Gregg Loomis - The Pegasus Secret

9. The chapter house was the room where the various chapters of the rules of the Order were read to the brothers and such business matters as concerned the Order were discussed.

10. The original draft of the complete charges, eighty-seven in number, is preserved in the Tresor des Chartres and includes various forms of idolatry such as animal worship and imbuing the Grand Master with the ability to forgive sins.

London, Piccadilly

0530 hours

Lang's internal clock woke him. For that one instant, yesterday was as ephemeral as the dream he could no longer remember. Pegasus and the Templars were some living nightmare he expected to vanish like smoke. In their home in Atlanta, Janet and Jeff were getting ready for work and school. Lang needed to check his electronic notebook for the day's appointments.

The feminine smell of the room and the sour taste of last night's greasy Chinese were more substantial. Those and his aching hand, bruised from driving it into the man's stomach the night before, were real.

Lang had dropped off without bothering to undress. That, along with a day's beard, didn't show him the image he would have preferred when he checked the mirror over the vanity. He knocked,on the door to the adjacent bath. No response. Not likely any of Nellie's girls were up at-he checked his watch-five-thirty. Once in the small bath, he latched the far door before peeling off clothes that felt as if they had become part of his skin.

He had to fiddle with the knobs and adjust the detachable shower head before he got a decent spray. The floral aroma of the soap-eau de hooker, he imagined-was a little strong, but it did get him clean even if he did smell like… well, like he had just come from exactly where he was.

As needles of hot water massaged his back, he planned how to get across London, an international border and through whatever French towns and cities might be necessary. He wasn't going to bet that British rail stations and airports weren't being watched.

He finished his shower, reluctantly using the only towel. It reeked worse than the soap. In the cabinet above the sink he found a cute little pink safety razor. Trying not to think of where it might have been used, he carefully shaved around Herr Schneller's moustache. He had become as accustomed to it as if he had grown it himself.

Dry and dressed, Lang surveyed the results: an ordinary working bloke in rumpled clothes. It would have been nice if he had dared to go shopping for new attire. Nice but too risky.

He left the room to see if anyone else was awake.

In a small kitchenette off the main salon, he found a tall black woman in a shiny emerald dress. The garment's deep neckline and high hem told him she had just come in from a night's work.

"Hullo," she said, her voice husky with a West Indian accent. "What cat dragged you in?"

"Nellie let me spend the night."

She turned to face him, her back to a gurgling Mr. Coffee. A sculpted eyebrow arched. "I hate to think what that cost you, honey."

"And I need to get to Manchester," Lang added as though it were an afterthought.

She twisted her long body to fill a mug with steaming coffee. She had to bend over so that her already short skirt rose another six inches. Lang didn't think the effect was accidental.

"Manchester?" she repeated. "You a long way from home, sweetie. Yo wife sho gonna know you gone 'fore you gits home."

"I'll pay for the ride," Lang said. "I ain' no taxi service, dahlin'. Jes' got in mysef. You gonna have to take the train like everbody else." But she seemed to be thinking it over as she sipped from the mug. "Too bad," he said, making a disappointed face. "I'll have to hire a car. I'm sure Nellie knows a service…"

Eyes the same color as the coffee contemplated him over the mug. Lang felt like a heifer being appraised at a county fair. "You some kinda special friend 0' Nellie's?"

He couldn't resist the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Seeing a cup on the counter, he held it out. "Mind?"

Her head gave a slow shake without her eyes leaving him. "Hep yo'seff."

He filled the cup with the remainder of the pot. "Known Nellie a long time."

She emptied her mug and set it on the counter, smacking her lips as though tasting something particularly good. "How much you gonna pay somebody, drive you to Manchester?"

Lang shrugged. "What's it worth, coupla hundred?"

She treated him to dazzling white teeth. "Lovey, for two hundred quid, I'll make it the most fun ride you evah, evah had."

Lang never doubted she could have, but he just wasn't in the mood. It didn't seem to bother her at all when, several hours later, untouched, she dropped him off at the British Airways terminal in Manchester. It was only after she had driven off that Lang realized he hadn't asked her name, nor she his. In fact, she had exhibited a professional lack of curiosity the whole way, saying nothing when he asked her to stop on a bridge where he could toss the Beretta into the river below.

Using the Heinrich Schneller identity and credit card was too chancy. Lang had to assume the umbrella he had left in Jenson's shop had been traced, but he had insufficient cash for the ticket. Since his destination was an EU country, he didn't need a passport, but he was going to have to have something identifying him as a U.K. resident.

He watched a newsstand and chose his victim carefully, a man about Lang's age and build who purchased a Guardian and stuffed his wallet into a jacket pocket. A slight nudge, a polite apology and Lang was Edward Reece, the name on his victim's driver's license. Wearing a pair of newly purchased sunglasses over a face missing Herr Schneller's moustache, Lang picked the busiest counter. Any ticket agent would expect to see his face match that on the license while Lang demonstrated no more than the usual passenger impatience as he shifted his weight and checked his watch.

He tried not look particularly relieved when the pretty woman handed his ticket across the counter. "Enjoy your flight, Mr. Reece. When you arrive in London, ask the agent at the gate for directions to the flight to Toulouse-Blagnac."

Lang slid into the seat with a combination of the apprehension flying always brought and satisfaction that he had pulled it off so far. At Gatwick, he would change from the domestic to international gates without having to pass through security and the scrutiny of the police he was sure were looking for him. He could even use Schneller's Visa card. That was the reason for this specific flight: He wanted to avoid Heathrow, whose configuration would have required he enter the international area through metal detectors, observant cops and cameras.

London, Gatwick International Airport

0956 hours

Lang was inconspicuous among the business travelers shuffling along the concourse. Many, like him, carried no baggage.

He might have been a little suspicious had he seen a passenger behind him duck into a restroom rather than continue towards the waiting flights for destinations all over Great Britain. The man entered a stall, shut the door and sat, only to flip open a cell phone.

"He's on the way," the man said.

London: Mayfair

1102 hours

Gurt sat in front of the monitor, nodding as though expressing agreement. The Visa card had provided an irresistible source of financing for Lang's quest just as she had known it would. She congratulated herself. Men were nothing if not predictable.

Toulouse-Blagnac? Somewhere in the southwest of France, the Languedoc mentioned in those papers Lang had told Jacob about, the ones at Oxford. Apparently Lang thought he would find Pegasus's secret there, the secret that had almost gotten him killed. Maybe he had right, was right, she corrected herself. Had right or was right, he was likely to be in trouble.