The Coil

by Gayle Lynds

  Simon gave the gate a pull. It resisted, still moving slowly. Spotlights flashed on from the office’s roofline, illuminating the concrete drive, where they were trapped in bright light. Simon cursed.

  Liz turned sideways, slid through the opening, and almost immediately slipped back, pushing the gate shut.

  Her voice was tight. “We’ve got a visitor. Dressed all in black. He was getting out of a black SUV—no interior lights showing. Looks as if he’s carrying a silenced pistol.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “Of course not. And yes, I got the license plate number. No one followed me here. There was a woman in Paris who might have been surveilling me, but I lost her there. He must’ve followed you.”

  “Don’t see how he could’ve. Let’s lose him fast.”

  As they tore away from the gate, a security guard stepped out of the office and yelled, “You’d better get out of here! I’ve called the police!” He wore a drab gray shirt and matching trousers, the name of the storage facility emblazoned on his shoulders and the front of his flat-topped guard’s cap. He was unarmed and had a pendulous belly and a resolute face. Hardly terrifying, even to the under-twelve crowd.

  Simon whispered, “Keep me covered. I’m going to requisition that uniform.”

  He pulled out his gun and ran straight at the man, who made a frightened sound in his throat and turned. Simon was on him instantly, pushing him inside at gunpoint.

  Liz sprinted past and along a hall, where doors opened onto dark offices and through a doorway where light showed. It was the security office; monitors lined one wall. She threw herself into the chair in front of the console and studied the control panel, locating the switches for the closed-circuit cameras that recorded the front entrance. She pressed all buttons marked ERASE.

  When she emerged, Simon had blindfolded the guard, who was now in his undershirt and trousers and tied to a secretary’s swivel chair. Simon wore the man’s cap and was buttoning the oversize shirt over his own. With the guard’s keys in one hand, Simon grabbed his sports jacket with the other.

  He hurried toward the side door. “This way.” Without checking whether she followed, he pulled it open. If he remembered correctly…yes, there was the facility’s pickup.

  Understanding immediately, she ran out into the night after him. They must move fast, before the intruder climbed the fence. “I’ll get the gate.” She dashed off.

  Simon jumped behind the steering wheel, turned on the engine, hit the accelerator, and spun the truck around, heading toward the front.

  Liz smacked the big gate’s electric opener and stepped to the left, so she would be on the passenger side. She could hear no noise on the other side of the fence; the approaching pickup’s engine was drowning out everything. As soon as Simon slowed the vehicle, she leaped in beside him and dropped to the floor.

  “Good show.” He did not look down. “Gate’s wide open now, so here we go.” He drove out sedately, looking official in his guard’s shirt and cap. “Which direction is the SUV?”

  “Right,” she told him from the floor.

  He turned left.

  “Do you see him?” she asked.

  He checked his mirrors and gave a slow smile that widened his jaw and made his smooth cheeks rise toward his eyes, making him look particularly young and carefree, just the way he often had been. He gave a deep chuckle.

  “What’s funny?”

  “The guy just slid in through the gate, looking appropriately sneaky. He’s got a ski mask pulled down over his face. Probably congratulating himself for being so quick-witted, he didn’t have to crawl the fence. We’ll double back and pick up my rental car. He’s busy enough to give us no trouble.”

  Liz climbed onto the seat. “For now.”

  Sixteen

  Well after midnight, the streets of London’s lively Soho district radiated a boisterous carnival atmosphere. Cigar smoke and music flooded from the open doors of pubs and clubs while the young drank and danced and smoked and sniffed. Gangs of girls sat at outdoor café tables, gossiping and ogling boys. The summer night was garish with streetlights and illuminated signs, and the sidewalks were jammed as always.

  Inside Simon’s car, the radio droned about the meeting of G8 leaders who would be in Glasgow next week for high-level talks and global photo ops. As he and Liz cruised along, looking for a parking place, the news items changed.

  When Liz heard the name Tish Childs, she turned up the volume. “…found dead of a gunshot wound in her East End flat,” the announcer said, “with traces of cocaine beside her. She was beaten badly before death.”

  “Oh, my God! Tish!” She leaned closer, listening.

  “…and a Walther with a sound suppressor was located in a trash bin in the alley below her flat. It’s being tested to determine whether it’s the murder weapon. One witness reported seeing a tall woman with short auburn hair visit Mrs. Childs tonight. Another witness described a suspicious-looking man in a black jumpsuit, wearing a black cap pulled so low his face was hidden….”

  “Damn!” Simon exploded between clenched teeth. “Mark gave her a crappy time, and now this.”

  Liz’s heart pounded. “It’s horrible.” The person with the files had ordered Tish killed, too. Just as he had tried to kill her twice in Santa Barbara and then outside the hospital in Paris and at the storage locker tonight. She looked out at the busy street, and for a moment it seemed as if behind every car window a janitor lurked. Poor Tish. She had deserved so much more from life.

  “You think all of this is about the Carnivore’s files?”

  “What else?” She watched the traffic as if she could find answers in it. “The first witness described me, but the second described the gunman who came after us at the storage locker. Which means he didn’t follow you or me. Instead, he beat Tish into telling him where I’d gone. Monster!”

  “So he went to Tish’s looking for you. How did he know you’d be there?”

  “I wish I could figure it out.” Her mouth was dry. Although she had sensed surveillance, she had seen none. Her skills must be far weaker than she thought.

  “Fill me in,” he urged. “Maybe it’ll make sense to me.”

  She looked at him sharply. “Are you ready to tell me what you were doing in Bratislava?”

  “I can’t.”

  “I can’t tell you any more either.”

  They exchanged a look. As he gazed away, he said, “Now the police are after you, too. We’d better count on their description being a lot more detailed than the radio broadcaster had time to relate.”

  Liz lapsed into silence, thinking about Sarah. Trying to imagine where she could be, trying not to worry about how she was, what they had done to her, how afraid she must be. Trying to get her mind off the people who had already been killed. She would do no one any good if she allowed herself to dwell. All were victims, even her. But this victim had teeth.

  Simon found a parking spot on a narrow street, cut the engine, pulled a black gym bag from the backseat, and sorted through an array of identifications.

  “Are any of those IDs real?” she asked.

  “Hope not.”

  “Private or MI6?”

  “Bit of both.” He found his cell and dialed. “Give me Michele Warneck. That’s right. Simon Childs calling.” As he waited, his fingers drummed the steering wheel. “Michele? Yes, the same. As usual. Right, and thanks.” He punched off.

  “What was that all about?”

  “A precaution. Shouldn’t be giving away Whitehall’s secrets, now should I? Let’s see whether we can learn something useful from Jimmy Unak.”

  Jimmy Unak’s headquarters was a nightclub called the Velvet Menagerie. The large neon sign was small and tasteful for Soho. The doorman had a heavyweight wrestler’s build and wore an expensive black silk sports jacket. Two gold pegs pierced the skin between his nostrils, and a single black braid hung down his back. From the way he moved his shoulders, Liz judged he had a gun in a harness in his armpit.
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  Simon flashed his fake ID, and the doorman grunted ominously, which evidently was permission to enter. Inside, old-fashioned disco lights flashed vertigo-inducing colors across the enormous dance floor, where couples gyrated to the ear-bleeding sounds of Split Lip. The banner that hung from the ceiling proclaimed the band to be the hottest act on the city’s club scene. Despite being long past midnight, the air was ripe not only with sweat and alcohol but with enthusiasm.

  “My turn,” Liz told Simon.

  Before he could object, she shouldered through to the bar and crooked her finger. Optimism in his eyes, the bartender arrived at the same moment as Simon. He glanced at Simon but settled on her. She gave him her best smile and inquired over the din where she could find Mr. Unak. He directed her to a carved door guarded by an unobtrusive man in a dinner jacket.

  When he left to help a real customer, Liz noted the protrusion at the small of his back, under his white apron. She turned, saw Simon’s line of sight, the grim set of his mouth. He had seen the gun, too. They circumnavigated the dance floor, heading toward the dapper guard at Jimmy Unak’s door. He would be armed, too.

  She spoke into Simon’s ear: “If you go into Unak’s office, they’re sure to search you.” He was still carrying his Beretta.

  “Don’t believe so.”

  “You’re not going to do me any good in the hospital or dead.”

  “Have faith. It’s handled.”

  “You worry me, Simon. This isn’t a lark.”

  He sighed. “That’s what my boss says. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

  “I can do this alone, you know.”

  “No, you can’t, Sarah. With luck, they wouldn’t hurt you, but you’d get nothing. Just keep quiet and follow my lead. This is my territory. Liz would understand.”

  She frowned. She would let him lead but keep a sharp eye on him, too.

  At Unak’s door, Simon flashed his ID to the meticulously dressed sentry. “Inspector Scott Anderson. Here to see Jimmy Unak.”

  The man caught Simon’s wrist in midair and studied the ID carefully. He cocked an eyebrow. “Manchester? A long way from home, aren’t we, Inspector?”

  “By God, you can read. Now, if you don’t mind?” Simon jerked his wrist free and glared.

  With the flat eyes of a great white shark, the gangster returned the glare, lowered his chin, and spoke into a lapel microphone. A small receiver showed inside his ear.

  After a moment, the eyes flickered. The sentry opened the door, touched his forehead with thumb and forefinger as if humbly pulling a lock of hair, and announced in a low, mocking voice, “Second door to the left, guv’nor.”

  Liz felt her adrenaline rise at the sneer in the man’s voice. She had to admit Simon’s control was impressive. The door closed with a solid thunk, like the closing of a vault, and the music and noise vanished as if cut off by a knife. State-of-the-art soundproofing, and Liz guessed the door and corridor would be bulletproof as well. Waiting for them was another guard, this one heavily muscled. He led them down a well-lit corridor.

  He knocked on Unak’s door once and opened it.

  Jimmy Unak was standing behind a long desk that could have belonged to the CEO of any blue-chip corporation. Small, tastefully framed Impressionist paintings that could be originals hung on the walnut-paneled walls. Unak was a huge mound of a man, but his elegant tuxedo fitted so well he appeared only mildly overweight. He used his remote to turn off a political debate on BBC Television, eased down into an enormous desk chair, and waved Simon and Liz to a pair of fine leather side chairs.

  As they sat, the muscular guard took up a post against the door. Behind Unak, another man sat in a simple straight chair tilted back against the wall.

  Unak scowled. “Manchester, is it? What could Manchester CID want with me, Inspector—what was the name?”

  Liz saw a tight wariness in Unak’s face. Perhaps because of what MI6 had passed on—that Unak’s rival, Donny Mester, had put a contract out on him.

  “Anderson,” Simon said pleasantly but as if speaking to a child. “Inspector Scott Anderson.”

  Unak gave a small nod. The guard at the door opened it and left. He would check with London’s Scotland Yard, where a Manchester CID inspector would have made his arrival in town known. Liz realized now that was why Simon had phoned one Michele Warneck. Warneck would cover him at the Yard.

  “Never did have a head for names.” Unak laughed. A cold laugh, yet hinting at nerves. “So, what brings you here, Inspector? I ain’t been north for years.”

  “We need a chat about some news we recently turned up,” Simon said, crossing his legs, sitting back at his ease, but keeping his gaze firmly on Unak. “Might be better if we spoke in private. Doubt you’ll want this to go beyond you and the two of us.” He never looked at the bodyguard tilted against the wall.

  Neither did Jimmy Unak. Instead, he turned a tight smile onto Liz. “Who might the lady be, Inspector?”

  “Detective Phyllis Roan,” she told him, making her voice flat and cold.

  Unak gave her a slow look of sexual approval. “Might be I should get up Lancashire way more often, luv.”

  Liz curled a lip in disgust, playing out her role as the contemptuous CID detective from the tough north.

  Unak picked up a letter opener and cleaned his fingernails. “Nothing my old pal Packy can’t hear, Inspector.” He gestured at the bodyguard, whose name was obviously Packy. “So then, what’s this ‘news’ you think I’d want to talk about?”

  “Your former friend, the deceased Gregory Waterson, and your competitor, Donny Mester.”

  The scowl returned. “Don’t quite fancy talking about the past. Nothing to be done about what’s over, is there? No point nattering on about it.”

  “Unfortunately, Jimmy, we do want to talk about it, and we are going to talk about it.”

  Unak’s eyes flashed, and he rose behind his desk, the Titanic cresting a mountainous wave. “Unless the pair of you brought an arrest warrant, Anderson, I really don’t give pigeon shit for what you want, do I now?”

  “Inspector to you,” Simon snapped, the superciliousness still in his tone. He did not move from his chair. “And actually, you do care what I want. You see, we have the complete description of a chap who’s been sent to kill you.”

  The gangster’s expression did not change, although for an instant alarm replaced the anger in his eyes. “Who might that be?”

  “First we discuss what we want from you. Call it a trade.”

  “A trade? What bloody trade?”

  “A deal, Jimmy, as they say in America. Quid pro quo. You do know what that means, don’t you? An important man like you.”

  Liz tensed. Simon had been doing well, but now she worried. The most powerful psychological cause of violent behavior was the feeling of being shamed, humiliated, insulted, slighted, rejected—any of which could convey the ultimate provocation: The other person was inferior, a nobody, insignificant.

  Simon was deliberately provoking Unak. There was a thin line between a gangster not wanting trouble with powerful Scotland Yard, and a venomous and volatile man, probably with an inferiority complex, who could easily act irrationally and against his own interests. The danger was palpable.

  Unak’s face turned red. “I know what the fuck it means, copper, and I don’t give a piss about your goddamn trade!”

  The bodyguard, Packy, let the front two legs of his chair slam to the floor as his right hand reached inside his tuxedo jacket. Liz shifted, ready to act or dive. Only Simon remained unperturbed, as a CID inspector should.

  “A trade,” Simon repeated. “Figured you’d like to know who your executioner will be.”

  Unak blinked. With a dismissive wave of his big hand to Packy, the tension broke. “What’s the bloke’s bloody name? I’ll kill the bastard myself!” He had focused on what was critical—his life.

  Simon shook his head gently, as if chiding the big man. Liz forced herself to breathe normally, maintaining a ston
y expression. England was a different country, a different world, from the States. The police-criminal balance here was weighted far more toward the authorities. Simon had been playing good cop/bad cop all by himself—angering the gangster to the edge of doing something he would regret, then offering a trade that was not only no threat but a relief.

  Simon said, “Remember that trade? It involves a couple of questions about Mark Childs.”

  When he heard the name, Jimmy Unak nearly smiled. He snapped his fingers at his silent bodyguard. “Give us five, Packy.”

  Without a word, Packy glided to the door. It closed softly behind, like a whisper.

  The gangster settled back into his chair, visibly relieved. “What about Childs?”

  “We’ve been told Donny Mester killed Gregory Waterson,” Simon said. “What interests us is that everyone thinks the reason was to take over Waterson’s territory. We believe there’s a good deal more to it than that, and that it involved Mark Childs.”

  Jimmy Unak’s big head gave a single nod. “You could be right. Now, you hand me the name of the bastard who’s planning to off me, and I’ll fill you in about that sucker Mark Childs. With pleasure.”

  “I don’t have a name, but I can give you his description, where he was last seen, his license plate number, and details about his SUV, which is surely stolen.”

  Liz realized what Simon was going to do a split second before he described the gunman who had killed Tish and traced her to the Fulham storage locker. Jimmy Unak carefully printed what Simon told him on a piece of paper. Then he sat back and favored them with an almost paternal gaze.

  “Right, then.” Unak got to business. “What happened was, Greg ordered Childs wiped, because he controlled a Zip disc supposedly worth at least a million quid. That was one right bigger chunk than Greg’s whole damn business was worth.”

  Liz’s pulse raced. The Carnivore’s files were on a Zip disc! And the confirmation was Mark’s note at the storage locker: Payment one mil sterling.

  “This was in the United States?” Simon said.

  “Sure. Like I said.”