The Julian Secret (Lang Reilly Thrillers) by Gregg Loomis Read Free Book Online

of the Rio Guadalquivir. Below the
Puente de Isabell II
, foot-powered paddle boats traced lazy S-curves and fishermen stood on the banks.
    Once on the eastern side of the river, Sonia turned left on the Paseo de Crisobal Colon and the streets became narrow and twisted. Stuccoed buildings hid behind walls of handmade brick, their orange tiled roofs visible. They were in the old part of the city.
    The Hotel Alfonso XII was a structure in an impressive mock-Mudejar style. Its abundance of Moorish flourishes, impeccable service, and lavish accommodations were such that, according to Sonia, the guests to Spain’s most recent regal wedding had stayed there, having only to cross Calle San Francisco and the small Plaza de Jerez to the cathedral to watch the eldest royal daughter marry a Spanish nobleman.
    But they would have had trouble reaching the venerable church today. The street was filled from curb to curb by men in black robes, peaked hats, masks, and with bare feet. Most dragged wooden crosses.
    “What is that—who are those
volk?”
Gurt asked from the backseat.
    “Looks like the Ku Klux Klan,” Lang observed. “Except they’re wearing the wrong color.”
    “Penitents,” Sonia explained. “This is Good Friday,the Friday before Easter. This is the next-to-last Seana Santa, Holy Week, celebration. The men in the robes seek forgiveness of sins committed the year past.”
    “Not hard to see where Nathan Bedford Forrest got his idea for the Invisible Empire,” Lang muttered.
    “Who?” Gurt wanted to know.
    If there was anything Lang did not want to have to explain, justify, or apologize for, it was a post–Civil War organization that had morphed into one of America’s most famous hate groups. “Nothing. Can we edge by into the parking lot?”
    An hour later, the streets were empty of those hoping to clear their souls. Lang and Gurt rode with Sonia down narrow cobblestone streets until huge wrought iron gates opened to admit them to the loveliest patio Lang had ever seen.
    Lang got out on the street. “We could have walked.”
    Sonia nodded in agreement. “I had to bring the car back.”
    Lang hesitated before entering the enclosure, reaching up to pick a ripe orange from one of a line of trees. He followed the Mercedes into the patio as the gates slowly swung shut, peeling the fruit as he went. The first bite brought such an explosion of sour acid into his mouth that he spat the pulp without thinking.
    Sonia, unsuccessful at hiding a grin at his discomfort, said,
“Anglese
. We call those oranges ‘English’ because only the English buy them.”
    Lang spat again, but the bitterness remained. “The English eat them?”
    Sonia could no longer suppress a laugh. “Eat them? No, Mr. Reilly, they make their beloved marmalade from the rinds.”
    Lang was wondering if he could ever enjoy that jam on his breakfast toast again when a tall, blond womancame out of the house. Wearing her hair pulled behind her head only emphasized the long, almost equine, face. Her height seemed to give her an awkwardness so that she appeared to walk with disjointed steps, as if her bones had not been properly attached to her body.
    She extended a narrow, knobby hand. “Langford Reilly. My dad told me about you. I’m Jessica Huff.”
    Lang took the hand. “Most likely he told you what a young idiot I was.”
    She gave a sad smile as she turned to Gurt, just now climbing out of the Mercedes. “And you are Lang’s wife?”
    Gurt shot a warning look at Lang. “No. I am Gurt Fuchs.”
    Puzzled, Jessica shook Gurt’s hand anyway, waiting for an explanation.
    When she realized none was forthcoming, she gestured toward the house. “Let’s go in. I appreciate your coming.”
    Jessica ushered them into a wood-paneled room and indicated they should sit. Lang was surprised at the comfort afforded by the uninviting chair of leather and wood carved in the Spanish fashion.
    Sonia appeared with a tray of coffee cups.
    “Again,” Jessica