in the dresser in the same order?

He stopped, staring at an upholstered chair. The chintz of the seat didn't match the back. He stepped to the chair, removed the cushion, and gave it a ninety-degree turn so its design was now aligned with the back. He was certain he would have noticed the aberrant pattern.

Whoever "they" were, they had found him.

But how?

And exactly what were they looking for?

He had paid cash on arrival, only slightly raising the eyebrows of a front-desk crew well adjusted to the idiosyncratic behavior of the hotel's guests. Perhaps an unspotted tail. Or…

The thought made him uncomfortable. This hotel had been his choice, what, three or four times in the last several years? In the past he had paid with the foundation's credit card. If someone's computer had traced that card number, it would have revealed where he stayed when in London.

Like it or not, the Information Age was privacy's funeral notice no matter how many people were fruitlessly trying to revive the corpse, an effort not unlike unscrambling an egg.

In fifteen minutes Lang was on the street, suitcase rattling along behind him like some dutiful animal. He visited a number of shops before reaching the block occupied by Fortnum amp; Mason. He entered, took an elevator as far as it went, took another halfway down, and walked the rest of the way to street level, exiting opposite where he had entered and hailing a roaming cab.

In London, as in most large cities, the traffic made it difficult to spot a following vehicle.

Lang directed the taxi to Knightsbridge in Kensington and from there to the Marble Arch Hotel. He was not surprised there was no doorman to greet him. Inside a lobby that was as dreary as the exterior, he waited while a platoon of Japanese tourists formed ranks behind their leader and sallied forth into the world of the gaijin, snapping pictures at every step.

A tired clerk took Lang's money in exchange for a key and explained that, on a cash basis, all room service requests would have to be paid for upon delivery. He made no offer to have someone show Lang to his room, nor was he ashamed to explain that there would be no refund were Lang to vacate before the next morning.

Named for a London landmark nearby, the Marble Arch had the worn-at-the-elbows look of a destination for tourists on a budget, traveling salesmen on commission, or a spouse on a lark. Lang's view was of a brick building perhaps five feet distant, but the room was clean and utilitarian.

He didn't intend to be there long, anyway.

He consulted a phone book and left the hotel. At the entrance he paused for a full minute, as though uncertain where he was going. He could see no one loitering in doorways, and there were few store windows to attract shoppers. A stroll around the block revealed a dark- skinned woman haggling with a greengrocer, a young mother walking twins, and a liveried chauffeur sneaking a quick smoke as he listlessly wiped the hood of a vintage Bentley free of imaginary spots.

Lang assumed he was alone.

A walk up to Knights Bridge Road took him past the part of Hyde Park known as Speakers' Corner, once the site of public executions, where the condemned were allowed to speak their minds, adding to the general entertainment before mounting the thirteen steps of the gallows. The gibbet was long gone, but the tradition of radical and unpopular speech lingered. Two men, both unshaven with long hair, were shouting at unconcerned passersby.

A block farther and he turned into a building flying the Union Jack. A small sign outside announced its function as a library. Inside, Lang stopped to whisper to an elderly man, who pointed him to the computer room.

Seated in front of the latest equipment, Lang called up Google and typed in alchemy, the quasi-scientific quest of a method of turning base metals into silver and gold. He was overpowered by the number of references. He was going to be here a little longer than he had planned.

Five hours later he only reluctantly left his machine at the prodding of the same old gentleman, this time announcing the closing of the facility for the day. Once back on the street, Lang stretched his arms and arched his back, surprised at how quickly the afternoon had retreated.

What he had thought to be simply misinformed medieval science was more, much more.

First, the practice of alchemy had its origins somewhere before Aristotle, a philosophy by which the soul or being of man could be enriched, life prolonged, and enlightenment achieved. He had tried to hurry through the purely ideological theories to spend more with the scientific.

Medieval scientists, or "philosophers," as they were called, had included no small number of charlatans, as the practice might suggest. It had, though, attracted some of the more serious minds of the time, including Roger Bacon, and Isaac Newton of falling-apple fame. Also Robert Boyle, whose observations, Lang was informed, were viable today and dealt with volume of gases. Lang was unsure what kinds, but unlikely those generated by Rachel's cooking and Mexican restaurants.

In Sir Isaac's time, the prevailing theory had been that all matter was composed of a combination of the four basic elements: fire, water, air, and earth. By correctly altering the proportions of these elements in, say, lead, gold would result.

There were scraps of writing from alchemists that seemed possibly relevant: John French, in his 1651 The Art of Distillation, described fire that would keep more than a thousand years unless its container were opened. What containers? Like the ones in Lewis's and Yadish's laboratories? Under definitions in one article, comminution Was "reduction of a substance to powder by means of heat."

There were also bibliographies numbering hundreds of volumes, books Lang would never have time to read in a lifetime, let alone before his pursuers caught up with him. He settled for four names of people who maintained Web sites concerning alchemy. He discarded the first two upon browsing their sites and finding one published a small magazine on Wiccans and alchemy. He could do without witchcraft, although his subject was only marginally more distant from the black arts. The second described himself as "sorcerer extraordinaire." Lang passed for the same reason. The third site had not been updated in over a year, and Lang's query to the e-mail address was undeliverable. The fourth, a Dr. Heimlich Shaffer in Vienna, displayed a more comforting curriculum vitae as an archeological chemist, whatever that was.

Outside the library, Lang tried the phone number given by the Web site and understood most of a message recorded in German that said he should leave a message. Lang decided against it, wondering if Wiccans and warlocks used answering devices or if astral impulse sufficed.

Once back at the hotel he called Jacob and listened to a very normal request that he leave a number. If the professor in Vienna was going to be any help, having all the facts possible was going to be necessary: Templar cathedrals, a new, or unknown, version of Exodus… Were they related, and if so, how would two scientists seeking a new energy source an ocean apart come up with the same powder that levitated and became glass and gold? The answer, if there was one, might lead him to who was trying to end the energy project and kill him in the process.

At least, he hoped it would.

He had no other means of ending a chase that had already become deadly.

The Book of Jereb

Chapter Four

1. And Nadab and Abihu, sons of Aaron, died from the fire from the Ark, for they had made to carry the Ark without wooden staves nor breastplates of gold, nor had they removed their shoes and washed their feet.

2. But the Levites carried the Ark ahead of the Israelites and into the Lands of the Moabites and Ammonites and Amorites, who fled before its power and were slain by the commandment of the one God.

3. But Moses did not cross the River Jordan but looked across into the land of the Canaanites and anointed Joshua to lead the people.

4. And Joshua sent forth the Levites with the Ark to Jericho, wearing gold breastplates and rings and having washed their feet but leaving sandals behind with the rest of the people.

5. Seven priests went before the Levites, blowing trumpets each day for six days. Upon the seventh day they marched seven times around the city. There came forth from the Ark lightning, which destroyed the walls of Jericho. And the children of Israel slew the people thereof, sparing only the family of Rahab the harlot, for she had given aid to the Israelites.

6. Then Joshua led the Israelites farther into the land of the Canaanites and unto the mount of Abraham to place upon it a throne of the House of Judah to rule over the Israelites.

TWENTY-NINE

Schwechat International Airport

Vienna

Three Days Later

The Vienna airport terminal is small compared to those in London, Paris, or Rome. Rather than overpowering architecture, gently curving sides of shining blue glass give passengers the sense of being embraced upon arrival.

At least, Lang thought so as he peered out of the window of the foundation's Gulfstream IV The aircraft had left the United States to deliver a team of pediatricians to Greenland, bound for the Arctic Cirde and a rumored outbreak of some strain of measles among children of one of the Eskimo tribes. The mission complete, Lang had arranged for the plane and crew to proceed to Scotland.

He was fairly certain his arrival was unknown to the mysterious group who apparently wanted to kill him. He had had to show no identification to purchase a British rail ticket from London to Glasgow, meet the plane, and depart minutes later.

Both England and Austria were European Union countries. No passport nor customs were required, and no official note of his arrival was made other than the aircraft's manifest or general declarations. Since these documents were rarely verified, Lang had donned the gray suit with epaulets on the shoulders worn by the foundation's flight crew. The general decs would show pilot, copilot, and two cabin attendants, one male, one female.

He hoped he had successfully concealed both his departure from London and his arrival here, although a careful check of the departure documents would show one fewer crew member when the plane returned to Atlanta with a very perplexed MD on board who would never guess his urgent summons to the foundation's headquarters was no more than camouflage for the Gulf- stream's side trip to Vienna.

With a single suitcase containing two copies of Jacob's translation, the SIG Sauer, and a change of clothes, Lang joined the other crew members in a casual stroll through the terminal along glossy tiles the color of butter as they reflected brightly lit shops and overhead lighting.

As far as Lang could tell, no one paid them the slightest bit of attention.

They parted company at the transportation exit, the crew taking a bus to a nearby hotel and Lang a taxi. Twenty minutes later he was on the Karntner Ring Strasse, if a swath that included tram tracks, four lanes of traffic, a middle green space, and four more traffic lanes could simply be described as a road. A tram's bell rang angrily as the cab made a U-turn to stop at the door of the Imperial Hotel.

Of the two Belle Epoch hotels of Vienna, the Sacher Haus was better known to tourists, but the Imperial boasted a guest list that had included Richard Wagner as well as the triumphant Adolf Hitler, in town to celebrate the 1938 Anschluss.

It was not the sort of place one would expect to house itinerant flight crews, but the man in the long-tailed coat behind the highly polished mahogany desk did not seem to notice the uniform. Lang gave him a foundation credit card, one that did not have his name on it, along with his passport, and signed the registration with an intentionally illegible signature, declining an offer for assistance with his single bag. Passing through the heavily carpeted lobby, Lang turned left into to a small vestibule housing ornate elevators.

His room, wallpapered a tasteful green, was furnished in a style that elsewhere would have been garish. Here, the gilt-edged furniture, swagged drapes, and elaborately made-up bed seemed perfectly in place, a memory of nineteenth-century Hapsburg grandeur. Lang was relieved to see the theme did not carry over to the bathroom. Modern fixtures and a multiheaded shower stall gleamed under operating-room brightness.

Checking his room's door and windows for security, Lang took out his cell phone to call Dr. Shaffer, who should be expecting him. The phone was answered on the second ring by a voice that Lang recognized from two previous conversations.

"Dr. Shaffer?"

"Ja?"

"Lang Reilly. We spoke a couple of times."

There was an almost imperceptible pause, the short delay as the mind switched from one language to another. "You are now here in Vienna?"

"The Imperial Hotel. Maybe you could drop by, have a beer or two, and we could talk?"

Another pause, this one longer.

"I would prefer another place, one where I will be able to recognize strangers as strangers. The Koenig Bakery. Do you know it?"

There were hundreds if not thousands of small restaurants in Vienna.

"'Fraid not."

The professor gave him directions.

Twenty minutes later Lang was walking beside the baroque buildings of old Vienna. Mozart had lived and composed within a block or so, written The Marriage of Figaro in an apartment on the dead-end Blutgasse. Johann Strauss had formed the world's first waltz orchestra nearby. Both Beethoven and Schubert had died here. The last Hapsburg emperors, including the kindly Franz Joseph, who described himself as the empire's chief bureaucrat, had worshiped at the Stephansdom, whose Gothic spires were visible over the rooflines.

Even the little restaurant to which the doctor had directed Lang was in historical context. He paused to read the menu posted outside one of several side-by-side eateries. Through open doors he could hear the murmur of conversation. Inside were three small rooms separated by white plaster walls contrasting with beams darkened by centuries of smoke from tobacco and candles.

Just inside the door a smallish man with a beard streaked with white took Lang by the arms. "Langford Reilly?"

"How'd you guess?"

"As I said, I wanted to meet in a place where strangers would be obvious."

Lang thought of the menu outside. Unlike in most European establishments, there was not one in English. Other than Dr. Shaffer, no one was speaking it in here, either.

Lang had an uneasy feeling. "Any reason you're concerned about people you don't know?"

Dr. Shaffer was leading Lang to the back of the restaurant, the one place tables weren't close enough to touch. "Within an hour of the time we first spoke," the professor said in Oxford-accented English, "a man appeared in front of my house. The next day another. I feel I am being followed because of our conversation. Why would that be?"

Lang didn't answer immediately. "They" had retrieved or intercepted the call from his BlackBerry, a feat requiring a fair amount of sophistication-or sharing of information from the Anglo-American Echelon, the worldwide listening station in northern England that automatically recorded every conversation involving a satellite, which included most phone conversations, e-mails, and other communications. Having the communications was one thing. Being able to find one of interest among millions of others was another. Even if access to Echelon by someone other than England, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, or the United States were permitted-something unheard-of in Lang's days at the Agency-the sorting-out process would still be daunting. But what if…

"Mr. Reilly?"

Dr. Shaffer was peering at him curiously, as though Lang might have suddenly contracted some exotic disease. "I was hoping you could tell me why I am being watched."

Lang shrugged. "I have no idea," he said, hoping the lie was believable. "As you'll see, these documents are of scientific and historic interest only."

He hoped.

Without taking his eyes off Lang's face, Shaffer stuffed a copy of Jacob's translation into a briefcase beside him. "In that case, you would have no objection to my going to the police?"

Lang picked up a menu, trying to recognize the German he had once known. Four of the six pages were handwritten specialties of the day. "I would think that would be the thing to do. Could be a disgruntled student…"

"I have not taught in years. I work on a job-to-job basis for foundations and museums, usually doing chemical analyses of archeological finds." He reached into a pocket somewhere, producing a pack of Marlboros. "Do you mind?"

The only benefit of Gurt's departure had been that Lang had finally gotten the stench of her Marlboros out of his life. The damn smoke still lingered in the condominium and his clothes like a memory that would not go away. He wondered if the smell would have been as offensive if he hadn't missed her so much.

He sat back in his chair and flip-flopped a hand- I don't care. The place's patrons all seemed to be puffing away. One more would make little difference.

"You are not a smoker?"

"No."

Shaffer returned the pack to wherever it had come from and waved at the proprietor/waiter. "I will wait, then."

Rare. A smoker deprived of his vice who didn't think he was being imposed upon.

"I recommend the pancake noodle soup. The Wiener schnitzel, goulash, and Tafelspitz mit G'roste are equally good."

From his years in Frankfurt, Lang remembered that German food was as filling as it was hearty, something that not only stuck to your ribs but made you feel it was still stuck a day later. "The goulash sounds great. I'll pass on the soup. And whatever beer you're drinking."

Shaffer relayed the orders.

When the proprietor walked toward the kitchen, Shaffer asked, "Just what are these papers you have given me?"

The couple at the next table were leaving. Lang waited until they were headed out. "I'm not sure. I've only had a chance to glance at them, but they seem to deal with some ancient process involving a powder that levitates and turns into gold or fine glass."

Shaffer looked at him blankly. "You are referring to the manna of the Bible, I take it."

"Apparently not the Bible we know. This is an unpublished account of Exodus."

"The Melk parchments?"

"Melk?"

Shaffer waited for two Krugel half-liter beers to be set upon the table.

"A Kloster, monastery, in the Wachau near here. A very persit… er, persistent story, rumor, says some ancient Hebrew documents were found in Jerusalem during the Third Crusade and wound up in the library there. Supposedly they contained ancient secrets long ago lost. Most people took them as legend, not fact, since they have never been found. Then a former colleague, a man named Steinburg who taught ancient history when I was still at the university, was killed in a motor accident. The police never found the other vehicle. Steinburg's wife was convinced it wasn't an accident, because her husband had been talking about something that had been discovered at Melk, something he said could affect the world." Shaffer took a long sip. "Are you still certain you know of no danger I may be in, Mr. Reilly?"

Lang shrugged as he reached for his beer. "As I said, I just looked at the papers quickly, didn't see anything earthshaking. You mentioned the biblical manna?"

Shaffer had both hands around his glass, staring at the bubbles. "You called me because of my Web site dealing with alchemy, a hobby for a chemist who analyzes ancient artifacts." He looked up at Lang. "Alchemy was both the curse and the mother of modern chemistry. Did you know that, Mr. Reilly?"

Lang was unsure whether the question was rhetorical or not. Either way, he had never given alchemy a thought until recently. "Can't say I did. How so?"

Shaffer's eyes narrowed, the expression of a man relating a personal slight. "While scientists of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries-philosophers, as they were called-were making quite accurate observations of the physical laws of the universe, and botanical discoveries were common, chemistry was limited to alchemists' quest to create gold and silver. Although a few important findings were made, chemistry really became a legitimate science only in the early to mid nineteenth century."

Had it waited another century or so, Lang's junior year in high school would have been a lot happier.

Shaffer continued. "The medieval practitioners had it backward. After the fall of Rome, a lot of true science was either lost or suppressed by the Church, which saw, correctly, science as its enemy. What was saved was kept by the Muslims who from time to time occupied parts of Europe. With the beginnings of the Crusades, some of that knowledge was reintroduced, particularly in mathematics, astronomy, and medicine.

"Somehow the memory of your powder lingered. It is referred to in the old texts as 'the philosopher's stone' because it resembled stone dust, but the writers of those works got turned around. The Egyptians used gold to make the powder they called mfkzt. Among other uses, pharaohs ate it. It was thought to prolong life."

Lang watched plates being set down on the table. Judging by the size of his portion, he had been wise not to order the soup. "Ate it? Ate gold?"

Shaffer leaned over, savoring the aroma of his meal. "Gold, Mr. Reilly, has little intrinsic value, yet it is prized all over the world. Why not, say, iron or copper? Because the ancients used a gold product as a life-prolonging substance. The rest of the world developed some sort of atavistic fascination for that dement, forgetting its purpose. Because of its properties it aids in health and generates a unique energy."

"Levitation?"

"That is part of it, of course."

Lang forgot his goulash. "And the other part?"

Shaffer returned his attention to his plate. "Who knows? That, too, is lost. There are those who believe that, under certain circumstances, the powder has huge energy potential."

Lang put down his fork, the connection between Yadish, Lewis, and the mysterious white powder beginning to come into focus like a figure emerging from thick fog. Details were still blurry, but the form was visible.

"What sort of energy potential?"

The doctor used the side of his fork to surgically dissect a dumpling. "No one really is sure of the details, but we can be certain of some generalities. A few years ago an English team attempted to duplicate the erection of one of the smaller pyramids using the means the Egyptians would have had available. As the structure grew, they surrounded it with a sand incline, a road around the perimeter to drag stones into place-the same method archaeologists have assumed for years was used to build the pyramids. It didn't work. At some point, the pile of sand was too high for its weight and it collapsed-not once but every time they repeated the effort."

Lang took a pull at his beer, watching Shaffer's face through the wavy lines of the glass. "And?"

The dumpling was apparently sufficiently satisfactory to merit another incision. "It became obvious the Egyptians used an alternative method to lift stones weighing tons."

"And you think the powder…?"

Finished, Shaffer regarded his plate regretfully. "I only speculate, Mr. Reilly. The Emerald Tablet of Hermes, considered the founding work of alchemy, is an ancient Egyptian text, so the two-alchemy and the mysteries of Egypt-are… are… intermingled? No, intertwined. Are you going to finish that goulash? It really is not so good cold."

Lang pushed the plate across the table. "But how could a powder be used to lift that sort of weight?"

The goulash was also to Shaffer's satisfaction. "I am unsure; I do not know. Physics is not my territory. But I might know someone who does. Or might. A man who is named bin Hamish, in Cairo, with whom I've occasionally worked." There was a squeaking noise as he scraped the platter with the edge of his fork. "As you Americans say, tell you what: Let me read over these papers tonight. We'll get together tomorrow. I cannot imagine a better way to start the day than with a Sacher torte and coffee. Perhaps you will join me there?"

No doubt as to where "there" was. The hotel's apricot- jam-and-chocolate confection was served with a generous dollop of Schlag, rich, melt-in-the-mouth whipped cream.

Enough calories, cholesterol, and unsaturated fat to make a cardiologist weep.

The good doctor's dietary habits would have felled an Olympic athlete, yet he was smallish, perhaps plump, but not obese. Europeans seemed to eat as they pleased, yet few were fat. The older he got, the more Lang hated every one of them for that.

Lang stood as the proprietor exchanged the empty glasses and dishes for a small square of paper that was the check. If he saw it, Shaffer made no move to pick it up.

Lang lifted it, glanced at the surprisingly low total, and put several euros on the table. 'Around when, seven or so?"

"The cafe opens at eight."

"Eight, then."

Outside, Lang realized he was still hungry. Small wonder, since Dr. Shaffer had eaten all but a couple of bites of both dinners.

Lang checked his watch. Early for Vienna, where few dined before 2100 hours, nine o'clock. He could get a sausage at one of the mobile Wurstelstand and enjoy one of the city's more attractive sights a few blocks over.

Closed to most vehicular traffic, Stephansplatz and the adjacent bars and restaurants on Backerstrasse and Schonlaterngasse were in full party mode. In front of the church, acrobats in white tights performed flips and midair spins for tips. Nearby a mime held several small children spellbound. Winding his way through the crowd, Lang briefly stood in line to get a beer and what closely resembled an American hot dog.

He retreated to one of the public benches to enjoy both his meal and the spectacular cathedral, spotlighted as bright as any day could illuminate it. It was built in the thirteenth century, but all that remained of the original structure were the Giant's Door and the twin Heathen Towers, so called because they had replaced an earlier pagan shrine The main Steff, tower, a fourteenth-century Gothic addition, stabbed four hundred fifty feet into the night's belly. Lang was particularly enchanted by the roof, a mosaic of over a million glazed tiles displaying the doubleheaded Hapsburg eagle

He resolved to visit the church again in daylight. From years ago he remembered the twisting passages of the crypt, where the bodies of centuries of Hapsburgs were entombed under iron statuary that could have been designed by Stephen King. The helmeted skulls and contorted forms were made all the more grisly by the knowledge that the corpses below had been eviscerated so that heart and entrails might grace two other churches, a gory custom of the times not peculiar to Austrian royalty.

Hardly thoughts for enjoying his sausage, Lang thought as he stood to toss his empty beer bottle and paper napkin into a nearby receptacle. He had taken a single step when he felt cold steel against his neck.

"Just sit back down, Mr. Reilly."

The voice behind him was low and accentless.

Lang sat slowly, eyes darting from left to right. Two men, one on his left, the other on his right, seemed interested in what was happening. They looked very much like the type, if hot the actual men, who had shanghaied him in Brussels.

They moved closer as he sat.

A man in a windbreaker slid around the edge of the bench, letting the weapon he held reflect the square's light for the briefest of moments before covering it with his jacket. One of the other two circled behind, reached over the top of the seat, and removed the SIG Sauer from its holster in the small of Lang's back.

"That's better," the man beside him said. "Now you will come with us."

"My mama told me never to go with strangers," Lang said, not moving.

Stall. Stall for time; stall for opportunity. Basic Agency training years ago. These people had demonstrated what they would do given the chance. Let time pass and watch for a break.

If it didn't arrive soon, though, he was in deep shit.

Getting into a vehicle with them or walking to some dark alley was like driving his own hearse.

"We only want answers to a few questions," the man said amiably. "That is all."

"You'll forgive me if I choose to stay here." Lang was trying not to be obvious as he searched the square for a cop, one of the olive-drab uniforms of the Polizei. No doubt they were all busy handing out parking tickets.

"We can go peacefully or forcibly. I fear I cannot be responsible if you anger my comrades by being uncooperative."

Lang shifted and put his hand in a pocket. "Try another bluff. You're no more going to drag me off kicking and screaming in front of all those people than you're gonna jump over the church there."

He was touching the BlackBerry, trying to remember…

The man beside him sighed and nodded to one of his comrades. The second man's hand came out of a pocket. Something twinkled briefly, something… like a hypodermic needle. "If you insist…"

One-three-three! One-three-three was the police emergency number in Vienna. Lang hoped his touch was not betraying him, that he was pushing the right keys. He thumbed the thing to silent, fearful these men might hear its dial tone and guess what he was doing.

"I'm highly allergic to a lot of medication. If that kills me, you'll never get your answers."

Stall, delay.

"A risk I fear we'll have to take." He nodded to the man with the needle to proceed.

Lang stood, edging toward the center of the square. "C'mon, man. I hate needles. Surely we can do something…"

One of the men standing shoved him roughly back onto the bench! The man with the needle held it up, squirting silver liquid into the air to make sure there were no bubbles.

Lang took small comfort from the precaution. They weren't going to kill him right now, right here.

Lang had run out of stall tactics. "Look, I'll come along; just put that thing away."

He never knew if the local cops had the world's quickest response time or he was just lucky. A pair of white BMW motorcycles rounded the church, heading slowly toward them. Flashing blue lights reflected from the cobblestones.

The man next to Lang muttered something Lang understood only as unlikely to be a blessing, and stood. "Nothing funny, now, Mr. Reilly. My men are armed and have no problem dealing with the police. Unless you want to get innocent people hurt, you will let me speak."

Lang was certainly attentive to the safety of the ever "innocent" people, but even more so to his own welfare. If he was going to make a move, now was the time.

He rose slowly, as though to meet the approaching officers. He still had the beer bottle in hand. The instant the man beside him shifted his gaze to the oncoming motorcycles, Lang jerked erect, smashing the glass on the edge of the bench.

The man in the windbreaker saw what was coming and tried to raise his weapon. With his empty hand Lang shoved the gun's muzzle down while his other brought the jagged stump of the bottle up in a slashing motion.

The man screamed, the gun dropping as he threw both hands to his face to stanch a river of blood from shredded cheeks and nose.

Lang was certain he had seen teeth through the ripped flesh.

Lang scooped up the dropped weapon and threw himself over the bench. Something tugged at his sleeve as he heard the coughs of sound-suppressed weapons followed by shouts in German.

More sputters, two loud shots, and the clatter of motorcycles falling onto the street.

By now Lang was at the edge of the square's light. A brief glance over his shoulder showed two policemen sprawled beside their bikes and two men headed straight for him.

He did not take the time to place the one he had attacked. The man would be hors de combat for some time.

Lang sprinted into the darkness, the sound of footsteps in his ears.

In his hurry he was aware only that he was running in an easterly direction. The white walls of the Hofburg Complex, the area of palaces of Austria's nobility-now largely offices, embassies, and fashionable apartments- as well as the Stallburg, once a royal residence, home to the Spanish Riding School.

He was walking now, the hand with the gun in it under his jacket as he looked over his shoulder. A brief glance told him he was on Kohl Markt, which, he could see, dead-ended into a small platz in front of a domed building he recognized from the neoclassic facade as the Michaelerkirche, the Hapsburgs' parish church.

One of the city's main streets should be only a block or so to his left, an avenue that, even at this hour, would be crowded enough for him to disappear among the evening's diners and strollers.

The thought had barely formed when his two pursuers emerged from the shadows, one on his left, the other to his right.

There was nothing in front but the church.