The Bonaparte Secret Read online

  The small speedboat careened around the corner of another intersecting canal. This time the side of the craft scraped a set of steps with a protesting crunch of wood against stone. Without reducing speed, Lang continued the turn, completing a 180-degree sweep and almost swamping the ship. He had no sooner straightened out before his pursuers rounded the turn. He passed them before they could react.

  The windshield shattered as bullets whined evilly past his head. Reflexively, he ducked, losing sight of where the boat was headed. Within the split second before he could see again, a four-story palazzo loomed above him. He just had time to spin the wheel, but it was close enough for him to see the expressions of faces pressed against a window.

  A lot of people had to be looking out onto the canal, attracted by the sound of gunfire. One or more of them had called the cops, he guessed from the sound of sirens. By the time the police found the right place in this watery spiderweb of canals, they would be too late.

  The starboard engine gave a cough and went silent.

  Lang yelled directions at Gurt and she dove overboard. Turning the boat around again, he aimed it at the spot he guessed the Riva craft would be seconds later. Then Lang took a dive himself, beginning to swim as fast as he could the second he was in the water. His head came above the greasy green surface just in time to see the Riva veer wildly to avoid the boat Lang had just vacated. They missed the speedboat by inches, started to regain control and smashed head-on into the steps of one of the residences.

  Lang ducked back underwater when he saw the collision was inevitable. Even so, the resulting explosion was clearly audible and seemed to shake the water itself.

  He resurfaced to a sea of floating debris, some of it burning. There was no sign of the two men.

  Ahead of him, Gurt was dragging herself onto a set of stairs that led to an old wooden door with signs of rot at the edges. He noted her purse was slung over one arm, and as she climbed out of the water, she still had her shoes on.

  The latter was hardly surprising. She had just purchased the pair of Pradas before leaving home. Gurt was very fond of the brand.

  Lang pulled himself up beside her. “And what did you learn on our tour of the canals of Venice?”

  Later that evening, after Gurt had retired to the Gulf-stream’s small but comfortable bedroom, Lang found himself staring at the same page of the novel at which he had been looking for several minutes. Sleep aboard an aircraft, even a luxurious private one, was next to impossible for him. Gurt and others had pointed out to him that there wasn’t a lot he could do about an engine failure, fire or other disaster at thirty-five thousand feet asleep or awake, and that he had a superbly trained crew no matter whether he slept or not. It did no good. A couple of drinks and a fine wine from the galley with dinner were no help. He simply couldn’t doze off. The drone of the engines should have acted as a sedative. Instead, they were a stimulant to his nervous system.

  He sighed, put the book down and looked out into the Stygian darkness of a night over the ocean. There were questions bouncing around inside his head like Ping-Pong balls, questions for which he had no answers. The Chinese weapon in the church, the obviously Asian man in the square. For reasons he would not like to try and explain, he would have given odds the men in the pursuing boat had been Asian, perhaps Chinese, too. Long ago Lang had learned to reject coincidence, an explanation used by weaker minds. He was right 90 percent of the time.

  The only reason he could come up with was that the afternoon’s affair had to do with his and Gurt’s interruption of last night’s theft of Saint Mark’s relics. But why? Whoever had wanted the bones had apparently succeeded in making off with them. Perhaps the thieves feared he and Gurt could recognize them, give a description to the police, even though he would have needed a cat’s vision to see facial features in that darkly lit place. And if the theft plus the Asian man were connected, what would an Asian want with the remains of a Christian saint?

  He smiled in spite of the questions he could not answer. The face of the elderly woman who had answered the persistent banging on her door to the canal was worth remembering. With typical Italian hospitality (or was it curiosity?), she had offered towels to the two wet, bedraggled people who had mysteriously appeared on her doorstep. Manners of another age prevented her from asking questions, and she had simply accepted that the fates had sent her two people very much in need of help, or at least admission to her home.

  Or had it been the tradition of fregatura? There was no exact English translation for this uniquely Italian concept. Fregatura was an act somewhat less than entirely legal but short of egregious. It also had the hint of getting away with something, as their elderly hostess would be doing by not notifying the police that the people they were undoubtedly looking for were right here in her parlor.

  Once toweled off, Gurt and Lang had declined her offer to send a servant for dry clothes, explaining their hotel was nearby and only a misstep along the canal had resulted in their falling in. The graciousness of a bygone era prevented the signora from inquiring about the explosion that had surely rattled the shelves of Venetian glass against one of the walls of her centuries-old home. Perhaps she had been too deaf to hear the wailing of the sirens from the police boats.

  The concierge at their Lido hotel had given them an astonished expression as the two wet, rumpled guests, still trailing wet prints from soaked shoes, trudged through his lobby. Obviously, the hotel’s boat driver had not made it back there yet.

  “Signor Reilly?” he had asked.

  “Your boat had engine trouble,” Lang said just as the elevator doors shut. “We had to swim for it.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Law offices of Langford Reilly

  Peachtree Center

  227 Peachtree Street, Atlanta

  Three days later

  Lang Reilly tossed the last of the pink telephone-message slips into the trash and turned on his desktop computer. Sara had taken most of his e-mail but there was enough requiring his attention to keep him busy most of the morning: a notice of hearing on a motion to suppress evidence in the federal court here in Atlanta, a judge’s questions about a pretrial order he had filed in another case, a bond hearing in the local state court. He shook his head at the last. The client, one of the inventory of pro bono clients Lang kept, couldn’t afford a lawyer. He surely couldn’t pay the bondsman, no matter how low the bail. A total waste of time but one of the procedures the court required.

  The phone on his desk buzzed. A quick glance showed the intercom between him and the outer office was the line being used.

  “Yes ma’am?”

  “The Reverend Bishop Groom is here.”

  Sara’s voice bristled with resentment, no doubt at the bishop’s failure to make an appointment. A white-haired prototype of someone’s grandmother, Sara had served as surrogate mother and would-be social director before Gurt’s arrival. She still was secretary, accountant, office manager and a zealous guardian of his time. “Can you see him now?”

  The question was for the visitor’s benefit. Sara knew exactly what Lang was doing at the moment.

  “Send him in.”

  The Reverend Bishop William Groom was, as far as Lang could tell, self-ordained. His nondenominational church in one of Atlanta’s bedroom communities had grown from a few hundred members to well over six thousand, necessitating no less than four services every Sunday and several during the week, plus a televangelical ministry on Sunday nights. More significantly, donations had shown a commensurate increase. Had a number of his parishioners not become disenchanted with both a lifestyle that could only be described as opulent and a more-than-priestly interest in a number of church members’ wives, he might have remained beneath the IRS’s radar indefinitely.

  Currently, Lang was anticipating federal indictment of the good bishop for multiple counts of tax evasion, conspiracy to evade taxes, fraud, mail fraud and a laundry list of related offenses. It would seem Lang’s client had not only been dipping his pen i
nto the company inkwell, his fingers had been in the church’s purse as well.

  Groom came through the door, hand extended. “Thank you so much for seeing me without an appointment.”

  Lang stood to shake hands. “Glad I was available.” He sat behind his desk, indicating one of two leather wing chairs separated by a small French commode. “What can I do for you?”

  Groom was tall, over six feet, with a shock of silver hair he constantly swept aside, a gesture Lang had noted he did with dramatic flair at crucial points of his televised sermons. Still standing, he gazed upward. “First, let us pray.”

  Lang always felt a little uncomfortable when his client spent a good two or three minutes invoking the Lord’s favor on whatever he happened to be doing at the moment as well as seeking heavenly retribution upon those who were persecuting him. Idly, Lang wondered if a brief prayer had been said preparatory to each seduction of one of his flock. It was certain the time spent communicating with the Almighty was duly noted and added to the time spent in legal counseling to be charged against a very generous retainer.

  “Amen,” the bishop said, and sat down.

  Lang looked across the desk expectantly.

  “I’ve been thinking about this matter of the church vehicles. They say . . .” The man’s otherwise-angelic face contorted into an expression that looked like he tasted something extremely unpleasant whenever he referred to the prosecution. “They say I misused church funds to buy vehicles. Do you know, Mr. Reilly, that the Cathedral of the Holy Savior uses its vehicles, mostly buses, to bring to God’s house those who otherwise would be unable to attend services?”

  Lang suppressed a sigh. He had been here before. “Does that include the Ferrari and the turbo Bentley?”

  The bishop hunched his shoulders, a man deeply offended. “Someone in my position needs to display material wealth. Success is a sign of God’s favor, as I constantly preach. We are in very serious trouble, this country of ours, when the Philistines can persecute the faithful because they succeed.”

  Another synonym for the prosecution. He was partially correct, though. The government moved with an uncharacteristically light hand when dealing with religious mountebanks, charlatans and others who saw the First Amendment as license to participate in otherwise-illegal activity. It was only when it became clear someone was using a church as a personal bank account to evade taxes, utilizing the mail to solicit funds that clearly went to private uses, or the church and its pastor became indistinguishable that criminal charges were brought.

  Lang kept the observation to himself.

  “And then there’s the matter of the church’s ownership of homes in the mountains and at the beach. Do you realize how many conferences and retreats the church elders have there every year?”

  As far as Lang had been able to ascertain, there were no church elders, deacons or other persons charged with any office that related to financial decisions.

  He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Elders?”

  “Why yes, of course. You certainly don’t think one person can run an organization the size of the Cathedral of the Holy Savior, do you?”

  Lang reached for a pad with one hand and took a pen from a cup filled with them. “Just who are these elders?”

  “Well, there’s Jamie Shaw . . .”

  Lang put the pen down. “Your son-in-law.”

  And so far, unindicted coconspiritor.

  “And Lewis Reid.”

  Nephew.

  “And, of course, Lois.”

  Wife.

  Lang leaned back in his chair. “The government will contend since the elders are all family members, you don’t have to meet at million-dollar homes in resort areas. How many times a year do you, personally, use those facilities?”

  “A man under as much pressure as I am deserves an occasional long weekend away some place.” He smiled. “Besides, I’ve composed some of my best sermons at the beach.”

  “It might be a little better if the beach to which you refer wasn’t at Sag Harbor in Long Island’s Hamptons. That’s pretty high-octane real estate. And it doesn’t help that you arrive there in a private jet.”

  “We simply charter the airplane.” Bishop Groom looked offended.

  “Actually, if I recall, the church purchased a set number of hours on a Citation for the last four years.”

  “Tending to a flock as large as mine requires transportation.”

  Lang shook his head slowly. “You have members of your congregation in places other than metro Atlanta?”

  “We are always looking to expand the word of the Lord.” The bishop slid forward, sitting on the edge of his chair. “Mr. Reilly, you sound as though you think I’m guilty as charged. That’s not the attitude I want in my defense counsel.”

  Lang didn’t think his client was guilty; he knew it. That was not the question. The issue was whether the assistant United States attorney could convince a jury of it beyond a reasonable doubt.

  Lang picked up the pen and walked it between his fingers. “Bishop, you didn’t hire me for my opinions, nor did you retain me to prove you innocent. Only not guilty. There’s a huge difference.”

  The bishop thought this over for a moment. “Any chance of a deal?”

  Lang shrugged. “There’s always a ‘deal.’ Whether you find it acceptable or not is the question. So far you haven’t authorized me to ask. Shall I?”

  Groom gave this some thought also. “I’ll pray over it and let you know.” He stood, extending a hand. “I find things come easier to me if I take them to the Lord.”

  “Let’s hope this is no exception,” Lang said dryly.

  Lang stood at the door between the outer office and the building’s hallway and bank of elevators, watching his client’s departure.

  “I hope you checked to make sure you still have your watch on your wrist,” Sara snorted from her desk.

  Lang closed the door. “That’s no way to talk about a man who dropped a hundred big on us.”

  Sara swiveled in her chair to face her computer monitor. “A million dollars wouldn’t make him any less of a thief, a liar and a . . .” Her expression indicated she was trying to think of an acceptable phrase to describe the man’s sexual exploits. Her strong disapproval of anything not condoned by the Southern Baptist Church restricted both her world-view and vocabulary.

  She settled for adulterer.

  “He may be all that but he sure had his fun while it lasted.”

  Lang didn’t have to look at her to see her bite back a sharp reply.

  “I’m about to improve the moral quality of my companions. I’m having lunch with Father Francis.”

  As he shut the door to his office, he heard her mutter something like “It’ll do you good!”

  Forty minutes later

  The Capital City Club is the last remnant of what once was the heart of Atlanta’s business, financial and legal communities before flight farther north abandoned the central city streets to winos, beggars and the rare tourist unfortunate enough to lose their way between the Georgia Aquarium and the Martin Luther King Jr. Historic District. Housed in downtown’s sole remaining private clubhouse, a veranda-fronted, tree-flanked, four-story anachronism, it squats between towering skyscrapers. Even though an epidemic of political correctness has made the club no longer the exclusive domain of white, Anglo-Saxon males, a near-life-size portrait of Robert E. Lee is the first thing a visitor sees upon entering the foyer.

  Lang entered the dining room, glanced around and spotted Father Francis Narumba seated at a table with a view of Peachtree Street. A native of one of West Africa’s less desirable countries, the priest had been educated in an American college and seminary and assigned to one of Atlanta’s parishes with a rapidly growing African population. He had been Lang’s sister’s priest after she had inexplicably not only joined the Catholic Church but a congregation where English was a second language. Lang was not particularly religious but he and Francis had become fast friends in the years a
fter her death.

  Men in clerical collars were not uncommon guests at the downtown club, but they were more frequently seen exchanging them for golf shirts in the locker rooms of the club’s two courses outside the city limits.

  Francis stood, the flash of a white smile splitting his face. “How was Venice? Incudi reddere.”

  Francis, like Lang, was a victim of a liberal-arts education. Latin had been an obvious language choice for one planning to enter the priesthood. Lang had no explanation as to why he had chosen the dead tongue. The end result was that the two friends exchanged Latin aphorisms on a regular basis.

  “I have indeed returned to the anvil,” Lang said, sitting and shaking out the linen napkin. “To start with, I just had a visit from the Reverend Bishop Groom. You’ve been reading about him in the paper?”

  Francis wrinkled his nose as though it detected an open sewer. “I have indeed. The fact he has come to see you tells me he’s in the trouble that he richly deserves . . . How many of his parishioners claim he seduced them?”

  Lang signaled to the waitress. “If seduction were a crime, we would be building high-rise jails instead of condos. It’s the fact he’s using his church as a tax dodge that has the U.S. attorney’s boxer shorts in a wad. Vectigalia nervi sunt rei publicae.”

  Francis took the menu proffered by the waitress. “Cicero was right: taxes are the sinews of the state. But I could forgive chiseling on taxes.”

  “You’re in the forgiveness business, remember?”

  Francis ignored him. “It’s using the church’s money for vacation homes, fancy cars, that sort of thing.”

  “Obviously the Cathedral of the Holy Savior doesn’t require a vow of poverty,” Lang observed pointedly. “Divitiae virum faciunt.”

  The waitress was hovering. Both men ordered large shrimp salads.