"Lang, we're prepared to reduce the charge from possession with intent to distribute to simple possession," Silverstein said. "Eighteen to twenty-four months, a reduction for participating in a rehab program, 10 percent off for good behavior and your man walks."

"You're kidding," Lang said. "Nice try, having your 'bird- watching' special agent stumble onto my client's property but it won't wash. The fact one agency makes a discovery and another prosecutes the crime won't work, fruit of the poisoned tree. A warrantless search is still illegal whether made by the FBI or the post office unless you can show probable cause, which you can't. If you think Judge Carver is going to swallow the bird-watching crap, you might try and sell her the state capitol building. Particularly in light of that memo suggesting, what was it? Oh, 'interagency cooperation.'"

A great deal of congeniality drained from Silverstein. "There's no way you could have known about that memo legally. How'd you find out?"

"A little bird I was watching on my own."

There was a chuckle, choked back to what sounded like a snort from Larry.

Silverstein began to flush red from the neck up. "You can't… If I find out you came by that memo in any way that's illegal…"

"By the time you find out how I learned about it, you'll be too busy denying it existed. Or too busy handling appeals when the news of the DEA's scheme is made public."

For a second, Lang thought the man was going to choke. "You can't…"

"Last time I looked, the First Amendment was still in effect. I'd guess the media would love the story."

Silverstein took a deep breath. "OK, OK! I'll make a deal: your man walks and you forget you ever saw the damned memo."

"How soon can you get the paperwork complete to release the bond and put my client on the street?" "I'll order his release immediately."

No one had noticed Judge Carver's return to the bench. "You can pick him up at the jail as soon as he changes out of his prison jumpsuit." She smiled. "The government can't afford to give them away as souvenirs to former inmates."

Both government lawyers began repacking their briefcases.

"Not so fast, Mr. Silverstein, Mr. Roads. The court wants a word with both of you."

Her tone indicated it would not be a pleasant word, either.

Outside the jail an hour later, Larry was jabbering joyfully like a child on Christmas morning. "I can't believe I'm really outta there!" He grasped Lang's hand. "We few, we happy few! We band of brothers!"

Lang was unsure his victory equaled that of King Henry at Agincourt nor that he wanted Larry, the classics-reading marijuana farmer, as a brother.

His enthusiasm undiminished, Larry continued. "Don't unnerstan' how you done it, Lang, I really don't."

"Do you care?"

"Guess not. All I know, next time I need a lawyer, I know who to call."

Lang suppressed a groan.

"If it's any comfort to you, I'd bet Judge Carver is still reaming Silverstein and Roads a new asshole, giving them a lesson in constitutional law they won't soon forget." He pointed. "Car's this way. I'll drive you back to the farm." Lang extended his BlackBerry. "Want to call your wife?"

"I done it from the jail. She says to give you a big kiss for her."

Now there was an unattractive picture. "Maybe we'll let her do that herself."

They were perhaps halfway to the parking lot when Larry asked, "One thing: You had a motion to depress the stuff they took from my place, the marijuana. What was that all about?"

"If the government came by evidence illegally, that is, trespassing without a warrant, then that evidence can't be used. If they couldn't use the marijuana, then they can't prove you grew it or even that there was any."

Larry nodded, no doubt agreeing with the wisdom of such a rule. "But it was the FBI…"

"That's what we call 'fruit of the poisoned tree.' Once evidence is obtained illegally, it can't be made legal no matter who wants to use it."

"But if-"

The BlackBerry chimed. With a little luck, the interruption would end the lecture on evidentiary jurisprudence.

An e-mail from Francis:

Got the information you wanted. Or at least all I'm

going to be getting.

X.

Piedmont Driving Club

1215 Piedmont Avenue

Atlanta

Three Hours Later

Until succumbing to an attack of political correctness in the 1990s, the Driving Club had been Atlanta's most exclusive men's social organization. Founded in the late nineteenth century, it had provided a place for the city's upper-crust gentlemen to drive their four-horse carriages outside the dusty and noisy town limits. Now midtown surrounded the property and views from its dining rooms were filled with high-rise condos and office towers. It was not unusual to see collared priests dining with members, although clerics were more numerous at the club's golf facility south of the airport. The food was mediocre on the chef's best days but small, private dining rooms, part of the original structure, were available on request.

It was the latter feature that had suggested the club to Lang. He was seated across an expanse of white linen, picking at a Cobb salad while Francis finished a short and disappointingly uninformative recital of what he had learned.

"… And both the men whose passports Gurt took were American but had been at the Vatican for twelve and eight years."

Lang turned half of a hard-boiled egg over before spearing it with his fork. "We knew they were Vatican passports. They were, are, priests?"

Francis used his knife to probe his broiled snapper for bones. "Seem to be important ones. Word was they were being recalled to Rome as soon as the diplomatic office can get the feds to release them."

"Recalled? I thought they'd be in custody until a trial was held. I mean, kidnapping isn't exactly a misdemeanor."

"They claimed they had held Vatican passports and as such were on a diplomatic mission at the time. The Vatican's foreign office confirmed it."

Lang put his fork down, egg untouched. "Diplomatic immunity?"

Satisfied the fish was safe for consumption, Francis took a tentative bite. "Apparently."

"You telling me the pope condones kidnapping, not to mention attempted murder?"

"Not at all. I'm sure the foreign office has apprised him of what's happened. I'd guess he has his own discipline in mind."

"Like what? I haven't heard of any renegade priests being burned at the stake lately."

Francis shrugged before taking a larger forkful of fish. "I'm afraid the Holy Father doesn't always confide in me."

Lang put his fork down, salad forgotten. "Is it possible the pope doesn't know what's going on here? I mean, maybe these guys, these priests, have friends in the Vatican foreign office, pals who could act in the pope's name without him ever knowing about it."

The prospect troubled Francis enough that he stopped chewing long enough to think that over. "Possible, I suppose."

"Possible but not likely, you mean."

The priest shook his head and swallowed. "The Vatican, like any country, could have bad people in its bureaucracy."

This, coming from Francis, was a big admission. "Careful, there, padre. I wouldn't want to see you cast out as a heretic."

Lang returned his attention to his salad, surprised to see the half egg still on his fork. "OK, what else did you find out?"

"Not much." Francis used the edge of his fork to sever another piece of snapper. "Both work with the Knights of Malta."

The name had a familiar ring. Lang searched his memory during two bites of salad including the half egg. "Isn't that an honorary society for the really big hitters, men who donate really big bucks to the church? They dress up in funny costumes with big hats with feathers?"