Gregg Loomis - The Sinai Secret

Outside, Louis had to hurry to match Lang's quick steps. "There was no… no point in his having us come to his office," he said petulantly. "All he did was make accusions he cannot prove."

Lang smiled. "The point, Louis, is that the wily old fox simply wanted to flush out the weapon that fired the bullets they took from the dead man and the guy on the boat."

"Flush?" Louis was clearly thinking of some sort of plumbing mechanism.

"Flush. Obviously I wouldn't be so stupid as to try to sneak a pistol past the metal detectors at the cop shop; so, if I had such a thing, I'd hide it in my hotel room. Or ask the concierge for a safety-deposit box."

Louis stopped in his tracks, a grin dividing his face. "A safety-deposit box or a mailbox, one like they rent at the business center where we stopped."

"At the business center where we are going just before we catch the train back to Brussels. I only hope I don't get any mail that would cause them to look in the box I rented between now and then."

At the Same Time

Van Decker put down the phone as he stood in front of the office's single window and watched the two men cross the nearby canal bridge. He was not surprised his men had found nothing remarkable in Mr. Reilly's hotel room. The American was too smart to make things that easy.

There was no doubt in the mind of the Dutch policeman that Reilly knew more about the connection between Dr. Yadish's murder and last night's shootings than he was telling. The DNA from the man in the boating accident would likely match that in the bloody trail that began outside the university, just as the slugs from both men would surely match any weapon that could be traced to the American.

The question was not Reilly's involvement; it was, in what?

Van Decker did not like unanswered questions, and he intended to find the solution to this one. That was why he had dispatched a number of plainclothes officers. Not to follow Reilly. If the man was as sharp as Van Decker thought, the tails would be spotted. Instead, each man or woman was simply to note Reilly's passing on his way back to his hotel. If he had hidden the gun somewhere, he would likely retrieve it before leaving the Netherlands.

Once Reilly was arrested in possession of a firearm, he might be more cooperative.

The policeman sat back down behind his desk. All he had to do was wait.

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.