Gregg Loomis: The Coptic Secret

Behind them, a car door opened. As one, they turned to see Francis climbing out of the church's six-year-old Toyota.

"Hi! Was visiting parishioners and thought I'd stop by!"

Lang smiled. The chances of overwhelmingly white, protestant Ansley Park inhabitants leaving their million-dollar homes to attend a Catholic church, mostly black, poor and in south Atlanta was a stretch, even for the wildly liberal views professed by many of the residents.

Francis was meddling. Lang had no doubt his friend had his and Gurt's best interests at heart, at least as the priest perceived those interests to be, but meddling nonetheless.

Lang and Gurt exchanged glances, knowing what was coming.

Francis, hands behind his back, joined them in viewing the house. "A fine place for Manfred to grow up."

Silence.

The priest cleared his throat. "Exactly when do you two plan to get married?"

Deeper silence.

Undeterred, Francis cleared his throat again and continued. "It would be difficult but I might, just might, be able to get a special dispensation to allow me to perform the ceremony. I mean, with neither of you being practicing Catholics…"

"There's no one I'd rather have marry us," Lang said.

"If we got married," Gurt added.

"But you must." Now Francis was facing them. "Think of your obligation to your son. You want the other children snickering behind his back when he starts school? Do you want-"

"If I wanted a husband, it would be one who does not bring danger to his family," Gurt said with finality. "A man who doesn't become a target."

The remark was patently unfair. Danger had followed Lang like an unwanted stray dog. He had never sought trouble. Well, almost never. Besides, Gurt enjoyed the thrill of life-and-death action as much as he.

Motherhood, he thought, had changed her viewpoint, a she-bear protective of her cub.

But he kept his mouth shut.

Francis looked from one to the other, well aware of the facts. "Suppose both of you disavow violence, promise each other to live like normal people?"

Boring people.

Gurt shrugged nonchalantly. "If he so agrees, so will I."

Lang wasn't sure he had heard correctly. "You mean you'll quit working for the agency, come live permanently in the United States?"

Gurt grinned, the first evidence she was enjoying the exchange. "With a rich husband I should work?"

Francis touched his clerical collar, a gesture of which he was unaware. "Good! Then it's all settled."

Lang was far from sure but hoped so. He wasn't, as they say, getting any younger and a little peace and quiet might even do him some good. And spending every day with the two people he loved more than anything was a prospect of nothing but joy.

His BlackBerry chimed as though to remind him of the real world outside Ansley Park. Without taking it out of his pocket, he turned it off.

The real world could wait.

Thirteen books of the Nag Hammadi Library were recovered. The Bedouins who found them were uncertain how many their mother had actually used to start cooking fires nor were the authorities ever completely sure none of the volumes were sold on Cairo's thriving antiquities black market.

Most city building codes prohibit use of gas in high-rise buildings, an effort to prevent what happened to Lang occurring by accident. Atlanta allows exceptions upon special permit.

Honesty requires acknowledgment of sources even if used in fictionalized form. Additionally, readers frequently e-mail me, requesting the place they can find more on some of the historical facts that form the basis of plots.

For both reasons, I include the following:

Ron Cameron's translation of the text of the Secret Book of James was most helpful, although I took considerable liberties with it to make the plotline work. I used Paul Tobin's The Rejection of Pascal's Wager: A Skeptic's Guide to Christianity and James the Brother of Jesus by Robert Eisenman in dealing with James as the blood brother of Jesus and the perpetual virginity of Mary. The description of the discovery of the Nag Hammadi Library is based on Elaine Pagels's The Gnostic Gospels.

I would be ungrateful as well as in deep trouble if I didn't also note here that my wife, Suzanne, constantly frequents history's curio shop in search of dusty and forgotten scraps of the past.

My agent, Mary Jack Wald, has infinite patience, certainly more than I deserve. Don D'Auria and his wonderful artistic, publicity and editing staff at Dorchester deserve a great deal of credit for any success of the Lang Reilly yarns.

G.L.

February 5, 2008