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

accountants to unravel. Well, a regiment at least.
    A half hour of evading further questions left the FBI agent frustrated and Lang mentally fatigued. He could have gone on, however. Agency training included aggressive interrogation, a course its students referred to as “creative obfuscation.” This woman was a sweetie compared to the instructors under whom Lang had suffered. His training had also included ascertaining exactly what the person asking the questions did and didn’t know from the line of inquiry. Same, similar, and re-asked questions made it clear to him that the Feds suspected the foundation was into something other than charity work. Exactly what, he was fairly certain, they had no idea.
    She was clearly winding down, asking, “You’re a lawyer, right?”
    She made it sound like an accusation.
    Lang was tired of standing, but he understood asking to sit would be interpreted as a sign he was weakening. Actually, it was a sign his new toe caps hurt. “That’s right.”
    “No wonder we can’t get a straight answer,” said an anonymous voice from the back of the room.
    Lawyer-bashing, a sport even government bureaucrats could play.
    Special Agent Burns sounded like she had just discovered his darkest secret. She pounced. “So you’re used to interrogation procedures.”
    “That’s what lawyers do, ask witnesses questions.”
    There was a snicker from the back of the room that drew a daggerlike stare from the FBI woman.
    A few more questions and he was told to go, excused like an unruly child from after-school detention. Since no one had a clue as to the source of the attempted sabotage, he, Lang, was the convenient suspect, he was sure, although it was unclear why an extremely wealthy charitable foundation would want to destroy either a multimillion-dollar aircraft or the executives who flew on it.
    Lang did have an idea, though he wasn’t about to share it. So far, it had no name, no face. But it was linked to Don Huff. First Lang’s car, then his foundation’s plane. What was next, the thirty-story building in which he lived? Finding Don’s killer had become very personal. Personal and a matter of life and death.
    Lang’s life and death.

C HAPTER T EN
    Atlanta Hartsfield—Jackson International Airport
Delta Crown Room, Concourse B
The next day
    Gurt was sipping a beer, her eyes wandering across the crowded room. “Explain again why we are going to Chicago.”
    Lang was stirring sweetener into a cup of flavorless coffee. “These people, whoever they are, obviously have someone watching.”
    Gurt waited for the wail of a nearby infant to subside rather than raise her voice. “Obviously?”
    Resigned to the fact that he was going to add no taste other than sweet to his beverage, Lang took a sip and grimaced. “First, they know I usually park and pick up the Porsche myself. How many residents you think pay the same fees I do and still fetch their own car?”
    Gurt shrugged. “Those who do not need wheelchairs or walkers?”
    The building had a fair percentage of what management euphemistically referred to as “seniors.”
    Lang was uncertain if Gurt was serious or making a joke. It was hard to tell with Germans. “Actually, almost everyone, old or young, uses the valet car service. Whoever planted the bomb knew I didn’t. They also knew I was going to use the Gulfstream for this trip.”
    Gurt set her glass down. “Or were willing to wait until your next flight in it.”
    “Possible,” Lang conceded, “but I don’t think so. The acid would have completely eaten through that cable in a day or two, and then the sabotage would have been detected.” He frowned. “Of course, that’s why we’re flying commercially now, so the plane can be completely torn down and inspected, make sure there are no more surprises waiting.”
    Gurt stood and went to refresh her beer. Admiring glances from men and jealous ones from women followed her like the wake of a ship.
    She returned with a glass in