Gregg Loomis - The Julian secret

Lang nodded. "Of course, Inspector. Thank you for your time."

"Amateurs," he muttered to Gurt as they stepped outside the building, "constructed the ark. It was the professionals who built the Titanic."

Once back in the old section of town, Gurt led Lang to one of the tapas bars that seemed to occupy every corner. Since the average Spaniard ate dinner after 10:30, the small appetizers at least abated the hunger pangs. From what Lang could see, a couple or a group would enter one of the places, or sit outside if seats were available, have a glass of beer or the sweet, spicy sangria along with two or three tapas, and move along to an identical establishment a few blocks away where they greeted other people.

In the third tapas bar, he noted a pair of men who had been in the other two.

He could feel the old familiar tingling at the back of his neck, the sensation he had whenever danger was close.

He leaned across the small table, using the excuse of refilling Gurt's glass of sangria to get close enough to speak in a whisper. "Did you notice those two guys who came in right behind us?"

He knew she was too well trained to turn around. ''You mean the two that have been in each place we have?"

He smiled as though acknowledging a clever remark, no more than conversation between a man and a woman to any observer. "When did you first pick them up?"

She was rummaging around in the huge purse she carried, one large enough to contain a complete change of clothes for several days. "When we got out of the cab, they from a car got. Everywhere they looked but at us."

She had recognized what they were doing a good thirty minutes before he had. But then, she was still in the spook business. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She retrieved a pack of cigarettes and began further exploration for matches. ''You did not notice them until now? You are losing your corner."

"Edge," he corrected tartly. "I'm a lawyer now, not an operative." She found a book of matches and struck one. "You do not have to be sharp to be a lawyer?"

He filled his own glass, using his hand across the spout of the pitcher to keep the assorted fruit from splattering onto the table. This conversation was going nowhere. And why, do you suppose, are we being followed?"

She shrugged. "We do not know certainly that we are. There are at least three other couples in this place that were in the first one we went to."

Lang was not about to admit this was a revelation. Instead, he drained his glass. "We'll soon find out. You know how. Go straight back to the hotel."

Gurt let smoke trickle from her lips. No matter how much Lang wanted her to quit, he found this sexy. "Why do not you go back to the hotel? It is you, not I, who is years removed from recurrent Agency training. I resent being treated as though I cannot take care of myself."

"Tell it to Dr. Phil. You will go back to the hotel." If there was one thing a German understood, it was the difference between a request and an order.

He stood, counting out euros, which he tossed on the table. He and, Gurt sauntered outside, each taking turns pointing at a number of sights, two tourists discovering one of Europe's more interesting. old cities. Suddenly, gestures became angry, voices lowered to keep them from passersby. Tourists had become combatants.

Then they split, each stalking angrily away from the other. The two men, just exiting the tapas bar, exchanged glances. One followed Lang, the other Gurt.

There was now no doubt.

Lang slowed his pace, the gait of a man perhaps regretting what he had done. A couple of uncertain glances in the direction in which Gurt had departed told him his follower was keeping a consistent distance, not the move of someone intent on a street mugging ·or picking a pocket, two common crimes in an area with twenty-five percent unemployment.

Shadows were growing longer. Lang estimated it would be dark in less than a half hour. If there were more of whoever these people were, Lang would prefer to be able to see them.

He studied the flyspecked window of an apparel shop for a few minutes before stepping inside. Clothes, men's suits, ladies' coats, shoes, were dumped in random piles so close together there was little room between them. Lang idly edged between a mountain of cheap cloth handbags and brightly colored sweaters to examine a man's faux-fur overcoat. Why someone would want such a heavy garment in the south of Spain escaped him, but the price was right. Pretending to seek the proprietor, he confirmed that his minder had entered the shop.

Casually, Lang made his way to the rear, brushing aside a curtain that divided the store's public space from the owner's. Dropping the coat, he quickly stepped to the back of the building, gratified to see a door. The dead bolt turned easily, and Lang stood in a narrow alley lined with the rears of buildings.

He waited patiently. Inside, he heard angry voices, no doubt the shopkeeper protesting the invasion of private space by the man following Lang.

Lang moved to the side against which the door would open. For at least a split second, it· would shield him from anyone exiting. He thought of the Sig Sauer, useless in his bedside table an ocean away.

The first thing the man did when he stepped into the alley was look in the direction away from Lang. Before he could turn his head the other way, Lang had an arm bent around the man's neck, the elbow directly under his chin so that equal pressure was brought on both carotid arteries. The effect was to starve the brain of blood while allowing oxygen to be sucked into otherwise empty capillaries, causing them to pop like balloons. In four or five seconds, the victim would be unconscious. In twenty, he would be dead.

A trained hand-to-hand fighter would have immediately gone limp, thereby placing his weight against the attacker's arm and lessening the pressure. Instead, the man Lang held struggled briefly to pull the arm away, a near impossibility without substantial height advantage.

In seconds, he was crumpled on the ground. A quick but thorough search of his pockets produced the cell phone without which no European can exist, keys, and a switchblade, which, when open, made a deadly dagger. His wallet held a few euros and a national ID card, which Lang slipped into his pocket along with the phone. The knife he hurled into the gathering dark.

A series of tortured coughs told Lang the man would soon be conscious. He would have liked to question him, but that was not going to happen. All the follower had to do was not speak English, or pretend not to, and interrogation would be impossible. Besides, remaining in an alley rapidly filling with nig-ht didn't seem like a good idea.

He looked over his shoulder as he turned back onto the main street. Losing his corner, was he?

Gurt was waiting for him in the hotel room. Her raised eyebrows asked the question.

Lang gave a brief summary of what had happened, finishing with, "I don't know any more than before, but I do have a cell phone and an ID. I suppose it's possible he was just a criminal looking for a score."

"Getting out of a car to follow us?"

She was right, of course.

"Can you think of anyone at the Agency who owes you a favor, can run this ID, maybe find out to whom the number of the cell phone is registered?"

She stood to look out the window. "It is possible."

The equivalent of a Social Security number in Europe would produce not only a credit history but everything from the names of relatives to the date and nature of the holder's last visit to his state-subsidized physician.

Americans would find this intolerable. Fortunately, only a few were aware it was equally possible there. ''And also, see how we can find out to whom this cell phone number belongs."

She cocked an annoyed eyebrow, clicked her heels, and gave him a Nazi salute. "Jawohl, Herr Gruppenfuhrer! Shall I also serve your dinner?"