The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller by Gregg Loomis

 As Alik Grituchlik faded from the screen, Marcie continued to stare at it as though it were refusing to answer her questions. What would be the odds of a three-year-old American child, purely by chance, scratching numbers onto his arm that resembled those tattooed on Auschwitz prisoners over seventy years ago? But if not chance, what?
         She could almost make out a face on the thing creeping around the edge of her mind. Almost, but not quite.
         She glanced around the room. She hadn't come here merely to refresh her recollection of an old man who had witnessed more horrors in a few years than any should see in a lifetime. But now what?
         There were more reference machines and a film on the third floor. It only took a few minutes to learn about the significance of the triangle: it denoted Jew, as opposed to homosexual, Russian, Gypsy, or political dissident, each of whom had their own code. Although not stunning in itself, the fact took her breath away for a moment. If there had been any doubt as to the origins of the marks on Wynn-Three's arm, it had vanished like smoke.
         She decided she could use a cigarette.
         Outside the building's 14th Street exit, she shivered in the February chill made even more uncomfortable by the pervading dampness that characterizes some of Washington's winter days. She should have brought a warmer jacket. Her hand shook as she lit a cigarette, her first of the day.
         Assuming she had solved the riddle of the origin of the numbers, she

was now faced with a bigger mystery: Where had they come from? Were they real, actually having been tattooed on some unfortunate Jew's arm? Or had they popped unbidden into a three-year-old's imagination? But even the most fertile imagination had to have some origin, some source where fact left off and fancy began. What if . . .
         "Depressing, isn't it?"
         Marcie had not noticed she had been joined outside by a small band of modern-day lepers, the smokers. The young man who had spoken was wearing a Washington Redskins knit cap and a ski jacket.
         She nodded. "Yes it is. You work here?"
         "Sure do." He took a step closer and lowered his voice slightly. "Been here since it opened."
         Marcie put her left hand in her jacket pocket so the wedding ring didn't show, a frequently effective move when she was asking a man for information. "I looked at the registry of survivors. Is there any place former inmates are listed by number?"
         The young man took a deep drag from his cigarette and chewed his lower lip. "Number?"
         "You know, the number tattooed on the left arm."
         He exhaled a column of smoke. The wind snatched it away so quickly she wondered if she had really seen it at all. "You mean Auschwitz survivors."
         "That was the only place they tattooed prisoners?"
         He nodded as he examined the tip of his cigarette before a final drag and ground it into the pavement. "Far as I know."
         "Okay. Is there a registry?"
         He seemed to consider this a moment before answering. "Not here. Not anywhere, I'd guess."
         Marcie took a final puff before adding to the litter of butts on the ground. "Why not? Seems like another way to identify survivors."
         "That's just it: the numbers were tattooed to identify prisoners , slave laborers, hardly something to be proud of. Making up a list of those numbers would be like truly adding insult to injury."
         Marcie was puzzled. "I don't get it. Are you saying Auschwitz survivors are ashamed ?"
         "Something like that."
         "Why? It's not like they did anything wrong other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time."
         The young man reached inside his jacket and produced a pack of generic cigarettes. He offered one to Marcie, who shook her head, before lighting up. "I think they don't see it that way. I had to guess, I'd speculate most of them, the Jews, anyway, do have some degree