Rue des Bouchers
Brussels, Belgium
Two Hours Later
Lang had returned the scarred Mercedes to the foundation's garage. The attendant gaped at what were obvious bullet holes. The man was staring openmouthed, too fascinated to notice as Lang dropped the keys into his hand.
"In America," Lang said, "we call it road rage."
From there he walked to the offices on the flamboyant Grand Place, the geographic, historical, and commercial center of the city. Surrounded by elaborate seventeenth- century architecture, it housed statues of saints and busts of a ducal line peering from their lofty niches high above the bustling cobblestone square. The Hotel de Ville, city hall, with its fourteenth-century spire, competed for attention with the former palace of Belgium's Spanish monarchs.
Lang entered Le Pigeon, former residence of Victor Hugo during his exile from France. The grand old building had been converted into commercial space long ago.
Louis deVille dropped the telephone when Lang walked into his office. "Monsieur Reilly!"
He came around the desk to clasp Lang with both hands. He was about to kiss him on each cheek when he recalled Lang's opinion of the traditional French greeting.
Instead he dropped his arms and gloved Lang's right hand in both of his own. "The police were on the phone. Someone hijacked the car and the driver called them. Since your flight crew reported you had gotten in it at the airport…"
Lang extracted his hand as politely as possible. "I took a tour of the countryside. I'm fine. The Mercedes needs to go to the body and glass shops, though."
Louis took a step back. "Who…?"
"Good question. I have a license plate number."
Louis looked at a jeweled watch, the sort Of thing few American men would wear to any event other than a pimp's convention. "It is near lunch. Have you eaten?"
Without waiting for a reply, Louis punched the intercom on his desk and rattled off a command in French.
"I have asked that the police inspector with whom I was speaking join us. He can ask his questions over a bowl of moules as well as here, no?"
Outside, blue was breaking through the dove gray skies. The drizzle had stopped altogether.
The two men crossed the square and walked along one of the Lower Town's main thoroughfares, Boulevard Anspach. Lang loitered, checking behind him by use of reflections in shop windows. Unlike in most U.S. cities, lunch was not a hurried affair here. It normally consisted of an hour and a half of throngs seeking good food and pleasant company. Consequently, spotting a tail in the crowd was difficult if not impossible.
A few blocks south, Louis stopped in front of the Eglise St-Nicolas, where a Gothic-style church marked the site of a twelfth-century marketplace. They turned left and strolled through the Galeries St-Hubert, a nineteenth- century glass-domed arcade, the location of familiar names such as Hermes and Chanel. Here it would be a lit- tle easier to discern a follower. Men hurried through; women idled in front of shop windows.
There was still no evidence that they were under surveillance.
An ornately decorated exit let out onto the Rue des Bouchers, in English the Street of the Butchers. The narrow alley was lined on both sides with restaurant after restaurant, each with an awning out front for al fresco dining and each featuring moules, mussels, boiled with onion, steamed with wine or beer, in sauce or butter. They were being served in the shell, in stews or cold, with horseradish, ketchup, or bearnaise sauce. Shiny, black-winged shellfish that could be prepared more ways than potatoes.
And Lang knew from experience they were all delicious.
Louis slid behind a small table around which four fragile chairs shouldered one another for room. He motioned Lang in beside him. The waiter had just delivered the menus when a thin man in a loosely cut suit approached.
"Mr. Reilly?" He extended a hand. The nails were bitten to the quick.
Lang stood, a question on his face as he shook.
"I am Inspector Henre Vorstaat." He showed a badge and sat before an invitation could be extended. "I was speaking with M. deVille about the theft of your car."
The man's face seemed too narrow to accommodate the mouth, his expression doleful. Lang guessed the tiny folds around his eyes came more from frowning than laughing.
Hercule Poirot he wasn't.
His English had the hard edge of Flemish. "I also understand Mr. Benjamin Yadish was employed by you. Having your foundation's car forcibly taken and a murder in the same week looks like a crime wave, no?"
"More like a tsunami."
"Oh?"
The waiter was hovering. Both the other men ordered without looking at the menu.
"I'll have the same," Lang said.
He waited until the waiter had retreated before continuing. "We also had an employee killed in the States, apparently the same night as Yadish. One was a physicist, the other a physiochemist."
The policeman was staring at him with eyes that Lang suddenly realized were colorless. The discovery was somehow disconcerting. Lang had the impression the inspector had used those eyes to intimidate more than one suspect.
"Do you believe the two murders are related?"
"After what happened this morning, yes."
"Tell me."
Lang did, omitting only any mention of his possession of a firearm.
As Lang completed his story, the waiter set a copper tureen and an empty plate in front of each, along with crisp brown frites, french fries, standing on end in tall ramekins to conserve their warmth. Lang was uncertain what was in the pale red sauce in which the mussels still simmered, but if it tasted as good as it smelled, he would be happy.
As in France, all conversation not related to food ceased once the meal was served. As each man filled the platter before him with empty shells, Vorstaat and Louis compared these mussels to others they had had here and elsewhere. Was the sauce stronger than before or weaker? Had the chef left out one of the customary herbs? Were Antwerp's mussels any fresher than those delivered daily to Brussels?
Murder took a backseat to gastronomy.
The inspector drained the last of his glass of Duvel and regarded the mound of empty shells before him with what could have been regret. He resumed the previous conversation as though there had been no interruption.
"Do you have the license plate of this Land Rover?"
Lang recited it from memory. Vorstaat had him repeat it as he wrote it into a small notebook.
The inspector leaned back in his chair, fumbled in a coat pocket, and produced a blue box of French cigarettes, Gitanes. Without offering his companions one, he lit up with a wooden match before dumping the match into the bowl formerly full of mussels, where it sizzled.
The Belgians, or at least those of Brussels, also shared with the French a total contempt for inconvenient authority. From where he sat Lang could see at least two no smoking, non fumer, nicht rauchen signs, complete with a line drawn through a picture of a cigarette. He could also see half a dozen other smokers.
"You said you believed the murder of your employee and the attempt to kidnap you were related?"
"Yadish and Lewis were working on the same thing, an alternative to fossil fuels."
Vorstaat's nostrils exhaled blue smoke. "We might assume that the killer-or rather, killers-are opposed to the project?"
"Really opposed."
"And who might be both opposed to and aware of your foundation's work?"
Lang thought a moment. "Exxon? BP? Our research projects, like all the money we spend as a tax-exempt charitable foundation, are a matter of public record."
"Surely the world's major oil companies do not need to suppress such Scientific research. They could conduct it themselves. Petrol is not worth murder."
"You seen the price of gas lately?" Lang shook his head, only partially joking.
The policeman sniffed. "Americans! You wail at four dollars per gallon of fuel. Here and in the rest of Europe that would be considered inexpensive."
Lang had no intent of engaging in a debate over comparative gas prices.
Silent since his last mussel, Louis noted, "Our people- or at least Dr. Yadish-are years away from succeeding, if ever. It is hard to think someone would kill over an event that might not ever take place."
The inspector stubbed his cigarette out in an empty ramekin. The prohibition of smoking had succeeded only in abolishing ashtrays. "I've investigated many killings for far less reason, but I think you are right."
Lang was watching a particularly buxom blonde edge her way among the tables. No matter how hard he tried, she reminded him of Gurt. The memory hurt. "In Atlanta, Dr. Lewis's laboratory was wrecked and the records of his daily work taken. Do we know if Dr. Yadish's place was trashed, too?"
Vorstaat reached into his coat pocket, fishing for another Gitane, then apparently thought better of it and made a steeple of his fingers, as though to keep them from being further tempted. "We do not yet know, although I am in contact with the Amsterdam police." The self-willed fingers slid into his lap. "Do either of you know what he was doing in Bruges?"
Lang shook his head. "No."
Louis had been watching the same blonde. "He left a message that he would be in Brussels the morning after he was… killed. He did not give a reason, but that was not unusual. Amsterdam to Brussels is a short ride on the Eurostar. He liked to come by, report his progress, discuss what he was doing. Most of all I think he liked to come to this place to eat."
Vorstaat pursed his lips. "He ate here? I thought shellfish were prohibited to Jews, no?"
Lang shrugged. "Don't ask me. The Jews I know pretty much eat what they like. Same goes for drink, too."
Louis tore his eyes from the blonde and looked nervously around the street, as though eating mussels here might guarantee a violent death.
The inspector poised his pen over the notebook. "And exactly what was he doing?"
Louis shrugged. "I do not know. I understood little of his scientific speech. From the sound of his voice, though, he seemed excited."
"Excited or frightened?" the policeman asked.
Louis said, "I do not know. At the moment I had no reason to think he would be frightened."
Vorstaat started to say something but was interrupted by a chirping from his jacket pocket.
He stood. "Excuse me a moment."
He stepped into the street as he pulled out a cell phone.
Lang spoke to Louis, but he was looking at the policeman. "Exactly how much did you know about Dr. Yadish's private life?"
The Belgian looked puzzled. "'Private life'? I do not understand."
Lang leaned across the table, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Did the good professor have, perhaps, something he would have preferred kept secret?"
Lang could almost see the cartoon lightbulb above Louis's head click on. "You mean did he have a, er, what do you call it? A woman?"
"Girlfriend?"
"Yes, girlfriend! I do not think so. All he ever spoke of was his wife and his work. He never mentioned a girlfriend."
One easy answer shot down.
"Do you have any idea why he was in Bruges, then?"
Louis shook his head emphatically. "As I told the inspector, none."
Vorstaat returned to his chair. "Forgive the interruption. While I was on the telephone I asked about automobile accidents at the place you described. The car involved, the Land Rover, was deserted. Its license plates had been stolen, as had the automobile itself. The investigating officers searched it completely."
Lang waited.
"Unfortunately, whoever took the automobile was careful. There were no fingerprints, no spent cartridges."
"In other words, nothing."
Vorstaat came as close to a smile as Lang guessed he ever did. "I did not say that, Mr. Reilly."
He also knew the drama of a pause.
"Well?"
"Something must have fallen out of someone's pocket. My men are checking with the vehicle's owner to make sure it is not his."
Lang was too impatient to endure another delay. "And it was…?"
"It is torn and wrinkled, but it appears to be the bill from a bistro in Bruges."