The Pegasus Secret Read Online Free PDF Page B

certain death or the sudden snatching away of his sister and nephew.
    At least for the latter, he could dream of revenge, of getting even with the powers that had caused their deaths. That was a satisfaction he would never have for Dawn.
    Over the years since his retirement, he had diminishing need to use his former contacts. How many of his old cohorts remained, he wondered as he groped in a desk drawer. His fingers found the false back and he slid a wooden panel out of place. Behind it was a small booklet which he pulled out and opened on the desk. Who was left? More importantly, who was left that owed him a favor?
    He dialed a number with a 202 area code, let it ring twice and hung up. Somewhere, Lang’s own phone number would appear on a computer screen. In less than a second, that number would be verified with Lang’s nameand location. That is, if the number he had called still belonged to the person he hoped he was calling.
    Within a minute, Sara buzzed him. “There’s a Mr. Berkley on the phone, says he’s returning your call.”
    Lang picked up. “Miles? How they hangin’, ole buddy?”
    The reply took a split second longer than an ordinary call. The call had been routed through one of a number of random relays scattered around the globe and was completely untraceable.
    “Jus’ fine, Lang. How th’ hell you doin’?” Through the years, Miles Berkley had clung to his southern drawl as though it were a prized possession.
    “Not so good, Miles. I need some help.”
    Lang knew his words were being compared to old voiceprints. Or verified by some technology that had come along since his departure.
    Pause.
    “Ennythin’ I can do, Lang . . .”
    “There was a fire in Paris three days ago, looked like thermite was used.”
    “So I heard.”
    Miles still read local papers. Anything abnormal, anything that might be the precursor to possible activity of interest, was noted, examined and catalogued. Miles apparently had the same job.
    Grateful for that bit of luck, Lang asked, “Any military stores missing? Any ideas where that shit came from, who might have weapons like that on hand?”
    “What’s your interest?” Miles wanted to know. “Think it might be a client of yours?”
    “It was my sister, her friend’s house. She and my nephew were in it.”
    There was a pause that was too long to attribute solely to a relay. “Shit, I’m sorry, Lang, Had no idea. I can see why you’d wanna know but we don’t have zip so far. No breakinsat military installations, no inventory missing, far as we know. ’Course about ennybody could walk off with half the Russian arsenal without the Ruskies knowin’. Your sister into something she shouldna been?”
    “Nothing more than her kid, her medical practice and her church. Hardly criminal.”
    “That makes it tough to guess at a motive. Say, you’re not thinking of coming out of retirement, are you? Hope not. Whoever these bastards are, they’re likely to be pros. No way you can take ’em on by yourself, even if you knew who they were.”
    “Wouldn’t think of it,” Lang lied. “You can understand my interest. Any chance you can keep me posted, you find out anything?”
    “You know I can’t do that, not officially, anyway. Asshole buddy to asshole buddy, I’ll see what I can do.”
    For several minutes after he hung up, Lang stared out of the window. He had just begun and already he was at a dead end.
2
     
    Atlanta
Later the same day
     
    Park Place was not a very original name: the developer of Lang’s condo building had taken it right off the
Monopoly
board. There was no Boardwalk nearby. Putting up a high-rise that looked like a stack of square checkers probably was not a new idea, either. Having a doorman in a comic opera uniform was, however, a first for Atlanta and a bit rich for any place south of New York’s Upper East Side.
    When Lang got home, Richard the doorman wasn’t as much an amenity as an obstacle. He was inspecting Grumps with the same