The Sinai Secret

SEVEN

Peachtree Center

227 Peachtree Street

Atlanta, Georgia

Thirty Minutes Later

As usual, Sara was already at her desk outside his office when Lang walked in. He frowned as he took the stack of pink call slips.

"The mayor said it was, important," she called after him.

It always was.

To the mayor.

Unable to find work with any Atlanta firm amid the very public federal investigation at the end of his term, the mayor had joined a personal-injury group in South Florida where mere suspicion would go unnoticed among the indigenous sleaze.

But the mayor had not moved far enough away to prevent micromanagement of his defense with daily multiple phone calls and at least one trip to Lang's office per month.

The note said the mayor wanted to discuss the tax- evasion counts, possibly the toughest to beat. If you spent it, you presumably had it. Explaining the source of large sums of cash was likely to be embarrassing if not incriminating. The mayor's credit cards reflected less than a thousand dollars a year charged in spite of a publicly flamboyant lifestyle. The gambling trips, the gifts, the dinners had been paid for in cash. Cash was both untraceable and suspect. The excuse of weekly poker games in some crony's basement wasn't going to satisfy the U.S. Attorney. Those proceeds hadn't been reported, either.

The mayor blamed the failure to declare the money on his personal inability to keep adequate books. The government blamed it on his personal inability to keep his hands out of any funds being paid to contractors by the city.

The mayor's salary had been $110,000 per year. In his last twelve months in office he had taken a trip to Paris, half a dozen junkets to Las Vegas, and enjoyed very expensive seats at both the Super Bowl and the NBA All-Star Game- all paid for with cash. And he had used cash to purchase a few trinkets such as jewelry and clothing for various female companions, none of whom had been his wife.

Neither fidelity nor frugality was among the mayor's attributes.

When asked about the former by an ever-voracious press, the mayor's comment had been, "But I never missed one of my son's basketball games."

Swell. A father-of-the-year award was not a defense.

Lang wadded the pink slip and sank a three-pointer into the wastebasket beside Sara's desk.

He was almost through returning his other calls when Sara stood impatiently in his doorway.

Lang covered the receiver. "What?"

"There's a man from the FBI here to see you, a Mr. Witherspoon."

Odd.

With the arrogance that had persisted since the Hoover days, the Fibbies usually summoned people to their offices. He guessed Witherspoon wanted something.

He was right.

Before he had settled into the leather wing chair but after declining Sara's offer of coffee, Witherspoon asked, "I'd like to see a list of all persons in your organization who were reviewing Dr. Lewis's work or who might be familiar with it."

Lang thought a moment. Past experience was that the Federal Bureau of Investigation did not necessarily hire the brightest souls, but they did insist on mind-numbing thoroughness. A series of interviews of the foundation's personnel could last months, not even accounting for the duplication of whatever Morse might do.

"Detective Morse asked for the same thing. I'm sure he'll share his interview notes with you along with whatever information he gathers."

Witherspoon's eyes narrowed slightly, and he didn't move in the chair. "Detective Morse is being less than cooperative with federal authorities."

Good for him.

Lang leaned forward to put his elbows on the desk. "Please understand, Agent Witherspoon, by the time the Atlanta police get through interviewing whoever was monitoring Dr. Lewis's work and you question them again, my employees will have lost considerable time from work."

"Time loss is not a consideration in a federal investigation."

Or any other government endeavor.

Lang eased back in his chair and intertwined his fingers. This little piggy was perfectly at ease no matter how hard the big, bad wolf huffed and puffed. "I'm sure that's true. But then, you don't have a federal investigation, do you? I mean, only a few murders-killing someone on federal land, terrorism, for instance-are federal crimes."

Witherspoon's eyes flicked to the law degree on the wall next to Lang's desk. "I think I said we're dealing with national security here."

Lang could not have explained or defined it-the man's overbearing nature, the claim of national security that the Cold War had worn thin as a slice of delicatessen ham. There was something about Witherspoon that was the mental equivalent of seafood, glassy-eyed and with a slight aroma, that the fishmonger swore was fresh.

"I suppose if I asked how national security was involved, you'd tell me you weren't at liberty, et cetera."

The FBI man nodded. "I'm sure you understand."

Far better than you think, Lang mused. In his day "national security" was the intelligence community's equivalent to making sausage: The fewer people who knew the ingredients, the better.

"You know I can get a warrant, search all your records," Witherspoon added, making no effort to conceal the threat.

"No, I don't know. No federal crime, no warrant. No matter what you may think of the post-nine-eleven security laws, we still have a Constitution." Lang stood, extending a hand. "It's been a pleasure."

Witherspoon glared at the proffered hand and stormed out the door without another word.

Sara watched him go before leaving her desk. "He looked angry."

"That'd be a good guess."

"What did you do?"

"Do? Why, I insisted on my Fourth Amendment rights."

"Hardly seems a reason to leave in a huff."

"Hardly," Lang agreed.

He thought a moment. "Sara, would you please get the number for the FBI's Atlanta special agent in charge? I seem to remember his name as Murphy or something like that."

A few minutes later she buzzed him with the number. "And his name is O'Neil."

Lang shrugged and punched in the number.

It took a minimum of chitchat with O'Neil's gatekeeper before O'Neil came on the line. "If you're calling about the prosecution of the mayor, Mr. Reilly, you need to go through the U.S. Attorney's office."

"I'm not, but thanks," Lang hastened to say. "I'm calling about one of your agents, a Charles Witherspoon. Guy seems to be investigating a murder, and I see no federal connection. I don't mind cooperating but-"

"Who?"

"Witherspoon, Charles Witherspoon."

There was such a long pause, Lang feared the connection had been severed.

"Mr. Reilly, you sure this Charles Witherspoon is with the Atlanta office of the bureau?"

"I'm sure he said he was."

"You asked for ID?"

Lang was getting a weird feeling somewhere around the bottom of his stomach, like maybe something he'd eaten was about to seek revenge. "He showed it. Looked okay to me, and I've seen a lot of 'em."

"I'm sure you have."

Another pause.

"Mr. Reilly, I'll come straight to the point. No Charles Witherspoon works out of this office."

Lang barely heard the other man ask for a description and request an immediate call if the mysterious Mr. Witherspoon reappeared.

He spent a full minute staring at the phone after he had hung up.

Book of Jereb

Chapter One

1. And after the death of Amenhotep III the son of the king became pharaoh until Moses was cast out of the house of pharaoh and sent into Sinai, where he remained for seven years. And on behalf of the Israelites, he pleaded with the new pharaoh to free the Israelites.

2. But Pharaoh's heart was hardened against Moses, and he said unto him, "Why do you seek to take from me my people, who are the makers of brick and harvesters of wheat?" And Moses answered, "It is the will of the one God." Whereupon Pharaoh became angry and would not permit Moses to look upon him again until great misfortune had befallen all of Egypt.

3. Then Pharaoh called Moses unto him and said, "Give me proof your single god can lift from us these afflictions which our gods will not." Whereupon the priests of Pharaoh cried, "Lord, the god of the Israelites is but one while ours are legion. Tell us, how can one god defeat all others, for are they not all gods?"

4. Moses said unto them, "Show me that power your gods hath given you and the one God shall be mightier than all of them." Whereupon Pharaoh's priests threw down their staffs, which became serpents of great size so that Pharaoh cried out, "Have you brought vipers unto me so that I might perish?"

5. But Moses feared not but threw down his staff also and it became a serpent smaller than the others, but it devoured each of them in turn until none was left before Pharaoh.

6. And Pharaoh had seen what had happened and said to his priests, "Is not the god of Moses more powerful than your gods? Are not those of our people who worship this god made powerful thereby? Should we not do as Moses asks?" And the priests had no answer.

7. And so Moses said to the Israelites,"Gather your children and your wives. Take with you your asses, sheep, and other animals, for God has granted us Pharaoh's mercy and we shall leave Egypt."

8. But when Pharaoh saw how many Israelites were to depart Egypt and saw the labors that thereby would be undone, his heart became as a stone and he sent soldiers to stop the Israelites from going forth. And Moses came to him, saying, "You have decreed that the Israelites may go forth from Egypt but now you say not. "And Pharaoh answered, I do as does a god, for is not Pharaoh a god also?" And Moses went away angry but there was naught he could do.

9. And Moses went forth into the desert for forty days, during which time he spoke with the one God. And the one God directed him to a mountain where the Egyptians and their slaves labored both day and night to make great wonders with gold, some of which Moses took with him and returned to Egypt to again plead with Pharaoh.

10. And Pharaoh heard Moses and let the Israelites go forth into the desert before he again hardened his heart against the Israelites.