VI.

Park Place

Lang inhaled deeply, forcing himself to be calm. He knelt, ignoring the pain the move shot up his leg, an abrupt reminder his healing still had a way to go. Compact, lipstick, purse, stuff Gurt would never have left behind voluntarily. They had tried to grab her and Manfred once before, the episode in Baden-Baden.

Now they had succeeded.

They.

He had been gone, what, five minutes at the most? Perhaps not time for them to clear the building.

Leaving Grumps in the hollow shell of the condo, Lang was tempted to take the stairs. But no matter how quickly he moved, the elevator was going to be faster descending twenty-four floors. Even so, the trip seemed to last an eternity. When he finally burst out into the lobby, he made for the concierge.

"The contractor, Haverly, has he come through here?" The man gave him a look that clearly said he already thought Lang had gone nuts and this merely confirmed it. "Haverly? Haverly Construction? Haven't seen him in weeks."

"But he was just here, looking at my unit."

"I don't think so, Mr. Reilly."

"Then who the hell was…" Lang made himself pause, swallow hard. "There was a man on my floor, claimed to be Haverly. Just how the hell did he get in? He had to come right past here."

The concierge shrugged, unperturbed. "Not necessarily. The building can be accessed from the parking levels."

Lang was dumbstruck. It had never occurred to him that the security apparatus that represented a substantial portion of his condominium dues could be short-circuited so easily.

"You mean just anyone can drive down to parking and enter?"

"They would show up on the security cameras' tapes."

Swell.

By the time tapes were reviewed, someone could walk off with half the building. With any luck, that would include the faux Boule chest and Ming vase. Silk flowers, too.

"You're telling me no one watches the cameras?"

The man behind the desk was adroit in blame shifting. At some point in his life he clearly had been employed by some level of government. Or Home Depot's customer service. "You'll have to take that up with the security office, Mr. Reilly."

"Screw that. There's no time!" he spat.

He started to dash for the elevator and to the parking areas when he saw a white van drive from that direction and stop at the traffic light where the drive met Peachtree Street.

He yelled, over his shoulder, "Is there any work going on in any of the units today?"

All workmen had to check in and out with the concierge.

The concierge opened a desk drawer and took a brief look at a legal pad.

"Hurry up, dammit!" Lang exploded.

"No, not today."

Instead of the elevators, Lang charged outside where an elderly woman was being helped from her massive S-series Mercedes Panzer by one of the carhops. She fumbled with a cane while a second was opening the trunk. Only yards away, the traffic light turned green and the van turned right into traffic.

"Excuse me!"

Lang was in the Mercedes's driver seat, knocking the woman one way, her cane another. Before anyone could protest, rubber was shrieking against pavement and the two carhops diving out of the way, forgetting the poor woman. She sat on the pavement, middle finger extended. In the car's mirror Lang could read her lips as she shouted, "Fuck you, asshole!"

Not his grandmother.

The big car fishtailed onto the street just as the light turned red again. Lang was far too intent on the white van to hear the yells and curses of the carhops as they dusted themselves off and inspected minor abrasions caused by impact with concrete.

Granny had to get up herself.

Lang's impulse was to force the van over to the curb. He resisted. It was a fair assumption that Gurt had not gone with the occupant or occupants of that vehicle willingly. They had likely been armed and they certainly now had her Glock, too. Putting the kidnappers in a position where shooting would endanger not only Gurt but also Manfred. Instead, Lang dropped back, allowing one or two cars between him and the van. He only hoped he wasn't spotted.

Then his BlackBerry chirped. A quick glance showed Gurt's number.

He fumbled for the Bluetooth earpiece, and put it in place. At first he heard nothing, then, "This van is uncomfortable."

He started to reply before realizing she wasn't speaking to him. She was verifying that she was in the van.

He heard a man's voice, but the words were indistinguishable.

"Can't one of the three of you…"

He missed the rest, but he got the message.

The van continued with the normal flow of traffic. Lang could only hope that a series of turns didn't betray the tail. Instead, the van entered 175-85, heading south. A few exits later, it turned onto the ramp for I20 West. Lang was trying to guess where they might be going.

Birmingham?

His answer came a few minutes later when the van turned off the interstate. Lang knew the exit well. It was the one for Fulton County-Charlie Brown Field, the place the foundation kept the Gulfstream.

As if in confirmation, Gurt's voice said, "Why are we going to Charlie Brown Airport?"

Again, the unintelligible response.

At the terminal building, the car took a right turn. Lang knew the road led to only one place: Hill Aviation, the only fixed-base operator on this side of the field. The asphalt was slightly above the level of the airport itself, giving him a view of the ramp area in front of Hill. A stretch Lear was taxiing on the tarmac. Nothing unusual about that. Except the identification letters, what would have been the N number on an American plane. Foreign countries, including all of Europe, used letters only.

Lang felt a jolt of panic. They were going to try to get Gurt and his son out of the country. If he was going to stop them…

The van turned off the road and down a slope to the FBO. Lang followed.

His turn must have alerted someone the van had been followed, for it spurted ahead to the gate in the security chain-link fence. Not waiting for someone inside to verify their identity, the van smashed through the fence as though the steel links were made of paper.

By the time Lang followed, the Lear was already moving toward the van, its clamshell door yawning open like the mouth of a predator about to feed. Helpless, Lang watched three men hop out of the van and herd Gurt, holding Manfred's hand, aboard.

The door closed just as the Mercedes reached the plane, already in motion. Lang was tempted to ram the fragile hull but knew that such action could rupture an auxiliary fuel cell, engulfing the Lear in flames.

Instead, he watched the plane lumber away like a waddling goose, slow and clumsy on the ground but a picture of grace and speed in the air.

Well, sitting here wasn't going to do any good, and he doubted the two cars with the flashing yellow lights of the airport's hired security were going to be a lot of help, either. By the time he explained what had happened, the Lear would be in the air, miles away. He didn't think the plane had the fuel capacity to cross an ocean without at least one stop, but where? The flight plan mandatory for flights at jet altitudes would reveal that information, a plan from which no aircraft in US airspace could deviate without risking attention from air force F-18's. But how long would it take to secure the information? The very fact he had followed the van through the pitifully inadequate security fence would cause the rent-a-cops to hold him until police arrived.

A half a mile away, a small Cessna lifted into the air from runway nine and gave Lang an idea.

He stood on the Mercedes's accelerator, pleased to find power under the hood proportional to the car's bulk. He sped after the slow-moving Lear, trailing two light-flashing cars behind on the taxiway.