by Gayle Lynds
“Thanks.” She dropped them into her shoulder bag.
His eyebrows rose. “You can’t do that.”
She ignored him, examining the knife slice in the center of her leather bag. The blade had been two-edged—thin and sharp. A stiletto. As she lowered her purse, a crumpled scrap of paper on the ground caught her attention. She snapped it up.
“What’s that?” the CIA man asked.
She smoothed the paper. “Dean Quentin’s address.” The address was printed in pencil, and there was an odd squiggle in the corner.
He looked at the note over her shoulder. “All that tells us is he didn’t bother to memorize the address. Must’ve fallen out of his clothes. I’m surprised you missed it. Guess you’re a little out of practice after all. Let’s go.”
“Langley’s far from my favorite former employer, MacIntosh. I don’t like your sneaking around, and there’s no way I’ll ever work for Langley again. Get that loud and clear, and get the hell out of my life.” She jammed the paper into her purse.
He sighed. “Call me Mac. The sneaking around was just me trying to be subtle. Okay, so I’ll cut to the chase. Like I said, we have a bad situation, but it’s your situation, too. Your cousin Sarah Walker was kidnapped in Paris a few hours ago, and Asher Flores was shot.”
“No!” She inhaled sharply. “Did Asher survive? Have you found Sarah?”
“Flores is alive. We’re looking for her. The kidnapping happened about the same time you were assaulted on the cliff.”
She worked hard to control her emotions. “Why should I believe you?”
He stuck a hand in through the open window of her car and came out with a CD player. “This recording was sent electronically from Paris.” He pressed a button, and the CD began to spin.
“Liz, it’s Asher.” It sounded like Asher, but Langley had ways to imitate any voice. “Some turd brains have grabbed Sarah. This is the real thing, Liz. They want the Carnivore’s files. They’ve given us four days.” He coughed, and when he resumed, his voice was full of anguish. “What in hell are they talking about? What files? They’re going to kill her, Liz, and I can’t get my sorry ass out of bed. I’m stuck in this damn hospital. If you’ve got the files or know anything about them—”
MacIntosh pushed the stop button. “That do it?”
The Carnivore’s files again. Her lungs tightened. “Get in. I’ll drive.”
Colorful and opinionated, Asher Flores was one of a kind. She had never heard anyone but Asher use the expression “turd brain,” and the phraseology was his, too. Plus, there was the agony in his voice, the utter frustration that he was helpless while Sarah was in mortal danger. Like all undercover CIA officers, he was a good actor, but not that good. Asher’s plea was just what he would have done, what he would have said, how he would have said it.
She opened her car door, her stomach knotting with fear for Sarah. They had grown as close as sisters over the years. Because of a rogue CIA plot, Sarah had been made to look like Liz, but that was only the beginning of their link. They had discovered they thought very much alike, even had similar tastes and interests. More than that, she admired Sarah’s compassion and intelligence and her bullheaded dedication to the investigative pieces she sometimes labored over for months at a time. She had won a Pulitzer for an in-depth series on nuclear power plants in California.
Nothing would stop Liz from helping Sarah. Still, she had learned her lesson about Langley. She could not trust any of them completely, not even now. Especially not now.
As MacIntosh forced his muscular bulk into the passenger seat, she settled behind the wheel. They closed their doors quietly. She turned on the engine. “I assume you’ve made arrangements to fly to Paris.”
“Langley sent a jet. It’s waiting.”
She did a U-turn, heading the car downhill. “You broke into my house. Did you pack a suitcase for me, too?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. Got your passport as well. All you have to do is drive us to the airport. My people will dispose of the body.”
“Tell me what happened.”
He described the strike. “Asher said it was over in minutes. Choreographed. The hotel had made dinner reservations at the bistro for them, so someone could’ve gotten the information, which would explain how the two men knew to wait in the alley. As for the van, it probably shadowed them.” He shook his head, worried. “Now, the big question—the question we all have—is: Where are the Carnivore’s files?”
Her voice was grim. “I don’t think there are any.”
“Then you haven’t changed your mind since Grey Mellencamp debriefed you?”
“No. I looked into it afterward, but I never found a hint my father kept any sort of record at all.” As she turned the Toyota onto Mission Canyon Drive, she stopped herself. Before this went any farther, she had to find out how willing he was to tell the truth. She said, “Is Langley behind the ‘movie’ here in Santa Barbara? Did they fund the Aylesworth chairs that brought Kirk and me here so they could keep tabs on me? Is one of your operatives code-named Themis?”
He gazed across at her. There was surprise in his eyes and a touch of respect. “You know about Themis?”
“Is he one of yours?” she repeated.
He nodded. “How did you find out?”
“That’s beside the point. Why a movie on me?”
“If we’d heard the rumors about files, it was only a matter of time until others did, too. You’d become a natural target. Considering someone’s already sent a janitor to scrub you twice today, I guess Langley was smart to be concerned. And maybe you should be grateful.”
She snorted in derision. “Langley was—and is—concerned about the possible existence of those files, not about my survival.”
His voice was apologetic. “We can’t let the records fall into the wrong hands, Liz. You understand.”
“Why should I believe Langley didn’t send that janitor to kill me?”
“Doesn’t make sense we would. If we want the files, you’re still our best bet. That hasn’t changed.”
She nodded to herself. If Langley had sent the killer, they would’ve handled the fallout from the first attack much more smoothly. “You already must’ve been on your way to talk to me, or stationed close by, to get to my doctor’s office so quickly.”
He leaned back in the seat and crossed his arms. The top half of his face was in shadow, making his dimple appear darker, deeper in the sun’s last rays. “I work out of L.A. I was heading north for an inquiry in Thousand Oaks when we heard about Flores and Walker, and then about you. Langley arranged for me to borrow the identity of Harry Craine so we could keep the locals out of it. The ID was waiting for me here.”
“Have you covered it with the sheriff now?”
“Of course. Anyone who calls will be told Kirk’s report has been found and the department is investigating thoroughly.”
But already her mind had shifted. She had almost a physical feeling, a sense of being ill, of having an abrupt fever. Sick with fear for Sarah and Asher. “I can’t believe Sarah and Asher are involved.” She pressed the accelerator, speeding faster to the airport. To Paris, where they needed her.
“What did you expect? Once you let it be known you were preparing a national TV show about Cold War assassins, and the Carnivore was one of them, you were an inevitable target. Anyone who was threatened by the existence of records had already hired a killer at least once, when they hired your father. If they thought you might have evidence of what they’d done, your life wouldn’t be worth an unpaid parking ticket. At the same time, anyone who wanted the files would come after you, too—any way they could. Including abducting your cousin.”
“Why didn’t you tell me all of this when we first met? Why try to fool me?”
“Asher was in and out of consciousness, not always making sense. We needed to be certain what happened, and that took time. But because Langley thought the attack on them might be linked to the one on you, I was sent to stand by.
”
She took a deep breath. “Did Langley order my TV series canceled?”
“We applied pressure,” he admitted. “Now that it’s off the public stage, the threat against you may lessen. We want nothing to compromise our search for Sarah.”
“Or for the files.”
He shrugged. “Of course.”
She turned the Toyota onto the Mission Street ramp to the 101 and accelerated west toward the airport. “Okay, so there are two groups involved. The first is Sarah’s kidnappers, who demand the files as ransom. And the second is whoever sent the guy to kill me. Either they’re afraid something incriminating in the alleged files will come out, or they’ve got the files and are worried I’ll help figure out who they are.”
“Yes, that’s what we think.”
“What’s the situation in Paris now?”
“We’ve got it under dark wrap. The last thing any of us wants is headlines that one of the Cold War’s top assassins kept records, and that the wife of a CIA officer is being held until we cough them up. To prevent leaks, we’re working closely with the Sûreté, but only with the Sûreté. No other agencies inside or outside France. The hotel staff’s been told Asher was injured in an armed robbery and that Sarah’s been staying with him at the hospital. At the same time, the hospital’s been informed Sarah’s so overwrought that she’s confined to her hotel room, medicated.”
“What about the hotel employee who made the dinner reservations?”
“The concierge. We interviewed him but came up with nothing. He’s being watched.”
“And my purpose?”
“You’re going to buy us time to rescue Sarah. Since the kidnappers were good enough to sandbag Asher and snatch Sarah, we figure they’re smart enough to put their people out to keep tabs, but to do it in such a way that we won’t spot them. When they see you, they’ll think you’re there to arrange the transfer, which means we’re trying to fulfill their demands. That should relieve some of their tension. A lot of the time, kidnappers kill their victims because the pressure’s gotten to them, long before it’s time to collect their loot. They grow antsy and fearful and start imagining the worst.”
Unfortunately, he was right. One more thing to worry about. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Visit Asher first, but pretend to be Sarah, so we can keep the cover story going. If anyone asks, you’re over the terrible shock and want to visit your husband. We’re hoping he’ll remember more when he sees you. Then go to the hotel. You may spot a clue we missed in our search. We want you to use it as if it were your own room.”
“As Sarah?”
“As Sarah,” he confirmed. “That way, the hotel won’t need any explanations. Of course, the kidnappers will know it’s you.”
“What are you doing to find her?”
“Our people are out on the streets, as well as making discreet inquiries among certain contacts we or the Sûreté have found useful in the past. Part of it is, as you know, a waiting game, but of course we’re leaving nothing to chance. The truth is, we could use a break. Someone who wants something from us and is willing to trade. Or a rumor we can trace to a source.”
All the usual protocols. “And the Carnivore’s files?”
“We encourage you to find them.”
“I’ve already tried and failed, dammit. They don’t exist!”
“Try harder. Langley’s been looking off and on since before you talked with Grey Mellencamp, but without any luck either. Still, somebody obviously is convinced they’re real, or today wouldn’t have happened.” He hesitated. His voice dropped. “Of course, it’s true they could be wrong.”
Her brows knitted in worry, and her gaze swept the traffic uneasily. “That would be fatal for Sarah.”
Eight
Bratislava, Slovakia
A cloying warmth settled over the dark city as night deepened toward morning. Simon was worried about the time. From the river, he rushed home on foot to his flat in Old Town, tore off his tuxedo, and threw on jeans and a loose shirt. He retrieved his 9-mm Beretta from a safe beneath his bed and checked it. He was eager to meet the person who claimed to have information about his father’s death, but also wary. He holstered the gun under his shirt at the small of his back and grabbed a powerful miniature flashlight. He slid it into his jeans pocket.
But as he turned to leave, he glimpsed himself in the mirror over the bureau. For the briefest of moments, he did not recognize himself. Blase Kusterle? Simon Childs? He usually stayed in character and seldom reported to MI6 face-to-face. It helped his mental health to be just one person. But tonight everything had turned upside down, and he was abruptly, without warning, Simon Childs again.
He returned to the bureau and stared. Ada had called him handsome and cocksure, the opposite of how he thought of himself. He was a couple of inches over six feet, with wavy brown hair he kept on the long side, the way Blase Kusterle, the agitator, liked it. He needed a shave. His nose was big and lumpy. The reason for that came back to him in a painful burst, and he felt himself rock with it. Then he pushed it aside. His eyes were light blue and tired-looking, and there was something in them he did not like. He was unsure which of himselves—Blase or Simon—he had to thank for that.
He shook his head, disgusted at his self-indulgence. As he hurried out of the flat, he remembered the report he was supposed to write for MI6. It would have to wait.
Dawn was perhaps an hour away when he jogged along Kapitulská Street to St. Martin’s Cathedral. The massive Gothic church, haughty and eerie, loomed just yards from the Communist-built Staromestká roadway, an elevated monstrosity that rumbled with traffic and exhaust even at this early hour. As he approached the cathedral, the area appeared deserted.
On high alert, flashlight in hand, he prowled around the grounds, checking courtyards, walls, other structures, and the adjoining Rudnayovo Square. A national treasure, St. Martin’s had been the coronation church for Hungarian kings a half-millennium ago and still remained very much in use. It was kept locked at night. There was no one around, and Simon saw nothing suspicious.
Satisfied, he took out his Beretta and closed in on the door on the church’s north side, which the note had told him to use. It was ajar. He inched it open. Immediately, he was assaulted by the earthy odor of dank stone. Lighted votive candles sat on wall ledges along the stone corridor ahead, although there were electric lights that could have been turned on. He listened. Pulse throbbing, he stepped inside. The air was a good ten degrees cooler here. He left the door cracked open, just the way he had found it.
The candles were set far apart, providing just enough light to guide him. He padded forward, gun sweeping from side to side. Large and confusing to newcomers, St. Martin’s had a three-aisled nave, a presbytery reserved for the clergy, three Gothic chapels, an enormous Gothic narthex, and the Baroque chapel of St. John Mendicant. As he made his way to the end of the corridor, he listened to the deep silence, which seemed to emanate from the gray stone walls themselves.
As instructed, he entered the first chapel. He stood at the back, forcing himself to breathe evenly. As soon as he stopped walking, the air turned motionless. Nothing moved, not the candle flames nor the shadows they cast. The chapel appeared deserted. He studied the scattering of votive lights, the rows of pews, the old-fashioned tapestries, and the inky shadows. He wondered whether the person who had written the note was here. Whether he—or she—would appear at all. And realized he both feared that appearance and desperately wanted it.
He checked his watch. It was time. He walked to the third pew from the back and sat at the end, near an alcove. He tucked his Beretta under his right thigh, where it was easily accessible, and set the flashlight on the seat to his left.
He turned to look back at the alcove. In its shadow stood a white marble statue of the Virgin Mary that seemed to glow with otherworldly light. He found himself transfixed, remembering his days as a boy in London, when he regularly attended church with his mother, stepfather
, and stepbrother. He was the younger of the two boys, the biological son of his mother, while his brother Michael—Mick—was the birth son of Robert Childs. He had loved his adopted father very much.
As he shifted to face the front of the chapel, thinking about his parents, he heard a sound so soft it seemed to come from his imagination. He started to turn.
“Stay where you are. Look forward again.” It was a command in English but with an Italian accent. The voice was a man’s, low and firm. “Be patient. With luck, we will finish quickly and each be on our ways.”
Simon saw the silhouette of a man’s figure but no face. “Who are you?” He turned away slowly.
The voice ignored the question. “Do you remember the Miller Street Killer? In London, when you were a boy?”
The man was a good ten feet behind, Simon judged. Out of reach, but close enough that his whispering voice carried easily in the silent chapel. Simon wanted to grab him by the throat and squeeze information from him.
Instead, he made his tone as hard as the man’s: “You wrote that my father was murdered. Who did it?”
“Later. Più tardi. Patience. First, you must understand the beginning.” The voice belonged to a man accustomed to giving orders, not to being interrupted or questioned. He repeated, “Do you know the story of the Miller Street Killer?”
Simon thought back. “Everyone believed he was a Londoner, because he left the bodies in some of the city’s most hidden spots. One of the worst killers in London’s history. I think the first corpse was discovered in an alley off Miller Street. I remember not being allowed to play outside because all the mothers were afraid.”
“Buono. The killer was a monster. He kept the boys conscious for his disgustoso games, until they finally bled to death. After the eleventh mutilation and murder, the chief inspector was sure he had identified him—an aristocrat. Old money, old title. Then the evidence disappeared. Vanished. A clerk was chosen to be the scapegoat and was discharged. But at the same time, the inspector’s assistant retired to the South of France with a sudden inheritance, while the inspector himself—he was the one who argued to pursue the aristocrat—was accused of gambling. When it was decided the suspect could not be charged, the gambling charges were also dropped.” The voice related all of this with little inflection, as if he were reciting a memorized role. “But when a twelfth boy died, your father intervened.”
