Gregg Loomis - The Julian secret

Gurt would be fine. The question was, what was Lang going to do?

He looked around with purpose, no longer simply rubbernecking. Across the terminal he spotted what he was looking for, large signs with male and female stick figures, Damen and Herren, the restrooms. He fought the urge to look over his shoulder as he picked up his gait, the pace of a man uncertain he is going to find relief in time.

He reached the men's room at a near dash. He was not surprised to find it as immaculate as any operating room. He was in Germany, where spotless was the norm and grandmothers on hands and knees scrubbed sidewalks in front of their houses.

He had no time to admire hygiene taken to the max.

He hurried past the rows of crowded urinals to the section with stalls, noting that the area appeared empty. He opened the nearest door, locking it as he set down his bag where it would easily be seen underneath the door. Placing one foot on the commode, he stair-stepped to. the tank, reached both arms to the dividing partition, and pulled himself up into the shadows of the low ceiling. Straddling the divider wasn't comfortable, but he didn't intend to be there long. He was pulling his belt from his pants' loops when he heard steps on the ceramic tiles. He flattened himself against the narrow top of the partition.

As Lang had anticipated, the eyes of the man in the raincoat went to the spaces between the floor and door of each stall. He saw Lang's bag immediately. The man in the raincoat bent over to look under the door of each of the other stalls, verifying they were empty, that there was no one other than he and Lang in this part of the facility before approaching the stall where the bag was visible.

Lang slipped his belt over his head, making a loop. He felt the familiar prickle of neck hair, the familiar sensation of anticipated action. Paranoia or not, that man did not intend him well. Raincoat was gently pushing against the door of the stall with one hand while reaching into a pocket with the other.

Lang moved.

Dropping the loop of the belt over the other man's head, Lang rolled off the partition and into the stall, letting his weight snatch the man up against the other side of the door with a thudding impact. Lang gave a violent tug on the belt and was rewarded with a gurgling, choking sound from the other side of the door. Lang unlatched the door and kicked it outward as hard as he could, sending the nearly strangled stranger sprawling beneath the sinks along the far wall.

Lang was on him before he could recover. He cupped the man's head by the chin and slammed it into a drainpipe under a sink repeatedly, while his other hand patted the raincoat until it found the pocket with the gun in it. A slim-model. 28 Beretta automatic, easy to conceal in a suit or coat pocket, even with the bulbous silencer. The weapon of choice of an assassin who intended to fire only one or two shots.

Lang retrieved his belt from the man's neck. The brown eyes that glared back at him with equal parts hate and fear could be Latino, African, Semitic, or European. The skin was stretched tightly over the facial bones, giving the man a cadaverous appearance that was difficult to appraise in terms of age. Lang cocked the slide and pressed the pistol against the man's forehead as he resumed the search of pockets. He was rewarded with a wallet containing cash but no identification. Lang had expected none. He had hoped to find some evidence of carelessness, a matchbook from a restaurant in a specific city, a receipt for a rental car or gas, any of the detritus men leave in suit pockets that might give a clue that this person existed before this instant. Whoever he was, he was a pro. He had even removed the labels from the suit, which could have been purchased off the rack anywhere in the country.

Although certain he would get nowhere, Lang slammed the head against a pipe again. "Who sent you?"

The man gasped for breath, managing to whisper between clenched teeth in clearly understandable English. "Get fucked!"

There was an astonished intake of breath from behind. Flicking a glance to the mirror above the sink, Lang saw a man frozen in the entrance to the row of stalls. Only a closer look noted the crossed white leather straps, the dark uniform.

A cop.

The officer's widened eyes went from the gun in Lang's hand to the wallet in the other.

Lang was up and moving even as the policeman was fumbling the flap of his holster open. Lang swung an elbow against the side of the head of the man in uniform, sending him slamming into the wall. Before he could recover, Lang had an arm around his waist while the other hand removed the pistol and stuck it in his own belt.

"Sorry," Lang said, making for the exit, "but I was just leaving."

Lang walked as fast as he could without drawing attention. He crossed the main terminal building and was heading toward signs that promised exit and ground transportation in three languages. At the foot of the stairs and escalator he would have to take down to the outside exit, three Polizei were listening to the crackling of small radios pinned to their uniforms. Lang did not have to guess the subject of the conversation.

He should have taken the cop's radio as well as his gun.

All three saw Lang at the same time and bounded up the steps. Lang spun around and fled, his ears full of shouts to "Halt!"

He ducked into the first concourse he came to, vaulting over the conveyor belts feeding baggage into the security-check X-ray machine. Open trays went flying, filling the air with briefcases, computers, personal items, and unidentifiable objects.

As he ran, Lang was looking for an exit to the outside. The first one he came to was locked, and he could sense his pursuers gaining. There was no time to try another door.

Instead, he charged into a gate area, shoving boarding passengers aside. He fled down the jet way and into the aircraft. Travelers, many stuffing baggage into overhead racks, stared openmouthed as Lang shouldered his way to the emergency exit with the bullish persistence of a fullback seeking first-down yardage. He could hear the police and the outraged security detail yelling for people to get out of the way. Hoping the instructions he had heard aboard hundreds of aircraft were correct, Lang twisted the semicircular latch on the exit and pushed. He was surprised at how easily the door opened and fell away.

Sitting on the floor, Lang pushed himself out of the passenger cabin and onto the wing. Eight or nine feet below, two men stopped loading, the plane's baggage hold to gape. O. ne pointed and yelled something.

Leaving the' baggage handlers openmouthed, Lang slid off the wing, cushioning his contact with the tarmac by bending his knees. He sprinted for the tug and its train of baggage carts. Before anyone was certain what he was doing, he had the little tractor in gear and the accelerator flat to the floor. He crossed a taxiway, headed for what he guessed was the general aviation terminal on the other side of the field, judging by the small aircraft lined up on the ramp.

Security for general aviation tended to be lax, and there should be no police on duty inside the terminal.

First, though, he had to get inside.

A howl of engines overhead made him look up. A jet was clawing its way back into the ragged, cloudy sky. Only then did Lang realize he was in the middle of a runway. The plane was executing an emergency go around, vortices of moisture whirling from its wing tips like tiny tornadoes.

No sooner had his ears stopped ringing from the jet blast than he heard the pulsating wail of-police sirens. He looked over his shoulder to see four cars, side by side, blue lights flashing, in pursuit and gaining fast. The tug was making perhaps half the speed of the police cars, and there wasn't a millimeter of space between the pedal and the floor. They would catch him long before he reached the general aviation terminal.