Gregg Loomis - The Pegasus Secret

She stood and exited the smoke-sensitive computer room, pausing under a "No Smoking" sign in the corridor to light a Marlboro. She needed to call in a few more favors, go see the guys in the Second Directorate, Science and Technology, although what she needed wasn't particularly scientific nor was it exactly high-tech.

But first a phone call on a secure land line. Ignoring the glares of the health-conscious, she kept her burning cigarette as she rode down on the elevator. Outside, a brisk walk brought her to an Underground station and a bank of public phones.

She dialed a number, inserting coins when the other end answered. "You were right," she said without preamble. "He's headed to France. In fact, his plane should be landing about now." She listened for a moment. "Fine, I'll meet you."

Toulouse-Blagnac International Airport

1142 hours

As an arrival from a European Union country, there was no customs, no immigration, no reason for the two airport gendarmes near Gate Seven to notice Lang. They were far too intent on the young lady disposing of the morning's breakfast croissants behind the small cafeteria counter. She was living proof of the unfairness of life as evidenced by the diversity manufacturers offer in bra sizes.

Lang had disembarked into a large, modern terminal that, absent the multilingual signs, could just as easily have served Birmingham or Peoria. His companions from the flight dispersed quickly, none exhibiting any interest in him. Departing passengers were herded aboard quickly, the aircraft reloaded with baggage and in minutes Lang was the only traveler left in the gate area. It didn't look like he was being followed.

The bathtub at Nellie's had been more spacious than the Peugeot Junior he had reserved before leaving Gatwick. Good thing he had no luggage; there would have been little room.

It was the only thing Euro Car had, so Lang presented Mr. Reece's license, signed the rental agreement, paid a cash deposit and wedged himself in. He was fairly certain that when Reese discovered his wallet missing, he would notify the appropriate parties of the loss of credit cards long before his driver's permit.

Once Lang found the road, he headed through identical modern high-rises, wondering why modern European multifamily housing was uniformly ugly. Signs led him to the centre de ville, or downtown. Medieval stone and plaster replaced contemporary cookie-cutter.

He noted at least one advantage to the car's size as he shoehorned it into a parking place between an aging Deux Chevaux and a Renault. Over the top of the Renault, he could see the pink brick tower of the Basilique St. Sernin, all that remained of an eleventh-century monastery, according to the guidebook he had picked up at the airport.

Although the Peugeot fit into the parking place, there wasn't a lot of room for Lang to open the door and squeeze out. He managed, and walked a block to the town square, which featured the cathedral ubiquitous to European towns. This morning the square itself had been transformed into a small marketplace. Temporary stalls displayed a surprising variety-of vegetables for so early in the spring. There were flowers, too, in almost every color, their fragrance mixing with the odor of fish, crustaceans and mussels shining on trays of shaved ice.

Women held small children and haggled with vendors. As in Rome, there were few men in sight.

He left the square and walked down one of the narrow cobbled streets, looking for what he needed. He passed a charcuterie with feathered fowl and unskinned game hanging in the window above fat sausages. Next was a patisserie, its pies and cakes freshly baked along with long loaves of bread. Habit made him check the glass display windows for anyone else on the street. There was no reflection but his.

He found a shop that had camping supplies and a small tent in the window. From its location, he guessed the store had mostly a local clientele.

The Languedoc was, after all, a small, largely rural province pushed against the shoulders of the Pyrenees. From what Lang had seen so far, it attracted few tourists. When people spoke of the south of France, they usually referred to the Languedoc's neighbor to the east, the summer playground of the wealthy, the Riviera. Cannes, Nice and Cap d'Antibes were world-famous. In contrast, few people outside of France could name a town in the Languedoc other than Rochefort, home of the blue-veined cheese.

The nearby foothills and mountains did attract local rock climbers and campers, vacationers very different from those of the Cote d'Azur. The out-of-doors types were typically young, adventurous and unable to afford a trip to the more distant and prestigious Alps.

All of that might have accounted for the proprietor's surliness. That and the fact he was French. Lang didn't look as young as he guessed most customers would be and he hoped he looked a little wealthier. Lang was sure he didn't appear to enjoy the grime, insects and unpredictable weather of the great outdoors, either.

But he did know what he wanted: hiking boots, Mephistos. Best in the shop and certainly the most expensive, judging from the shopkeeper's sudden enthusiasm in showing them. Lang picked out a felt hat with a prestained leather band that Indiana Jones might have favored, a half liter plastic canteen in a carrying case, two thick cotton shirts, two pairs of jeans, and other equipment any hiker might need such as a compass, a collapsible trenching tool and a flashlight with extra batteries. Finally, he selected two coils of rope, the strong, light-weight fiberglass variety favored by serious mountain climbers. By the time Lang paid for such a large order, probably equal to a week's sale, all trace of French disdain had been replaced by a regular bonhomie.

Two doors down the street, he bought a cheap camera complete with flash capabilities, several rolls of film and a cardboard suitcase for his purchases, acquisitions that he struggled to fit into the Peugeot's limited storage space.

Leaving town, Lang headed south towards Limoux on the D118, two narrow lanes writhing through terrain that was different from any he had ever seen. Green hills alternated with sharp spikes of bare white rock like giant bones reaching from the earth. To his right, the Pyrenees were as ephemeral as a dream in the distant haze.

He had the road mostly to himself, seeing more tractors than cars. He passed vineyards, budding vines defying what looked like rocky soil. Sheep were like cotton on the hillsides. Sunflowers and tobacco were little more than fields of green buds.

The further south he drove, the more ruins he saw, remains of once-mighty fortresses and castles bleaching under the same sun that had warmed Pietro seven centuries before. The thought was spooky, as though he was regressing in time.

Limoux went by. According to the map that came with the car, it was the last place large enough to be depicted as a town before the coast. Suddenly Lang was winding along the lip of a deep canyon with water sparkling far below. Also below were red tile roofs of villages he hoped were Esperaza and Campagne-sur-Aude. The Spanish-sounding names made him remember something he had read, that this part of the Languedoc had been part of Catalonia before one of those endless wars that had redrawn Europe's boundaries for two millennia.

If there was a sign announcing Rennes-les-Bains, Lang missed it. His first notice he had arrived in the tiny village was a cluster of plastered, tile-roofed buildings that crowded the highway. The place was too small for a cathedral or even a square but he did have to slow to a crawl as he came up behind a tractor. Both driver and machine had seen better days.

Despite clouds of greasy diesel smoke, Lang saw the sign to the Hostellerie de Rennes-les-Bains in time-to turn onto a dirt drive lined with flowering fruit trees. In front of him was a pink-washed building on a slight rise. According to the guidebook, it was the only hotel within miles.