The Sinai Secret by Gregg Loomis Read Free Book Online Page A

something.
    He was right.
    Before he had settled into the leather wing chair but after declining Sara's offer of coffee, Witherspoon asked, "I'd like to see a list of all persons in your organization who were reviewing Dr. Lewis's work or who might be familiar with it."
    Lang thought a moment. Past experience was that the Federal Bureau of Investigation did not necessarily hire the brightest souls, but they did insist on mind-numbing thoroughness. A series of interviews of the foundation's personnel could last months, not even accounting for the duplication of whatever Morse might do.
    "Detective Morse asked for the same thing. I'm sure he'll share his interview notes with you along with whatever information he gathers."
    Witherspoon's eyes narrowed slightly, and he didn't move in the chair. "Detective Morse is being less than cooperative with federal authorities."
    Good for him.
    Lang leaned forward to put his elbows on the desk. "Please understand, Agent Witherspoon, by the time the Atlanta police get through interviewing whoever was monitoring Dr. Lewis's work and you question them again, my employees will have lost considerable time from work."
    "Time loss is not a consideration in a federal investigation."
    Or any other government endeavor.
    Lang eased back in his chair and intertwined his fingers. This little piggy was perfectly at ease no matter how hard the big, bad wolf huffed and puffed. "I'm sure that's true. But then, you don't have a federal investigation, do you? I mean, only a few murders—killing someone on federal land, terrorism, for instance—are federal crimes."
    Witherspoon's eyes flicked to the law degree on the wall next to Lang's desk. "I think I said we're dealing with national security here."
    Lang could not have explained or defined it—the man's overbearing nature, the claim of national security that the Cold War had worn thin as a slice of delicatessen ham. There was something about Witherspoon that was the mental equivalent of seafood, glassy-eyed and with a slight aroma, that the fishmonger swore was fresh.
    "I suppose if I asked how national security was involved, you'd tell me you weren't at liberty, et cetera."
    The FBI man nodded. "I'm sure you understand."
    Far better than you think, Lang mused. In his day "national security" was the intelligence community's equivalent to making sausage: The fewer people who knew the ingredients, the better.
    "You know I can get a warrant, search all your records," Witherspoon added, making no effort to conceal the threat.
    "No, I don't know. No federal crime, no warrant. No matter what you may think of the post-nine-eleven security laws, we still have a Constitution." Lang stood, extending a hand. "It's been a pleasure."
    Witherspoon glared at the proffered hand and stormed out the door without another word.
    Sara watched him go before leaving her desk. "He looked angry."
    "That'd be a good guess."
    "What did you do?"
    "Do? Why, I insisted on my Fourth Amendment rights."
    "Hardly seems a reason to leave in a huff."
    "Hardly," Lang agreed.
    He thought a moment. "Sara, would you please get the number for the FBI's Atlanta special agent in charge? I seem to remember his name as Murphy or something like that."
    A few minutes later she buzzed him with the number. "And his name is O'Neil."
    Lang shrugged and punched in the number.
    It took a minimum of chitchat with O'Neil's gatekeeper before O'Neil came on the line. "If you're calling about the prosecution of the mayor, Mr. Reilly, you need to go through the U.S. Attorney's office."
    "I'm not, but thanks," Lang hastened to say. "I'm calling about one of your agents, a Charles Witherspoon. Guy seems to be investigating a murder, and I see no federal connection. I don't mind cooperating but—"
    "Who?"
    "Witherspoon, Charles Witherspoon."
    There was such a long pause, Lang feared the connection had been severed.
    "Mr. Reilly, you sure this Charles Witherspoon is with the Atlanta office of the bureau?"
    "I'm