Gregg Loomis - The Julian secret

At the top of the escalator, he found one hack driver who at least seemed to comprehend "Peachtree Road" and got in the back.

Lang was not expecting a reception, certainly not one from the SWAT team. As the cab turned into the condominium's circular drive, a police car pulled in behind it while a van blocked the other end. The concierge and Lang's neighbors gawked in awe as ten helmeted men clad in body armor, wearing an assortment of wind breakers denoting police, FBI, and U.S. Marshal's Service, and pointing Mac 10 machine guns advanced on the terrified cabdriver as though Osama bin Laden were the passenger. Lang took a quick look from the rear window in time to see a thin black man in a suit climb out of an unmarked third car.

He immediately understood: The Federal Republic of Germany had officially translated its displeasure at the airport incident into an extradition request.

Hands raised, he stepped from the cab. ''A pleasure to see you again, Detective."

Rouse grinned maliciously, motioning to the armed men. "Pleasure's all mine, believe me, Mr. Reilly. This time you ain' gonna wiseass yo' way outta trouble. Us Keystone Kops been holding an international want on you, jes' waitin' fo' you to come home. Sho nuff, heah you come, struttin' through the airport like you owned the place."

Lang kicked 4imselfin his mental rear end. As soon as he had presented his passport to Immigration, he had removed his disguise of eye glasses, jowls made with cotton balls, and a stuffed corset that added twenty or thirty pounds to his appearance. The blond hair alone wasn't enough to fool the surveillance cameras.

Two of the policemen roughly spun Lang around, pulling his arms behind him and snapping on the cuffs.

Reilly gave the black detective a smile he certainly didn't feel as he was quickly patted down. "I'll always have you to thank for the lovely trip to Germany I'm about to take."

Rouse bobbed his -head. "You most certainly welcome, Mr. Reilly. City gonna-be a lot more peaceful, you gone." One of the cops held the contents of Lang's pockets. "He's clean. Keys, wallet, two BlackBerrys." Rouse looked incredulous. "Two of them expensive phones, Mr. Reilly?"

"Every lawyer has two so he can talk out of both sides of his mouth. Can you get your bullyboys here to pay the cab for me?"

"Why, sho'. Take your bag inside and have the man put it yo' 'partment, too."

Lang had a small ray of gratitude, thanks to himself for putting the "Couch passport into his suitcase when he removed his disguise. Traveling under a false passport would have earned him weeks, if not months, fending off questions from the State Department, the Transportation Safety Administration, and an alphabet soup of other bureaus, agencies, and administrations he had never heard of.

The inside of the police car smelled of Lysol and vomit.

On Garnett Street, just south of downtown, was the jail, or in the parlance of current political correctness, the City of Atlanta Pretrial Detention Center. The name was misleading. Not only were local miscreants confined there, but the federal government leased space to temporarily house -a few of its involuntary guests. A modern curved facade of red brick faced a neighborhood of weary concrete-block buildings, enlivened only by flashing neon that proclaimed "City Bonding Co.", 'MC Bonds," or,-surprisingly original, "Born Free Bonding."

The outside of the edifice was the only thing that looked new. Inside, linoleum tiles were unevenly worn, walls displayed tiresomely similar graffiti, and the smell of, disinfectant was strong enough to , bring tears to Lang's eyes. He was not surprised that the two officers did not even have to use keys to gain entrance to the supposedly secure areas. The locks had long ago been destroyed by inmates, perhaps the same ones who had knocked out half the glass outside the barred windows. A former governor might well have had this place' in mind when he commented that what the penal system needed was a better class of prisoner.

After being probed and prodded in a strip search, Lang exchanged his cordovan loafers for paper shower slippers. Slacks and 'polo shirt were duly tagged and he was issued a bright orange, beltless jumpsuit at least two sizes too large before being shackled hand and foot and taken up in an elevator that had the odor of human sweat.

"Hey," he said to one of two guards. "I get a phone call, right?"

The man, a tall and muscular black, never took his eyes off the elevator's control panel. "You gits all the phone calls you want. There's a pay phone in the rec room, and you gits four hours a day watchin', playin' chess or checkers, or readin' magazines."

''A regular social club," the other man sneered. "Pay phone?" Lang asked. "They took all my change, along with everything else in my pockets." The big black man was still intent on the panel. "I'd say that there's a real shame." Both men chuckled over what sounded like an old, familiar joke.

Although he had been here many times to visit clients, Lang had only seen the spacious if featureless visiting rooms where lawyers were allowed unrestricted access to their clients. He had never seen the tiered cell blocks, four-story stacks of cages abutted by narrow catwalks. He also had never been aware of the noise, an endless hubbub of screams, shouts, and curses that seemed to be amplified in the confined space.

He was being escorted between his guards. The one in front, the one with the shaved scalp, stopped and examined a ring of keys on his belt. Lang looked at the door to the cell, noting that the locking mechanism consisted of a conventional lock that could be opened with a key, or an electric sensor that probably would allow all doors 'on this particular block to open or lock simultaneously.

With a muffled click, the bolt slid back and one of Lang's jailers stooped to unlock the leg irons while the other watched from a position too distant for a surprise attack. Legs free, the handcuffs were removed and he was shoved into the cell to the accompanying clang of slamming steel bars.

The space was about ten by ten feet. Against one wall was a double-decker bunk. Two cotton-tick mattresses lay on the floor against the other. A steel basin and seatless toilette completed the furnishings. At the point the rear wall met the ceiling, a slit window admitted weak sunlight filtered by years of accumulated dirt and grime.

In years past, Lang had read of regular escapes from the jail, more unscheduled departures than your average Holiday Inn. However men had gotten out, it hadn't been from these cells. One by convincing a guard he was somebody else, another by simply putting down his mop and broom and walking out of an unsecured area. Lax security, complacent guards, and general staff incompetence, not the physical plant, had been at fault.

Lang guessed he wasn't going to be here long enough to find the seams in the system.

Sitting on the lower bunk, he stared at the far wall, seeing not cracked and chipped plaster but a mountaintop in southwestern France, a fireball that had been a helicopter and then smoldering rubble.

Gurt.

Gone.

Not possible.

His reverie was interrupted by an electronic buzz and the clang of doors opening in unison. Lang looked up to see three men, one white, the other two black, paused outside his cell. Also in orange jumpsuits, they waited until the door was fully opened before, as one, they stepped across the threshold.

Unsure of the appropriate protocol, Lang stood.

The larger of the two black men, like Lang's guard, had ·a shaved head. He was well over six feet, his biceps filled the loose sleeves of his jumpsuit, and Lang guessed he was well over two hundred and fifty pounds. Scowling, he regarded Lang with curiosity, the way a buyer might examine a horse. " 'Nother whitebread," he finally said to no one in particular.