Gregg Loomis - The Sinai Secret

Then he let the rope go.

The canal boat edged tentatively into the river, gaining speed as the stronger current turned it abruptly to port. The sudden motion must have alerted its occupant. His head suddenly appeared through the hatch on the upper deck just as the tug saw the smaller vessel and let go a warning blast from its horn.

There was no way the multiple barges could stop in time, and the canal boat was not under power to maneuver. Lang felt the crunch of steel cutting through wood all the way to his bones.

Lang waited for nearly an hour, watching the multitude of light-flashing police craft until the divers surfaced with a limp form that was immediately zipped into a body bag. The crowd along the banks and the nearest bridge dispersed, returning to restaurants and bars.

Lang hoped he could remember the way back to the university. He was fairly certain he couldn't pronounce it well enough to ask.

As he walked, the tension of pending action was replaced by a sour taste, bile that rose in his throat at the thought of killing. In all the years he had been employed by the Agency, his most violent act had been jostling someone on the Frankfurt U-Bahn, his greatest peril, other than one foray behind the Berlin Wall, an accident on the Autobahn. Since his retirement to what he and Dawn had anticipated would be a much safer civilian life, Lang had suffered a half dozen or so attempts on his life and been forced to defend himself with deadly force.

It was, perhaps, by divine scheme that Dawn had not lived to see the ordinary American lifestyle she had so longed for become a game of life and death.

The thought gave him little comfort.

The memory of his wife, their dreams of a family, and a domestic life enjoyably dull was largely illusion, he admitted to himself. Realistically, the day-to-day predictability would have led to a tedium even spirited court battles could not have entirety dispelled. Life among normal people would have become monotonous.

On one level, he knew these truths to be evident. On another, in the place he reserved exclusively for Dawn, he refused to admit their existence. He was certain that even ennui with her would have made him happy.

Quite another compartment was reserved for Gurt, the second love of his life. He doubted she would long have tolerated a life where the only excitement was the weekly installment of 24 on television. Indeed, the prospect might well have been the reason she left despite his overtures of marriage.

So much for tripping down Memory Lane.

Lang had the present to worry about. There was no way to know who wanted the foundation's project halted, even if it meant murder. Nor could he be sure how many killers might be in Amsterdam.

He could, however, make several informed guesses.

The uniformity of armament, the Heckler amp; Koch automatic rifles, the silenced pistols, suggested organization. These were high-quality weapons and almost impossible to procure by civilians in the firearm-paranoid European nations. AK-47s would have been unremarkable. The most easily obtained gun on the continent, if not the world, it was a version of the Russian assault rifle once manufactured in almost every former Iron Curtain country and still plentiful on the arms black market. The variety of knock-offs carried an assortment of problems, such as jamming, misfires, and unreliable parts.

Instead, someone had the means and knowledge to acquire quality weapons.

The fact that he had been met at the Brussels airport suggested organization also. Either the group had the ability to hack into Europe's air traffic control or they had a network that extended back into the United States, where someone had reported his departure.

Once again he was the target of some ill-defined association whose chief purpose at the moment seemed to be eliminating him. Although the feeling was becoming familiar, it was far from comfortable.

University of Amsterdam

Thirty Minutes Later

By the time Lang had returned to the university, only a couple of uniformed policemen remained in the ruins of what had been Benjamin Yadish's laboratory.

Louis stood to one side, anxiously smoking a cigarette.

"You have spoken to the police?" Lang asked pointedly.

Louis nodded. "I told them we knew we were about to die and how you threw something to divert their attention. I was not sure what happened next."

About as good as Lang could have expected.

He looked at the cigarette in the Belgian's fingers. "I didn't know you smoked."

"I quit ten years ago."

Lang Reilly: the antidote to Nicorette.

In addition to the cops in the room, a distraught little man in a seedy sweater and wrinkled corduroys was walking over. Lang didn't fully understand Louis's introduction, only that the man's name was Pierson, a professor and some sort of official at the university.

"I hope, Mr. Reilly," Pierson began in accented but understandable English, "I hope you will accept a great apology for what happened tonight. This is not a normal, er, thing to happen in Amsterdam."

"I'm sure," Lang said.

"Amsterdam is a peaceful city…"

It should be. Everyone was either stoned, just laid, or both.

"… and we at the university greatly appreciate the donations of your foundation."

Now Lang understood the professor's consternation. A chemistry professor was replaceable, but a generous contributor…

The Dutch were a practical people.

An older man Lang had not seen before interrupted. "Forgive me. I am Police Inspector Van Decker."

Rotund but not obese, pug nose, dark eyes peering out from under bushy eyebrows like those of a small animal hesitant to leave its burrow. Other than contemporary dress, the man could have stepped out of Rembrandt's Night Watch, one of those burghers who paid the artist to be depicted with others of the city's volunteer police force.

He handed Lang a card. "You are Lang Reilly?"

Lang studied the card before putting it in his wallet. "I am."

"You knew Dr. Yadish?"

Lang shook his head. "Actually I never met the man. He was recommended by a friend."

Eyebrows arched like bushy caterpillars. "You hire people you do not know?"

Lang thought a moment, composing his answer. "Inspector, I am president of the Janice and Jeff Holt Foundation, a multinational charity. We support largely medical care and research for children in third-world countries, but occasionally other scientific causes such as the one Dr. Yadish was working on. I doubt I personally know a dozen of the people actually involved with our projects worldwide. We're fortunate to have people on site like Louis deVille here to keep an eye on things."

Van Decker turned his attention to Louis. "How long was Dr. Yadish employed by you before he died in Bruges?"

Louis thought a moment. "Not quite two years. But he really was not working for the foundation. He was a professor of chemistry here. We gave him a grant, money to do the research."

Van Decker's expression indicated that he was unsure of the distinction. The universal policeman's notebook appeared. "He was working on some sort of fuel?"

"A replacement for fossil fuels."

There was no doubt the inspector didn't understand.

"Gasoline, petrol," Lang volunteered. "He was looking for a substitute."

The policeman made a note. "That would be good?"

Louis nodded. "If such a fuel could be replenished like, say, hydrogen, yes."

"He was working on hydrogen?"

Louis shook his head. "No. There's already a lot of study going on in that area."

Van Decker looked up from his pad. "Then what?"

"I… I don't get involved in the actual research. I do ask for reports. All I know is that he was experimenting with platinum group metals."