Gregg Loomis - The Sinai Secret

There was also the matter of metal detectors, devices the SIG Sauer P226 would not pass through unnoticed. He was here to investigate the circumstances of one of two likely related murders. Being armed seemed only prudent. He jacked the action open, verifying there was a shell in the chamber, and released the clip to assure it was full, giving him a total of thirteen nine-millimeter parabellum bullets. He made sure the safety was on, pocketed two additional magazines, and stuffed the automatic into a holster on the back of his belt and covered it with a light windbreaker.

Next he stepped back into the head. He slid to his right the mirror over the aluminum sink, revealing a shallow hiding place. He took out a stack of hundred-euro bills and counted out ten before replacing the remaining money and easing the glass back into place. He stuffed the cash into a pocket.

Looking out of the window again, Lang noted wet tarmac and a steady drizzle beading on the Plexiglas. The aircraft's clamshell doors sighed open as an official car pulled up. Lang knew the crew would offer coffee and breakfast pastries to the customs officers, giving him slightly more time to get dressed than he needed.

After a brief greeting in his halting French to the two uniformed inspectors, Lang had his passport stamped, and deplaned while the arrival paperwork was being finished by the crew. His single bag would be delivered to his hotel.

At the bottom of the stairs a long, black, customized Mercedes waited, its exhaust pluming in the chilly air. It was the car the foundation used to meet VIPs. With 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 amp; 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 about."

Unruffled, the chauffeur tried again. "All will be explained once we're inside."

"Tell whoever's in there to come out here where I can see him."

"You are not in a position to argue, Mr, Reilly. Someone wants a few words with you, and then you'll be taken to your hotel."

Lang nodded. "I suppose you're going to give me a bank-certified guarantee of that, right?"

Although Lang couldn't hear it, the driver looked like he sighed. "There is no reason to be difficult, Mr. Reilly. We wish you no harm."

"Right. The H and Ks are to protect me from the cows over there. Tell your two playmates to take the clips out of those weapons, eject the one in the chamber, and toss them away. HI feel a lot more like conversation."

The driver grimaced."We can certainly wait, Mr. Reilly"

"But you're not going to. Sooner or later my people will figure out I haven't arrived at the hotel. Or that the car that was supposed to pick me up has disappeared. How many of these customized Benzes are around? You want to waft while the police start questioning possible witnesses, put a picture of the car on TV? No, I don't think so."

The driver said nothing. He turned on his heel and jogged back inside.

Moments later he returned, his mouth a determined line.

"Mr. Reilly, you can either get out or my orders are to forcibly remove you."

Without moving his head, Lang surveyed his situation. A man armed with an automatic weapon on either side of the car, the driver at the door to his left. No way to un- holster the SIG Sauer, let alone use it before those two weapons filled the passenger compartment with lead. He stretched slightly to see over the back of the front seat. The driver had taken the keys out of the ignition. Even if he could somehow get into the driver's seat, he'd be no better off.

No way… unless…

He smiled and shrugged, speaking up to be heard through the window. "Not much I can do. You've got the door locked, remember?"

The driver reached into his pocket, and there was an electronic squawk as the lock popped open.

Lang lunged for the door, grabbed the handle, and pulled.

Perplexed, the driver gave into his natural reflex to pull the opposite way. The door opened a crack and closed, a tug-of-war of sheet metal.