beers for which the Czechs are famous. In fact, Lang recalled, pilsner was first brewed only fifty miles away.
Taking his time, he surveyed his surroundings. The place probably looked pretty much the same when Franz Kafka wrote stories of people turning into cockroaches and trials where no accusations were made.
No one paid any particular attention to him. Slowly savoring his beer, he scanned a menu in English before ordering a salami chlebicky , an open-faced sandwich served on a baguette. He ate watching the crowd. Still no one seemed interested in him. By the time he had finished and dusted away the last of the crumbs, every table had turned at least once.
He had done what he could to make sure no one had followed him.
Still cautious, he left the square to walk around the block. He paused, seeming to admire toys in a shop window while he checked reflections of passersby. None of the faces were those he had seen earlier today. He returned to the square and entered the huge arched doorway of a blue- tinted building on the south side.
He stood in a cavernous, vaulted space he guessed had once been a stable. A sign at the back advertised a restaurant in the basement below with red, hot and blues! live american jazz and blues nightly. A stone staircase on his right led to the hotel whose small sign he had noted while he enjoyed his meal. He pushed the buzzer for an antique cage-style elevator. His mending legs could use a respite.
The place had clearly been a private home at one time. On each floor, rooms were angled from a center vestibule so that there had been no need for corridors. Yes, they had a vacancy, the English-speaking lady at the small office announced. It fronted right on the square. Would Lang like to see it?
Minutes later, Lang was in a modestly furnished, high- ceilinged room, poring over the free city map common to most European cities. All its advertisers' locations were prominently marked. Starozitnictvi Starov was not among them. Returning to the office, Lang had the proprietress run the name through her computer's city directory.
She looked up from the screen and pointed. "It is a dealer in old books. It is to be found in the Mala Strana , Little Quarter." She pointed as though Lang could see through the walls of the cramped space. "The area just on the other side of the Charles Bridge."
II.
Piazza dei Cavatieri di Malta
Aventine Hill
Rome
At the Same Time
The older man was looking over the shoulder of the younger, squinting at the computer screen. "You have found nothing, Antonio?"
Antonio shook his head. "Nothing, Grand Master. The American lawyer, the woman, the child—even the dog— disappeared after leaving the pawnshop" He turned to look into the face of the other man. "But I can speculate, should you permit."
"Please."
"We know this man, Reilly, has access to a private jet." He paused long enough to click several keys. A photograph of Lang at the British Museum filled the screen. "We also know that jet left for Africa the day before yesterday"
"Africa? I don't—"
Antonio held up a cautionary hand. "If I may, Grand Master?"
The older nodded. "Forgive my interruption"
"The plane made a single stop en route: Munich "
"And you think this Reilly was on it."
It was Antonio's turn to nod. "I cannot know, of course, but our brothers in Germany are to obtain copies of whatever documents the aircraft submitted to the authorities. We should know before tomorrow"
"That may well be too late. Discovery of the contents of those books would mean disaster."
Antonio was silent for a moment. "We do not know there are copies."
"It is a chance we cannot risk. It is better we eliminate this American than to find we have made a mistake. Safer yet, we must silence all but us who might know of the contents of the book. That is why the Englishman died. We must continue to observe the shop from whence they came. If he has found out anything, he will come there."
"It will be done, Grand
Taking his time, he surveyed his surroundings. The place probably looked pretty much the same when Franz Kafka wrote stories of people turning into cockroaches and trials where no accusations were made.
No one paid any particular attention to him. Slowly savoring his beer, he scanned a menu in English before ordering a salami chlebicky , an open-faced sandwich served on a baguette. He ate watching the crowd. Still no one seemed interested in him. By the time he had finished and dusted away the last of the crumbs, every table had turned at least once.
He had done what he could to make sure no one had followed him.
Still cautious, he left the square to walk around the block. He paused, seeming to admire toys in a shop window while he checked reflections of passersby. None of the faces were those he had seen earlier today. He returned to the square and entered the huge arched doorway of a blue- tinted building on the south side.
He stood in a cavernous, vaulted space he guessed had once been a stable. A sign at the back advertised a restaurant in the basement below with red, hot and blues! live american jazz and blues nightly. A stone staircase on his right led to the hotel whose small sign he had noted while he enjoyed his meal. He pushed the buzzer for an antique cage-style elevator. His mending legs could use a respite.
The place had clearly been a private home at one time. On each floor, rooms were angled from a center vestibule so that there had been no need for corridors. Yes, they had a vacancy, the English-speaking lady at the small office announced. It fronted right on the square. Would Lang like to see it?
Minutes later, Lang was in a modestly furnished, high- ceilinged room, poring over the free city map common to most European cities. All its advertisers' locations were prominently marked. Starozitnictvi Starov was not among them. Returning to the office, Lang had the proprietress run the name through her computer's city directory.
She looked up from the screen and pointed. "It is a dealer in old books. It is to be found in the Mala Strana , Little Quarter." She pointed as though Lang could see through the walls of the cramped space. "The area just on the other side of the Charles Bridge."
II.
Piazza dei Cavatieri di Malta
Aventine Hill
Rome
At the Same Time
The older man was looking over the shoulder of the younger, squinting at the computer screen. "You have found nothing, Antonio?"
Antonio shook his head. "Nothing, Grand Master. The American lawyer, the woman, the child—even the dog— disappeared after leaving the pawnshop" He turned to look into the face of the other man. "But I can speculate, should you permit."
"Please."
"We know this man, Reilly, has access to a private jet." He paused long enough to click several keys. A photograph of Lang at the British Museum filled the screen. "We also know that jet left for Africa the day before yesterday"
"Africa? I don't—"
Antonio held up a cautionary hand. "If I may, Grand Master?"
The older nodded. "Forgive my interruption"
"The plane made a single stop en route: Munich "
"And you think this Reilly was on it."
It was Antonio's turn to nod. "I cannot know, of course, but our brothers in Germany are to obtain copies of whatever documents the aircraft submitted to the authorities. We should know before tomorrow"
"That may well be too late. Discovery of the contents of those books would mean disaster."
Antonio was silent for a moment. "We do not know there are copies."
"It is a chance we cannot risk. It is better we eliminate this American than to find we have made a mistake. Safer yet, we must silence all but us who might know of the contents of the book. That is why the Englishman died. We must continue to observe the shop from whence they came. If he has found out anything, he will come there."
"It will be done, Grand
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