remembered thinking the weapon was huge. But then, almost any gun grew in size when pointed directly at the observer.
Before the pistol could be fired, Lang moved.
In a single motion he slammed his shoulder into Alicia, knocking her out of her chair, clearing their table, and propelling both of them under an adjacent one.
Two shots filled the dining room with ear-pressing roars. Lang was only marginally aware of the thump of bullets on the tabletop between him and the gunman, of the acrid smell of cordite and a scream from somewhere in the direction in which the maître d' had disappeared.
He was completely aware of footsteps retreating at a deliberate pace. He took a cautious peek over the table top. Overcoat was gone.
He extended a hand to Alicia. "You okay?"
"Yeah, fine."
She stood on legs that seemed none too stable, ruefully contemplating a run in her hose and a stain on her skirt that indicated the cap on some condiment on the table had not been screwed on tight. "Next time I make a wise-ass remark about lunch being filled with excitement, wash my mouth out, will you?"
Confident that all danger had passed and the police had been summoned, the waitstaff appeared in a solicitous group.
"Lunch is on the house," the maître d' announced.. "You're gonna have to stay here until the cops arrive, anyway."
Lang looked at Alicia. "How 'bout it?"
"Since we have to wait, we may as well."
Lang had expected Morse. He got two bored uniforms. Apparently near misses weren't worth the detective's time. One cop carefully filled in a form that Lang knew from experience covered everything from murder to auto theft and would soon vanish into the department's clerical maw, where it would be filed away or lost, forgotten in either event. He was not surprised when one of the officers found an overcoat and watch cap in the alley outside; nor did he have any trouble identifying them as the ones worn by the assailant.
When the police had filled out every line on the report and left, lunch arrived.
Lang sampled his chicken Caesar salad. "Maybe this place's not as bad as I recalled."
Alicia grinned, showing perfect teeth. "Not bad, but I wouldn't recommend the floor show. That guy a former client? Must be real unhappy. Would have been easier to go to the state bar and complain."
"My former clients are either satisfied or in jail. I've never seen that one before."
She toyed with her fork as if trying to summon an appetite. "Then why would he want to kill you?"
He didn't, Lang almost said. At that range he could have effortlessly done so. Overcoat was simply delivering a warning.
But about what?
NINE
Peachtree Center
227 Peachtree Street
Atlanta, Georgia
1:42 p.m. EST
Lang's day deteriorated further.
He suspected it would as soon as he entered his suite of offices and saw Sara's face.
"Louis deVille called from Brussels. The Belgian police contacted him to confirm that Benjamin Yadish worked for us. He was murdered in Belgium last night," she announced.
It took Lang a moment to recall the name. "Isn't he one of the physiochemists working on the foundation's alternatives-to-fossil-fuel program?"
"That's him. He was in Brussels to meet with the European project manger. Apparently he decided to drive to Bruges for some reason. That's where he was shot."
"Any information, like who or why?"
"None yet."
Lang had never met the man, but his credentials were emerging from his memory. "Lived in Amsterdam, didn't he?"
Sara had a file open in front of her. She nodded. "Wife, no children."
Lang put down the stack of pink callback slips he had picked up from her desk. "He's the one who has a degree from just about every university in Western Europe, right?"
"That's the one."
Lang went into his office and closed the door before he reached for the phone and punched 011 for international, 32 for Belgium, 2 for Brussels, and seven numbers for the person. He checked his watch as the line bleeped and peeped. Well after 1900—seven
Before the pistol could be fired, Lang moved.
In a single motion he slammed his shoulder into Alicia, knocking her out of her chair, clearing their table, and propelling both of them under an adjacent one.
Two shots filled the dining room with ear-pressing roars. Lang was only marginally aware of the thump of bullets on the tabletop between him and the gunman, of the acrid smell of cordite and a scream from somewhere in the direction in which the maître d' had disappeared.
He was completely aware of footsteps retreating at a deliberate pace. He took a cautious peek over the table top. Overcoat was gone.
He extended a hand to Alicia. "You okay?"
"Yeah, fine."
She stood on legs that seemed none too stable, ruefully contemplating a run in her hose and a stain on her skirt that indicated the cap on some condiment on the table had not been screwed on tight. "Next time I make a wise-ass remark about lunch being filled with excitement, wash my mouth out, will you?"
Confident that all danger had passed and the police had been summoned, the waitstaff appeared in a solicitous group.
"Lunch is on the house," the maître d' announced.. "You're gonna have to stay here until the cops arrive, anyway."
Lang looked at Alicia. "How 'bout it?"
"Since we have to wait, we may as well."
Lang had expected Morse. He got two bored uniforms. Apparently near misses weren't worth the detective's time. One cop carefully filled in a form that Lang knew from experience covered everything from murder to auto theft and would soon vanish into the department's clerical maw, where it would be filed away or lost, forgotten in either event. He was not surprised when one of the officers found an overcoat and watch cap in the alley outside; nor did he have any trouble identifying them as the ones worn by the assailant.
When the police had filled out every line on the report and left, lunch arrived.
Lang sampled his chicken Caesar salad. "Maybe this place's not as bad as I recalled."
Alicia grinned, showing perfect teeth. "Not bad, but I wouldn't recommend the floor show. That guy a former client? Must be real unhappy. Would have been easier to go to the state bar and complain."
"My former clients are either satisfied or in jail. I've never seen that one before."
She toyed with her fork as if trying to summon an appetite. "Then why would he want to kill you?"
He didn't, Lang almost said. At that range he could have effortlessly done so. Overcoat was simply delivering a warning.
But about what?
NINE
Peachtree Center
227 Peachtree Street
Atlanta, Georgia
1:42 p.m. EST
Lang's day deteriorated further.
He suspected it would as soon as he entered his suite of offices and saw Sara's face.
"Louis deVille called from Brussels. The Belgian police contacted him to confirm that Benjamin Yadish worked for us. He was murdered in Belgium last night," she announced.
It took Lang a moment to recall the name. "Isn't he one of the physiochemists working on the foundation's alternatives-to-fossil-fuel program?"
"That's him. He was in Brussels to meet with the European project manger. Apparently he decided to drive to Bruges for some reason. That's where he was shot."
"Any information, like who or why?"
"None yet."
Lang had never met the man, but his credentials were emerging from his memory. "Lived in Amsterdam, didn't he?"
Sara had a file open in front of her. She nodded. "Wife, no children."
Lang put down the stack of pink callback slips he had picked up from her desk. "He's the one who has a degree from just about every university in Western Europe, right?"
"That's the one."
Lang went into his office and closed the door before he reached for the phone and punched 011 for international, 32 for Belgium, 2 for Brussels, and seven numbers for the person. He checked his watch as the line bleeped and peeped. Well after 1900—seven
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