sank back to the floor as though in prayer before pitching forward, snapping the lance's haft with the crack of old dry wood.
Lang made a dive for the gun, clutching it as he rolled over into darker shadows in case one of the man's companions was nearby.
There was silence for perhaps a second.
Then Jacob appeared, holding a curved sword with a notched tip peculiar to ancient Egypt. He looked down at the crumpled form and turned it over with his foot. "Dare say th' poor sod's the first to die from one of Pharaohs spears in the last millennium or so."
Lang got to his feet. "Likely, but we need to find the others." He held up the gun, for the first time recognizing it as a Walther PPK, James Bond's weapon of choice. Dated and comparatively small bore but easily concealed. "At least we aren't unarmed anymore. Let's go!"
Jacob put a cautionary hand on Lang's arm. "Don't be so bloody hasty. The odds are still in those blokes' favor."
As quickly as caution would permit, they crossed the Egyptian exhibit and entered a large, empty room. A ceiling-high lifting door identified it as loading space. When he pushed on a smaller door under a lighted exit sign, Lang was surprised to find it unlocked.
Perhaps the way the gunmen had entered?
He stared out into Montague Place, the street at the rear of the museum. The sound of a car speeding away from the curb drew his attention to the outlines of the trees in Russell Square.
It was too dark to identify the make or model, but it had its lights out.
Lang exhaled heavily, like someone coming down from the adrenaline high of a losing race.
"They got the sodding book," Jacob said through teeth now clenched around the forbidden pipe. "What th' bleedin' hell did they want with your friend Eon?"
Lang turned to go back into the building. He planned to check the body on the floor for identification, even though he was certain he would find none.
"I'm afraid we'll know soon enough," he said.
The body was, as anticipated, bare of identity.
Almost.
One packet contained a small wadded bit of paper. The dead man probably was unaware it was there. Lang spread it out on the cold marble of the floor next to the body, squinting in the stingy light.
"I suppose you found the lad's driving permit. Maybe his national health card." Jacob was peering over his shoulder.
Lang held it up. "Too faded to read, some kind of a card. A receipt, perhaps?"
Jacob sniffed. "Not likely the chit from the dining room at the Dorchester." He leaned closer, taking it in his hand. "Looks like ... like part of a boarding pass."
"A boarding pass?"
"Yes." He turned to catch a different angle of light. "See, you can make out a date and a flight number."
"Swell. Now all we have to do is match an airline with it. Should be no more than a thousand or so scheduled carriers to check."
Jacob handed it back to Lang. "Your bleedin' gratitude is humbling. It's a sight better than nothing."
But not much.
II.
#17 Paul Street
Wapping
London
1906 Hours
Inspector Dylan Fitzwilliam had expected the call ever since the immigration people had called him yesterday.
The American, Langford Reilly, was back in London. Every time Mr. Reilly had visited London, some sort of mayhem followed as surely as a contrail behind a jet aircraft. That was why the inspector had a standing request to be notified when Mr. Reilly's passport was swiped through the machine at Heathrow or Gatwick or he appeared under some other name on the face-recognition technology. Admittedly, Mr. Reilly had always been cleared of any crime but he bore watching just the same.
And now, like the bad penny, he was back.
Someone was going to die.
After finishing dinner and settling in front of the telly, Fitzwilliam had dared hope this once Mr. Reilly would depart the UK without coming to the attention of the police. After all, Reilly had been observed visiting some medical supply houses, no doubt on behalf of his foundation, and tonight seemed harmless enough,
Lang made a dive for the gun, clutching it as he rolled over into darker shadows in case one of the man's companions was nearby.
There was silence for perhaps a second.
Then Jacob appeared, holding a curved sword with a notched tip peculiar to ancient Egypt. He looked down at the crumpled form and turned it over with his foot. "Dare say th' poor sod's the first to die from one of Pharaohs spears in the last millennium or so."
Lang got to his feet. "Likely, but we need to find the others." He held up the gun, for the first time recognizing it as a Walther PPK, James Bond's weapon of choice. Dated and comparatively small bore but easily concealed. "At least we aren't unarmed anymore. Let's go!"
Jacob put a cautionary hand on Lang's arm. "Don't be so bloody hasty. The odds are still in those blokes' favor."
As quickly as caution would permit, they crossed the Egyptian exhibit and entered a large, empty room. A ceiling-high lifting door identified it as loading space. When he pushed on a smaller door under a lighted exit sign, Lang was surprised to find it unlocked.
Perhaps the way the gunmen had entered?
He stared out into Montague Place, the street at the rear of the museum. The sound of a car speeding away from the curb drew his attention to the outlines of the trees in Russell Square.
It was too dark to identify the make or model, but it had its lights out.
Lang exhaled heavily, like someone coming down from the adrenaline high of a losing race.
"They got the sodding book," Jacob said through teeth now clenched around the forbidden pipe. "What th' bleedin' hell did they want with your friend Eon?"
Lang turned to go back into the building. He planned to check the body on the floor for identification, even though he was certain he would find none.
"I'm afraid we'll know soon enough," he said.
The body was, as anticipated, bare of identity.
Almost.
One packet contained a small wadded bit of paper. The dead man probably was unaware it was there. Lang spread it out on the cold marble of the floor next to the body, squinting in the stingy light.
"I suppose you found the lad's driving permit. Maybe his national health card." Jacob was peering over his shoulder.
Lang held it up. "Too faded to read, some kind of a card. A receipt, perhaps?"
Jacob sniffed. "Not likely the chit from the dining room at the Dorchester." He leaned closer, taking it in his hand. "Looks like ... like part of a boarding pass."
"A boarding pass?"
"Yes." He turned to catch a different angle of light. "See, you can make out a date and a flight number."
"Swell. Now all we have to do is match an airline with it. Should be no more than a thousand or so scheduled carriers to check."
Jacob handed it back to Lang. "Your bleedin' gratitude is humbling. It's a sight better than nothing."
But not much.
II.
#17 Paul Street
Wapping
London
1906 Hours
Inspector Dylan Fitzwilliam had expected the call ever since the immigration people had called him yesterday.
The American, Langford Reilly, was back in London. Every time Mr. Reilly had visited London, some sort of mayhem followed as surely as a contrail behind a jet aircraft. That was why the inspector had a standing request to be notified when Mr. Reilly's passport was swiped through the machine at Heathrow or Gatwick or he appeared under some other name on the face-recognition technology. Admittedly, Mr. Reilly had always been cleared of any crime but he bore watching just the same.
And now, like the bad penny, he was back.
Someone was going to die.
After finishing dinner and settling in front of the telly, Fitzwilliam had dared hope this once Mr. Reilly would depart the UK without coming to the attention of the police. After all, Reilly had been observed visiting some medical supply houses, no doubt on behalf of his foundation, and tonight seemed harmless enough,
Similar Books
The Chieftain’s Daughter
Leia Rice
Self-Help (Vintage Contemporaries)
Lorrie Moore
A New Resolution
Ceri Grenelle
Love Can Be Murder
Stephanie Bond
The Ghost of Oak
Fallon Sousa
The Sea-Quel
Mo O’Hara
A Countess by Chance
Kate McKinley
Zola's Pride
Moira Rogers
A Most Unconventional Match
Julia Justiss
The Prophecy
Nina Croft