Lang shook his head, eager to calm what he recognized as a bad case of legal anxiety syndrome. "I apologize. I didn't make myself clear. All I want is to learn the history of the painting, what it's supposed to depict."

Seitz was only marginally calmed. "I'm afraid I can't be of much help." He whirled his chair around, removing a book from the antique table behind him that served as a credenza. Thumbing through it, he continued. "I can say, I think, that what you have there is a picture of a copy, and not a particularly authentic copy, either. Ah, there… Not quite the same, is it?"

He was pointing to a photo of a similar picture. At first Lang saw no difference. He looked more closely. The background was smoother; there was no upside down profile of Washington.

"Religious art, late Renaissance, not my specialty," Seitz continued, shutting the book with a thump. He brought Lang's copy closer to his face. "Those letters on the structure, they look like Latin."

Lang moved to look over his shoulder. "I think so, yes."

"Obviously, they mean something. For that matter, the whole painting may well be symbolistic. Artists of that era often had messages in their paintings."

"You mean, like a code?"

"Sort of, but less sophisticated. For instance, you've seen a still life, flowers or vegetables with a bug or two, perhaps a wilted blossom?" Lang shrugged noncommittally. It wasn't the sort of art he would remember.

"It was popular about the time Poussin painted. A certain flower or plant-rosemary for memory, for example. A beetle might be reminiscent of an Egyptian scarab, symbolic of death or the afterlife or whatever."

Lang went back and sat down. "So you're saying this painting has a message of some sort." This time it was the director who shrugged. "I'm saying it's possible."

"Who might know?"

Seitz slowly spun his chair to face the window behind him and gazed out in silence for a moment. "I don't really have an idea." He flashed the Rolex. "And I fear we're running out of time."

Lang didn't budge from his seat. "Give me a name, if you would. Somebody likely to be familiar with Poussin, preferably somebody who might be able to decipher whatever symbolism there might be. Believe me, it's important. This is no academic exercise."

Seitz turned back to stare at him, a frown tugging at his mouth, no doubt because he wasn't used to being delayed. Then he returned to the row of books from which he had taken the first one before snatching another one up and paging through it, too.

"It would appear," the art director said, "that the leading authority on Poussin and on late Renaissance religious art, too, is a Guiedo Marcenni. He's written quite a lot about your man Poussin."

Lang pulled a legal pad out of his briefcase. "And where do I find Mr. Marcenni?"

The frown had become a sardonic smile. "Not 'mister', but 'Fra'. Brother Marcenni is a monk, an art historian with the Vatican Museum. Vatican, as in Rome." He stood. "Now I really must ask you to excuse me, Mr. Reilly. One of the young ladies will show you out."

He was gone before Lang could thank him. Thank him for nothing. Lang was more puzzled than ever.

Atlanta

That evening

Lang was so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost missed the elevator's stop at his floor. Still thinking, he took the few steps to his door and stooped to pick up the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. He froze, key in hand.

"FIRE GUTS MIDTOWN DISTRICT," the above-the-fold headline screamed. An aerial view showed a pillar of smoke towering from a block of one-story, flat-roofed buildings. The one in the middle was – had been – Ansley Galleries.

Lang let himself in and dropped into the nearest chair, oblivious to Grumps, who was more than ready to go outside.

A fire leveled an entire block of Seventh Street early this afternoon as the result of a faulty gas stove, according to Capt. Jewal Abbar, Chief Investigator for the Atlanta Fire Department.

Three shops, Ansley Galleries, Dwight's Interiors and Afternoon Delites, were totally destroyed. Other establishments in the popular in-town shopping area were severely damaged.

Abbar said there were no serious injuries, although several people were treated at Grady Memorial Hospital for smoke inhalation. Maurice Wiser, manager of Afternoon Delites, a vegetarian restaurant, was quoted as saying the stove exploded when turned on.

Lang didn't finish the article, but dropped the paper and stared at the wall. It was possible, he conceded, that the stove exploded in an amazing concurrence of accident and coincidence. Just as it was possible someone had firebombed the house in Paris, he had nearly had his throat slit, and his highrise had been burglarized just to steal a painting-and a copy at that. Now the gallery that had kept a copy was also a fire casualty.

If all of that were coincidence, the Poussin made the curse of the Hope Diamond look like a lucky shamrock.

Instead of coincidence, he saw an emerging pattern, frightening in its simplicity: Whoever possessed that picture, or knew something about it, was in jeopardy. Including Lang.

But why? The original Poussin, the one in the Louvre, must have been seen by millions. The slightly different background in Janet's copy, then, was the reason someone wanted that particular painting. And if they wanted it badly enough to commit indiscriminate murder and arson for it…

Lang knew four things: They were intent on erasing every trace of that painting, they didn't care who got hurt, they had an international intelligence system as good or better than most police forces, and they were well prepared for the task.

The last two observations were the most frightening. Intelligence and preparation indicated a professional and a professional indicated an organization. What sort of an organization would burn and kill just to destroy a copy of the Poussin? An organization that had a very strong interest in whatever secret the canvas held.

His train of thought was derailed by Grumps's insistent pacing. "Okay, okay," he said. "Gimme a minute."

He went into the bedroom and opened the drawer in the bedside table. He took out the Browning. Easing back the slide, he confirmed there was a round in the chamber. He checked the safety and stuffed the weapon into his belt. From now on, it was going to be like the credit card: Don't leave home without it.

Tomorrow he would have to go apply for a permit. But for the moment, being caught without the gun had more dire consequences than being caught with it.

As Lang left the apartment with Grumps on a leash, he stopped in the hall to leave two telltales. The first was a tiny strip of plastic tape stretched between the door and jamb, a device any professional would anticipate and find fairly easily. Then he licked his hand and wiped it on the knob, sticking a hair to the brass. Virtually impossible to see and it would fall loose at the slightest touch.

If his reasoning was anywhere near correct, he could expect company soon.