The Elizabethan Secret (Lang Reilly Series Book 9) by Gregg Loomis Page A

military M9, also known as a 9mm Beretta 92F.
                  “Keep looking. There’ll be another in there somewhere.”
                  And there was.
                  Removing the clip from one, Lang stuck the other in his belt while he waited for his two uninvited guests to regain at least most of their faculties.
                  He used to Beretta to motion them to a seat on the couch. He took a chair across the room. “I’m assuming you were after the same object you demanded in my office.”
                  A statement, not a question.
                  If it had been, the look the two exchanged would have answered it. Apparently, ONI did not include interrogation resistance in its curriculum.
                  “We’re not saying anything, Reilly,” Semitz growled.
                  “Except that you are endangering national security,” Rodgers added.
                  “Just how do you come to that conclusion?” Lang asked.
                  “Like I said, we’re not talking.”
                  “Let me get this straight: You break into my home without anything resembling a warrant, no doubt in search of an article the use of which you don’t even know . . .”
                  “Never said that,” Semitz snapped.
                  Lang grinned. “You just did. I’m guessing you, Naval Intelligence, found out the Russians were interested in an article being auctioned and just like any kid on the playground, decided if the Ivans wanted it, you did, too.
                  Silence.
                  Jeez! And to think my taxes go to support what amounts to adults playing in the sandbox!
                  “You were with the Agency,” Semitz accused. “You know what it’s like: You take orders. Now, why don’t you hand over the thingamajig and save yourself the hassle?”
                  “For a very simple reason: I don’t have it.”
                  “Who does?” Rogers wanted to know.
                  Lang held up a hand, a verbal traffic cop. “I don’t have it.”
                  “Oh yeah?” Semitz sneered. “Who does?”
                  “As far as you two are concerned, the man in the moon. Now, you guys might want to sit around my house all day but I’ve got  vacation with my family to finish. If you can get dressed and out of here in the next five minutes, go in peace. If you’re still around after that, I’m calling the cops. And yes, I was with the Agency. I well remember what happened to operatives who fucked up and got their names and pictures in the local media. I don’t think you want to spend a winter in Kodiak. In the meantime, I hope to find out exactly what the object you’re after really is. If it’s anything remotely affecting national security, I’ll decide what to do with it then.”
                  “Not sure I trust you, Reilly,” Semitz said.             
                  “Not sure you have a choice. Other than getting the hell out of my house.”
                  Rogers stood, eyeing the pile his clothes. “Any chance I could take a shower first?”

18.
    837 State Street
    Physics Building
    Office of Abram Wildstein, Ph.D.
    Four Days Later
     
                  The professor was distraught and with good reason. Every drawer in the tiny office hung open, vomiting paper, notebooks, photographs and other material. The door to a small supply closet hung ajar, its shelves empty, the floor awash in paper, file folders, and text books.
                  He shook his head, sending Einstein-like hair bobbing as he announced the obvious. “Someone ransacked the place!”
                  From the door Lang Reilly surveyed the disarray. “And the thing I