Free The Julian Secret (Lang Reilly Thrillers) by Gregg Loomis Page B

kerosene lantern, casting flickering shadows across what, in another setting, could have been the crown frame of a Roman dwelling. Next to it, several more, somewhat less elegant, were visible above the clay.
    “Mausoleums,” the priest stated, careful in his movements lest he slip in loose soil. “Roman tombs along a street in a necropolis. If we dig, below there should be a road between the buildings.”
    The lantern’s light reflected off Pope Pius XII’s glasses, making it appear that the man had fire for eyes. “But that would require the desecration of Christian graves.”
    “I fear so, Holiness.”
    The monsignor knew better than to wait for an answer. The Pope carefully weighed even simple decisions. This was far from simple. Easy enough to keep the pontiff unaware that these events were being described daily to Kaas’s friends in Rome’s German Embassy, difficult to explain to them the delay, friends who were keeping very close track of the events in the Vatican grotto.
    “I shall have to seek guidance,” the Pope said, “God’s advice.”
    The longer you wait, the monsignor thought, God will have less to do with it than Goebbels’ Ministry of Propaganda. The thought of the club-footed cripple made Kaas’s skin crawl as did most Nazis, a most un-Christian feeling. Unlikable as they were, though, Hitler and his henchmen knew the real enemies of the Church: the Communists and their Jewish allies.
    As a mere functionary in the bureaucracy of the Holy See, Kaas kept his opinions to himself. It was not by advocating politics he had been transferred here from Germany nor would he achieve his purpose by speaking out.
    Sometimes, though, silence was difficult.

C HAPTER S EVEN
    Atlanta, Georgia
7:42 p.m. (the present)
    Lang stepped out of the shower in a swirl of steam and walked into the bedroom. He was surprised to see that Gurt wasn’t dressed. Unlike many women, she considered time an absolute, a deadline to be met. Like most Teutonic people, tardiness was a form of disorder, and disorder led to chaos.
    And chaos was enjoyed only by Italians.
    She was sitting on the bed, reading a text message on her BlackBerry.
    Lang rummaged through his underwear drawer. “More spam?”
    Gurt had naively given the number of her supposedly totally secure, Agency-issued, state-of-the-art wireless phone to a cosmetic mail-order house to obtain a products list. She had immediately been flooded with solicitations for everything from sex aids to discount babyproducts. The government’s technology was no match for the ad world’s. Lang wondered how much e-junk the President would have to go through to receive a message of an impending 9/11-style attack.
    Gurt shook her head. “No, Jessica. The police have done nothing.”
    Lang pulled on a pair of boxer shorts before he responded. He had promised Jessica not to drop the matter, but once back in the States, the futility of trying to solve a murder an ocean away was very clear. “Have you tried that guy in Heidelberg?”
    “Blucher? No—not since we got home from Spain two days ago.”
    Two days and Spain was already a dream, a memory shrinking around the edges, as was Lang’s enthusiasm for further involvement. As things had worked out, Mr. Wiley had become anxious to resolve both the criminal and civil cases the day Lang had returned to the office. Sixteen months to serve and a promise of restitution had made both problems go away. Although it was certain Wiley would duly serve his time as a guest at one of the government’s more posh Club Feds, giving back the money was dubious at best. Wiley had far too many bank accounts in places Lang had never heard of to voluntarily part with his hard-earned, if ill-gotten, fortune.
    In any event, Lang had a lot more time on his hands than he had anticipated. “Should we go back to Spain?”
    Gurt slipped a dress over her head, backing up to Lang to operate the zipper. How did women who lived alone get dressed?
    “You are the