Gregg Loomis - The Julian secret

"I don't know whether to say thanks or be insulted."

Reavers kept his hand on Gurt's arm as though she needed help getting into the mate to Lang's chair. "No insult intended." He looked from Gurt to Lang. "Ah see by the drops on your clothes it's still drizzlin' out there."

It was only then Lang noticed the office had no windows. A windowless office meant top security. Reavers was probably Chief of Station. He certainly had the seniority for it.

"Still wet and miserable," Lang agreed.

Reavers slid behind the desk and leaned back in his chair. ''You remember: It can be like that for days. Makes me miss home, even in the summer when the devil himself won't come to West Texas because of the heat. Hell, I recall onc't as a kid Ah bet my whole week's allowance that the sidewalk was hot enough to fry an egg."

Gurt bit. "Did you win your bet?"

Delighted to have a straight man, Reavers laughed. "Never knew, Sugar. Time we got the egg to the sidewalk, it was already hard-boiled."

Lang chuckled appreciatively while Gurt, ever literal, thought that one over.

Reavers snapped forward to place both hands on his desk, palms down. "What kin Ah do for you folks? Ah gather Gurt ain't ready to go back to work, and Lang, you're too old to go through the training again."

Corny or not, Lang was beginning to warm to this guy, even if he was as full of bullshit as a cattle pen. "I'm afraid you're right," he said good-naturedly. "I'd never make it through The Farm again. But I could use the experience. I don't know if you remember Don Huff from the old Berlin Station. He retired, was in Spain, and got murdered. His daughter asked me to look into it."

Lang proceeded to tell him what happened. "Didn't know Huff, but Ah'm damned sorry to hear someone survived duty in Berlin back then only to get shot. But life's not fair, as one of our presidents observed. Only thing he said ever made sense. What kin Ah do for y'all? Sounds like somebody's on your ass."

Gurt leaned forward in her chair, exposing just a smidgen of cleavage above the neckline of her blouse. "We're afraid the Frankfurt police are looking for Lang." She looked at him with the trace of a smile. "He left his baggage behind… along with a name tag."

Lang now knew what it had been like when one of his small friends wet his pants in front of the entire second grade.

"That was downright careless," Reavers observed. "Wouldn't last as long as free rice an' beans in El Paso, you did that while you were with us. But you know that. Agin, how kin Ah hep?"

"If they are looking for Lang by name, a driver's license, passport, and a few credit cards in some other name would help," Gurt said.

Reavers slowly shook his head. "Lang, I dunno if you're aware how bad the politicians back home have cut our budget. You'd think the Commies were the only enemies we'll ever have. Hell, even 'lowin' for inflation, the Agency got nearly three times the fundin' twenty years ago we get today. Hardly enough to pay the phone bill, let alone keep track of ever' raghead in Germany wants to become a martyr with a homemade bomb. Hell, I say, one 0' them jihadist nut bags wants to Join Allah in Paradise, we need to help him along 'fore he takes Americans with him. What we need an' need bad is someone in Washington unnerstan's these A-rabs not gonna rest till the whole Western world's one big Islamic pile o' camel dung. But…"Lang was truly astonished when Reavers stood, leading them to the door. "You know my ass'd be in th' crack, Ah git caught providin' false ID. Hell, Ah git caught, I'll claim Gurt here threatened to shoot me. C'mon downstairs, git your picture took, an' we'll have you fixed up in an hour. An' you can be on your way to…?"

"Heidelberg," Gurt said. "There's a man there Huff worked with."

The Agency man gallantly held the door for Gurt. "Wherever, I jes' hope this damned drizzle stops 'fore I mildew."

Heidelberg, Germany (Hauptstrasse)

Haus zum Ritter

That evening

The eighty-four-kilometer drive from Frankfurt had been uneventful. Their newly minted identities showed them to be Mary and Joel Couch of Macon, Georgia. The stamp on the passports showed they had arrived at Frankfurt that very morning. The document was given careless scrutiny by a desk clerk wearing striped pants and a cutaway coat. The Agency-issued credit, card was duly imprinted and returned. The only question was whether they wished to reserve a table at the hotel's restaurant for dinner. Lang's response had been an immediate affirmative.

From the windows of their third-floor suite, Lang could see across the empty marktplatz to the fourteenth century church and, beyond, the slow-moving waters of the Nekar reflecting the dull sky of the dying-day. Gurt, smoking what Lang hoped was only her first cigarette of the day, was less interested in the view than observing how a home built in 1592 had been converted into a luxury hotel.

She was studying a gilt sconce that had lightbulbs screwed into what had once been candleholders. "You did not even think when asked about dinner. You have eaten here before?"

Lang was leaning to his left in a vain attempt to get a glimpse of the bluff behind the town, the one crowned with the ruins of a castle. ''Years ago, the Agency had a research team here, German college professors who had studied the Russkies, figured out what the Commies would do in certain situations. I came about once a month, always stayed here. One of our tame Germans recommended the restaurant. Best sauerbraten in Germany. They use apples."

Gurt made a face at the mention of the traditional dish of marinated beef served with dumplings in a rich brown sauce. ''You will go home fat."

He gave her an exaggerated leer, running his eyes from her to the bed. "I'm planning on you keeping me slim."

"You can eat more often than you can love."

He sat on the Federbett, the soft eiderdown that served as top sheet and cover on German beds, pulling her with him. "Really? Let's try a predinner workout."

She lay beside him. "Should we not call Herr Blucher? He is the reason we are here, no?"

Lang sighed as the romance of the hotel in the old city evaporated like the morning mist. Gurt's priorities were always in order. They were also frequently a nuisance.

"Okay, okay, I've got his number right here."

He scrolled down the list on his BlackBerry and handed the cell phone to Gurt.

She spoke for a few minutes before asking, "What is this place named?"

"Haus zum Ritter on Hauptstrasse. Does he want to come here?"

She shook her head and spoke a few more words, ending with a cheery auf Wiedersehen, turned the phone off, and handed it back. "No, ten o'clock tomorrow at the castle."

"The castle, not here? Or his house? He wants plenty of people around, doesn't trust us yet despite Jacob's introduction."

Gurt pushed him back against the comforter. "And your workout?"

Lang ate too much.

"Now I know what a Thanksgiving turkey feels like," he said as they drained the last of their after-dinner schnapps. "Let's take a walk."

Outside, the day's drizzle had washed the skies clean. A myriad of stars hovered just out of reach of the town's lights. Hand in hand, they walked the block over to the church, its Gothic facade gleaming in strategically placed spotlights. A block over, Lauerstrasse fronted the river in the periphery of the town's lights. Swaying gently at their moorings, two glass-canopied tour boats, each a hundred or so feet long, rocked gently at their moorings.

"Do you have with you the gun you took from the policemen at the Frankfurt airport?" Gurt's question was so out of place in the peace of the night, Lang thought he had misunderstood.

"Huh?"

"The gun, the one from the airport, you have it with you?" Instinctively, Lang's hand went to small of his back to touch the hard metal of the Glock he had jammed into his belt. ''Yeah, but why?"