Larry's heart sank as though suddenly cast in lead. "I done it. I'm guilty. How long'll I be in jail?"

Lang shook his head with just a trace of a smile. "You may or may not have done it, but you aren't guilty till a jury says you are. Tell me exactly what happened."

And Larry did just that. Starting with the bird-watcher whom he vaguely connected with his problems, he finished with the raid on his home.

"Can you tell me the exact date you found this person on your property?"

Larry scratched his jaw, thinking. "Was a Tuesday, 'cause Momma has her hair done ever Tuesday. An' it was a Tuesday, las' Tuesday, I was arrested."

Lang glanced at the papers from his briefcase. "And the indictment was handed down thirteen days after you saw the bird-watcher."

"You reckon he had any thin' to do with it?"

"I reckon he had everything to do with it."

"Shoulda shot him when I had the chance."

If past experience was any indication, he wasn't kidding.

Lang put his elbows on the table, making a steeple of his fingers, "If you'd shot him, you would have been in a lot more trouble than you are now."

"It's for sure he would be. Look, how long will I have to spend here?"

Lang puffed and blew out his cheeks. "Frankly, I have no way to know. If you're found guilty, or decide to cooperate…"

"Cooperate?"

"I'm sure the DEA boys would be delighted to know to whom you sold, stuff like that…"

Larry shook his head. The Hendersons weren't tattlers, either. "Not gonna happen."

Lang stood, snapping his briefcase shut with finality. "That is, of course, up to you. But in any scenario, we are a long way from talking prison time, a very long way."

"But if I done it…?"

Lang leaned across the table, lowering his voice. "The government is a long way from even getting to whether or not you did what they say. A bit of advice: drop 'I done it' from your vocabulary. Second, remember, there are men in here who will swear you said just about anything so they can trade for a lighter sentence."

Larry watched the guards unlock the door and Lang start to leave. Slightly skeptical men would actually bear false witness against each other for their own benefit. There must be some very bad people in here.

"Lang…"

He turned back from the door, a question on his face.

"If you can, meybbe when you come down this way to be in court, if it ain't too much trouble…"

Lang grinned. "C'mon, Larry. Spit it out."

"Momma. It's jus' she ain' never been alone an'…"

Lang chuckled. "I think I can assure you she won't be now. Even as we speak, Gurt is at your house making arrangements to move into your son's old room until all this is over."

Lang had never seen a man in a prison jumpsuit happier.

III.

Lamar County, Georgia

7:28 p.m.

That Evening

Lang needed to take a walk. He'd eaten a great deal more than he had intended. Starting with a tomato aspic salad, he had been served with a panoply of fresh vegetables "from the garden," homemade corn bread, ham with redeye gravy and peach cobbler for dessert. Feeling slightly guilty, he had left Gurt and Darleen to do the dishes at the latter's insistence despite the glare he got from the former. Manfred, in a blatant effort to postpone bedtime, had wanted to come along, which meant Grumps, recently liberated from the boarding kennel, had included himself.

The stroll, though pleasant, had a purpose other than a futile effort to settle the results of gluttony in his stomach. Lang headed slowly but purposefully along the dirt drive leading to the highway. He took his time. He stopped to watch Manfred chase the few early fireflies that ventured out into the fading light and Grumps's futile attempt to extract some small animal from its lair, a hole the dog was rapidly expanding. When he could see the state road, he stopped. He was not surprised a Ford sedan in plain wrapper was parked on the shoulder. In most federal dope busts, the DEA would keep a constant watch on the premises in hopes of snaring others who might be involved.

At least that was the reason usually given.

Lang suspected a more sinister motive might be to prevent intentional damage to property that the federal government would surely seize as contraband once Larry was convicted.

Either way, the inexhaustible assets of US law enforcement would be guarding Gurt and Manfred even if that was not the intent. They would also be protecting the very lawyer who already had a plan to defeat them in court.

He grinned. Is this a great justice system or what?

Although he couldn't see them, he would bet several other agents were serving as dinner for gnats and mosquitoes in the surrounding woods where they could survey the house from different perspectives.

He turned, took Manfred by the hand and started back. The fact the feds would predictably keep Larry's farm under surveillance, at least for a while, was the reason he had asked Gurt to propose staying there to Darleen. That and the hope the people who wanted him dead wouldn't guess he would return to the place they had nearly killed him earlier.

Or, at least, it would take time before they did.

He had picked up a two-man tail upon his arrival at the Atlanta airport. He had made no effort to keep them from hearing the directions he gave the cabbie before climbing into the backseat.

The cab got lost twice largely due to the driver's unfamiliarity with the city's streets and inability to understand Lang's directions. He could only imagine the growing frustration of his minders as the hack turned and doubled back several times in what must have seemed a random pattern.

He had been grateful when the taxi had made it to Francis's church downtown. The following Chevy parked across the street before Lang could get out.

After paying the fare, he had entered the church, walked through to the rectory and then to Francis's bedroom. There he found the Browning he had concealed before departing for Rome. He helped himself to the key to the aging Toyota the diocese provided his friend and exited to the garage behind the church.

The Chevy had still been parked as he drove away in the anonymous Toyota.

He could only hope Gurt had shaken whatever tail might have been assigned to her.

The next morning he had rented a car and driven to Macon. On the way, he stopped in Barnesville, the county seat, and made arrangements to rent office space from a law school acquaintance. He was now a country lawyer with a single client.

His thoughts returning to the present, he walked back to the house. He listened with half an ear to his son's chatter, mostly soliciting assurances that a fishing expedition to the pond was on tomorrow's agenda. Making only the vaguest of promises, Lang examined what few facts he had.

There was something in the Gospel of James that someone very much wanted suppressed, wanted enough to kill anybody who might reveal it. His only lead to who that someone might be was the gospel itself. The longer he waited to get it translated, the greater the possibility his mysterious assailants would find him. Worse, the greater the chance they would find his son.

But where to get the documents put into readable form? A search had shown no more than a handful of universities listed someone knowledgeable in Coptic Greek. As a consequence, any trip to one of these schools would be both obvious and transparent. He didn't want some unknown professor to be the next victim.

Reaching into a pocket, he produced his BlackBerry and called up a schedule of foundation travel for the next two weeks. He scanned past the usual European and South American destinations. Damascus, Karachi, Istanbul.

Istanbul What did he recall about Istanbul?

That it was, had been, the place whose Orthodox patriarch had sent Father Strentenoplis to Rome. There had been, Lang vaguely remembered, patriarchs in Jerusalem, Antioch, Alexandria and Constantinople during the Byzantine Empire. But today? He started to call Francis before realizing the priest would be somewhere between Rome and Atlanta at the moment. Instead, he took the device in both hands, using thumbs to enter an e-mail to Sara.