The Coil

by Gayle Lynds

  Liz asked, “Did Waterson kill Childs’s sister, Melanie Sansborough, too?”

  Unak glanced at her. He shrugged. “Had to. She spotted him.”

  She bit back rage. Her mother. The bastard had killed her mother!

  Simon was already talking. “Tell us just how he did the job, Jimmy.” His words implied that he, Simon, already knew, so Unak had better get it right.

  “Blew up a gas line and made it look like an accident.”

  “And he took the disc?”

  “That’s what he claimed. But then that pisser Mester killed him for it and turned around and sold it for the whole bag himself.” He swore loudly.

  Liz fought to control her emotions. Her mother had had the disc, and somehow Mark found out about it. She remembered Tish’s words: He said your mother was going to help, and it’d all be fine and dandy. It was another of Mark’s wishful lies. Liz could see a violent argument between Melanie and her brother. Melanie would not give up the disc, while a desperate Mark would do anything to change her mind—even bring along his new friend, Great Waters, to “convince” her.

  And Great Waters had killed her. Melanie, with her delicate features and large smile and the bad past she was trying to rise above, had finally lost her life, not in the dangerous work of an international assassin, but in her safe new home in Virginia, while her adored younger brother was visiting.

  Liz breathed shallowly as she tried to keep her face impassive.

  “Do you know what was on the disc?” Simon asked. “Who bought it?”

  “Don’t know who put up the bundle, but Greg said there was nothing but a bunch of files with names, dates, and like that on it. He had to hire a hacker to crack into it. Worthless, if you asked Greg.” The gangster leaned to an intercom on his desk and bellowed, “Packy, get back here now.” He looked at them. “Best you split, right? I got a black SUV and a hit man to find, and you don’t want to know nothing more.”

  Simon stood. “It’s been a pleasant visit, but I suggest you don’t return it, eh? I doubt you’d prosper in the north.”

  With that final warning to stay away from Manchester, they left as the guard reentered. Lost in thought, Simon passed him as if he were invisible, nonexistent. As they skirted the noisy chaos of the dance floor, Liz could feel eyes watching.

  Outdoors, Simon stuck his hands deep into his trouser pockets as they hurried along the sidewalk. He glanced up at the stars.

  “Now we know,” he said gloomily.

  She nodded. Her voice was brittle. “The files exist. And Liz’s mother was murdered for them.”

  Side by side, they continued silently on, while the clamor and excitement of the vibrant global city swirled around them. Liz watched everywhere, uneasy, her gaze never at rest.

  Seventeen

  Call from Brussels, Belgium

  “Has Sansborough found the files?”

  “Not yet, Cronus.”

  “Was she attacked again?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  “First she went to see a woman named Tish Childs.”

  “I remember her—Mark Childs’s ex-wife. We tried to get information from her five years ago, when this filthy business with the files erupted. She was ignorant as a stump. Did Sansborough do any better?”

  “Yes. Sansborough got a lead that sent her to a lockup in Fulham. Simon Childs showed up there, too. He’s her cousin, but you must know that.”

  “He’s also MI6! We don’t want bloody MI6 to get the files!”

  “He claims it’s a private matter. Personal, because the blackmailer provoked his father’s suicide. From the lockup, they followed the lead to a nightclub in Soho. They learned there that a local gangster took the files from Melanie Childs and her brother Mark and killed them. Then the gangster turned around and sold the files for a million pounds to some unnamed individual. Since the price was so high, and there was no problem associated with the payment, I think we can assume the buyer is wealthy and wanted them for his own purposes.”

  “The first round of blackmailing began shortly after that. Why didn’t we find this out then? I sent your predecessor to interview Tish Childs.”

  “She said someone had visited her and asked about Mark. But she told Sansborough she never revealed family business to anyone under any circumstances. She’d been knocked about enough that she was tough about such things.”

  “Was tough?”

  “She’s dead, murdered. Probably within two hours of your conference call to alert everyone to what Sansborough was doing.”

  “The blackmailer sent a janitor to the address in the East End to find Sansborough?”

  “Yes, Cronus. The address I told you that Sansborough gave her cabdriver. The janitor beat Mark Childs’s ex-wife to find out where Sansborough was going next, then he killed her.”

  “The trap worked. Hell and damnation! It is one of my people!”

  London, England

  In the bleak hours before dawn, Simon drove Liz quickly away from the Velvet Menagerie nightclub. They watched for police as he turned the car southeast, in the direction of Waterloo Station. Both were returning to Paris, where Simon would look into Baron Claude de Darmond.

  “What about you?” he asked. “What will you do there?”

  “Go to my hotel and take stock,” Liz told him.

  Not exactly true. Her cell had not rung, and there were no messages from Mac, which meant the situation with Sarah and Asher was stable and he did not have the lab report on the contents of the syringe yet.

  She said, “I’d like to know what you find out from the baron.”

  “Sure, as long as it’s about the Carnivore’s files. That is, if you’ll reciprocate.”

  “Done.”

  After they exchanged cell numbers, she phoned ahead to reserve tickets on the Eurostar. The first available seats were on the 7:40 A.M. train, arriving at the Gare du Nord at 11:47.

  She put away her cell. “Do you think Unak’s people will find Tish’s killer?”

  “On his pitch? Bet on it.”

  She thought about Simon’s “trade” with the gangster and felt an odd uneasiness, a certain confusion. The killer had brutalized and murdered Tish Childs and then driven to the lockup, no doubt intending to kill her, too. But now the killer was as good as dead, and one threat to her was erased. Simon had cleverly set him up, but that did not take away from the fact that what Simon had done was vigilantism.

  She considered Simon, who was surveilling as he drove. In profile, his chin jutted forward, and his mouth was full and tense. He had a taut and angry look, and all at once he no longer seemed young and callow. His work in the nightclub had been solid. However, it was difficult to get past the sense that he was too impetuous, which made him a risk not only to himself but to her and to Sarah. She wondered how much of that was prejudiced by her memory of his reckless childhood.

  “We’re here.” There was relief in his voice.

  She stared up at Waterloo’s landmark station, looming like a phantom against the stars, as he drove around and down into the garage beneath the international terminal. The subterranean building was like a sarcophagus—a drab, reinforced-concrete box that was a foundation over Underground train lines as well as a support for the rail structures over their heads.

  Simon found a remote corner and turned off the motor. They checked their watches. They had a little more than four hours until their train left for Paris.

  “No one knows this car, right?” she asked.

  “Right,” he echoed. Weariness showed in the circles under his eyes. “We should be safe for a while. Do you want to sleep first, or take the first watch?”

  “You sleep. I’m too wired.” She scanned the silent cars, peered into the shadows.

  He nodded, reclined his seat, adjusted his shoulders, and was snoring within seconds. She continued to stare out into the garage as a car drove off somewhere, thinking about the busy international station upstairs,
planning what to do if police or janitors were waiting.

  In the business, he was called Friar, and he worked alone. His reputation was solid in the shadowy circles where it counted. Sitting in his stolen SUV outside the storage lockup, he reported on his cell to the confident male voice that had hired him through intermediaries.

  Friar maintained his iron control, although he was furious. He had failed, and it was his employer’s fault. “The Walther arrived at Heathrow too late for me to catch her at the flat. When I got there, the Childs woman was difficult. I lost even more time.”

  “You followed the backup plan?” The voice was coarse and whispery, obviously using some sort of disguise mechanism, but it did not hide the tone of superiority.

  “Of course. I killed Tish Childs and planted the cocaine and the weapon.”

  “Then there’ll be police pressure. I’ll find out where she is. If she’s still in London, I’ll contact you to finish the job. Your pay will be waiting at the post office.” He hung up.

  Don’t do me any favors. Disgusted, Friar started the SUV and slid it into gear, thinking of a good pint and a ham sandwich. But he had driven less than a block when he spotted a truck ahead, slewed sideways across the deserted road. He slowed. Barely visible to most people, but clear as day to Friar, two men hid in its shadow. A side street entered conveniently on his right. Too conveniently. An ambush.

  Friar felt an excited thrill. This was more like it. He hit the SUV’s brake, threw the gear into reverse, floored the accelerator, and yanked the steering wheel left. As the vehicle skidded to his commands, he swerved it up onto the sidewalk, seized his Mauser, and excitedly reached to open his door.

  A silenced bullet shattered the passenger-side window. For a fraction of an instant, he heard the noise, like the crack of a whip. And then nothing. The bullet arrowed through his brain, exited through his ear, and burst out the driver’s window. He pitched out, dead before his head struck the concrete.

  The bouncer walked around the SUV. A black braid hung down his back, and two gold pegs pierced the skin between his nostrils. With his heavyweight wrestler’s build and black silk sports jacket, he would appear out of place to any observer, even if he had not just committed murder. But only his own men had seen him, and his target was dead. He holstered his pistol. In minutes, he would be back on the door of the Velvet Menagerie.

  Liz was sleeping uneasily. When she awoke, her limbs were heavy as lead, and she felt disoriented. She did not open her eyes. Instead, she noted the quiet of the subterranean garage, the distant scent of petrol, the firm car seat that supported her.

  At last, she slitted open her eyes. Simon was staring at her. She remained motionless, as if still sleeping. His blue eyes were dark with intensity, and his arms were crossed, his Beretta showing in his right hand, while his left hand was hidden in the crook of his elbow. He looked away to give the garage an alert scan.

  From his fluid movements to his smooth good looks, there was an artlessness about him that she enjoyed, a contagious sense of life as an adventure. Women’s gazes had followed him wherever they were. It was not just that he was handsome in a different sort of way, it was the aura he carried. A little predatory, very confident. He was the kind of man who had an easy time with women.

  At first, she was curious and slightly amused that he was studying her as she slept. But now, as he focused again, his fierceness unsettled her.

  She opened her eyes, blinking as if just awakening. “Any trouble?”

  He looked away. “None. A security patrol passed through twice, but they didn’t bother with our corner. How are you feeling?”

  “Better. It must be time to get our tickets.” She wondered what awaited upstairs.

  “Almost. Will anyone meet you in Paris?” His expression was concerned.

  You’re Sarah, she reminded herself. You must think like Sarah. She was struck again by the duplicitous nature of the work, at how smoothly one slipped back into hiding the truth and living the lies.

  “Asher had planned to,” she explained with a fond smile, as if thinking about him, “but he’s on assignment. It’s not a problem. I like the city, and I have work to do.”

  “Do you expect more trouble?”

  “Like Tish Childs’s killer? Certainly not.”

  He appeared not to believe her. “Are you carrying a weapon?”

  “No, and I don’t intend to.”

  He uncrossed his arms and opened his left hand, displaying a pistol, small and snub-nosed, an unusual .22-caliber. “You should. Assuming someone hired him, that same person will hire more. You can have my backup gun.”

  “That’s kind of you, Simon. Really, it is. But no. I won’t carry a gun. I gave them up several years ago. End of discussion.”

  “Not even if it saves your life or someone else’s?”

  “There are ways to solve problems other than violence. I’m working on that.” She changed the subject. “What will you do after you go to the baron’s estate?”

  He considered, seemed to make a decision. “Depends on what I learn.” He pulled up his pant leg and snapped the gun into a calf holster.

  “Or if you learn anything.” Espionage was as much art as laborious craft, but she sensed evasion. “Simon, why are you being sent to Florence?”

  His mouth tightened, became guarded. “Italy really is a sort of vacation.” He gave her a mischievous grin. “Mildly enforced.”

  Liz smiled back, hiding a sudden perception. This was his act: Boyishness, impulsiveness, even arrogance were tools Simon used to encourage people to think he was a lightweight. He was harder-nosed and more substantial than he liked to reveal.

  “Then I’d suggest you forget about Paris and go to Italy,” she told him. “If MI6 doesn’t know about the Carnivore’s files, and you bring them down on us, things could get mucked up not only for you but for me. You might lose us the blackmailer and the files.”

  “I can handle my boss,” he said breezily, concerned whether she could handle whatever trouble she was in.

  “That’s exactly what worries me. That damn flippant cockiness. It makes it hard to believe you know what you’re doing. Are you reliable? Are you going to go off on some ego-boosting tangent to right some childhood wrong?”

  Anger crossed his face. “Hold on. You’re the amateur here. If you don’t want to work with me, fine. I’m not sure you can bring anything more to the table anyway. But if you think you might, I’d like to stay in touch.” And help her again if she needed it.

  She considered. He had been creative about escaping from the storage lockup as well as successfully manipulating Jimmy Unak. He had found a clever way to eliminate the masked killer. In the end, he had given her no operational reason to doubt him. And later, if she changed her mind, she did not have to tell him what she had learned.

  “I’m in,” she decided. “But we’d better have a backup message drop. There’s a restaurant off the Champs-Elysées, on the rue de Bassano. It’s called Chez Paul—near the Arc de Triomphe. Across the street from it is a parking garage and a phone booth.”

  “I know the area, but I don’t remember a phone booth.”

  “You’ll find it. It’s an especially good message drop. A young woman, a poet, used to leave love notes there, written to an older man she saw eating breakfast at Chez Paul every day. She was poor and too shy to introduce herself, so she slipped anonymous messages between the phone and the wall, never expecting him to read them. At the same time, the man had taken a liking to her. One day, he decided to wait at the booth for her to come out. Instead, he saw her leave a scrap of paper. That worried him. So instead of speaking to her, he walked off. But later, he returned to find the note. There were a dozen.”

  “Was he an operative?”

  She shook her head. “A book editor. When he put the notes together, he realized they were part of a long narrative poem written in homage to an unreachable lover. It was called ‘In the Wrong Heart,’ and—”

  He quoted: “‘We a
re alone in a glass a bubble a tear.’ I remember the story now. They fell in love, she finished the poem, and he published it.”

  “Yes, that’s it. Anyway, locals leave messages there for each other now. It’s supposed to bring good luck. You know the French and unrequited love.”

  “I like it. There’ll be people around to cover us.” He set his weapons in his lap and raised his arms over his head and yawned. “You were sleeping on my shoulder for a while.”

  “You didn’t like being a pillow?”

  He grinned. “Actually, it was pleasant.”

  He could not get over how much she looked like Liz. It was strange to realize that everything his memory and emotions said was wrong. Despite his tiredness, he was infused with that restless feeling he remembered from his youth, of the hormones that had controlled his life and still played a profound role. But it was more than that. Liz had been an untouchable icon, older, imbued with the wisdom of active sexuality. Utterly desirable, and completely out of reach.

  He remembered the jerk she had married. Garrett something. CIA. There were rumors in the family she joined the Company to be able to spend more time with him. But then Garrett was sent to the Middle East, where terrorists nabbed and killed him. The last Simon heard, Liz was living in California and teaching at university.

  He cleared his throat. “I have a confession to make.”

  Liz hedged: “I’m not sure confessions are a good idea right now.” She had an uncomfortable feeling what it would be.

  Simon swore silently to himself. What was he thinking? Guilt washed through him. She was not Liz. She was Sarah Walker, and he knew little more about her than what he had read in her dossier.

  Still, he had started. “Maybe not, but you should know that if I’ve been acting a bit strange, it’s because you remind me so much of Liz. I apologize.”

  “No apology necessary.”

  “No, really. I am sorry. You see…the truth is…well, I suppose I should just come right out and say it. I had a horrendous crush on Liz when I was growing up. Now you’re really smiling. I’m sure you think it was complete idiocy, the age difference and all, but I worshiped her. Yes, I really did. I used to sneak around, following her, when she’d come home on holiday from Cambridge. Can you believe the bastard she married? Garrett something, wasn’t it?”