The Coil

by Gayle Lynds

  The formal sitting rooms were filled with antiques that glowed with the deep luster of centuries of polish. Lions’ skins, stags’ horns, and paintings glorifying the hunt decorated the dining room. As he padded onward, checking behind every door and looking into every archway, soft footsteps approached. He ducked inside a closet that smelled of bleach and lemon wax.

  When the footsteps passed, he resumed his search, eventually heading upstairs.

  That was where he found the baron’s office, big enough for the Queen Mary and overlooking the front grounds. A Louis XIV desk and credenza stood at the far end, positioned in front of French doors. To the left was a walk-in fireplace, with large chairs arranged decoratively around. What identified this as the banker’s personal haven was a wall dedicated to photos of him with various luminaries over the decades—everyone from Henry Kissinger to Maria Callas, from Arnold Schwarzenegger to former Prime Minister John Major, from both George Bushes to secretive multinational moguls.

  In intelligence gathering, small was usually best. Simon had brought a miniature digital camera that looked like an English shilling. It could snap several images at a time. With it, he quickly recorded the wall of baronial photo ops. Then he hurried to the Louis XIV desk, where manila folders were stacked, waiting for the baron’s attention.

  There was no time to read. So Simon opened the first and went to work, photographing each page. He had reached the final file folder when voices approached out in the corridor. Quickly, he photographed the last three sheets of paper, dropped the “shilling” into his pocket with his left hand, restacked the folders with his right, while his feet backed toward the French doors.

  As the doorknob turned, he ducked out onto the balcony, pressed the door shut, and flattened to the side. He strained to listen.

  “This has gone on too long!” It was the banker-baron, complaining angrily in French.

  “You’re overreacting, Hyperion.” The second voice was calm, almost disinterested.

  Simon did not recognize it. The French was good, but not a native’s. And what was “Hyperion” all about? A code name? The baron was not old enough to have been maqui. A former Deuxième Bureau operative? Perhaps SDECE?

  “Using the gray areas of the law to make money is one thing,” the baron declared, his tone rising. “Killing’s entirely different. The woman in London and now the man here in Paris—much too close! That bastard Terrill Leaming was different, of course. But now I see I was a fool to let you talk me into any of it. How many have to die? It’s got to stop. I’ll give you the money, but only for the Carnivore’s files. That’s my price. The files, all of them, or you’ll get no support from my bank, and I’ll fight you at Dreftbury. If it comes to it, I’ll even tell the Coil that you’re the one.”

  A wave of cold anger engulfed Simon as he listened. The other man was the one he had been looking for. He was the blackmailer, the ghoul who had driven Sir Robert to kill himself.

  The baron’s voice rose, resonating with horror. “Mon Dieu! What—”

  Excited, furious, Simon edged toward the French door’s glass panes. He had to see the bastard’s face. Who was he?

  There was a gunshot, silenced. Pop.

  Adrenaline jolted Simon. He yanked out his Beretta, lowered his shoulder, and crashed through the French door just as the hallway door closed. There was a sliding sound behind him. He whirled as the baron toppled to the floor, limp as a dead rat. Blood and brains splattered the back of his tall desk chair. Simon tore across the room and out the door, chasing the killer.

  Twenty

  Paris, France

  With the thorn cutters, Sarah jabbed again into the plywood. She had separated three more nails from the wood, loosening it so that it bounced with each hit. Who would think that such a small thing as a bouncing sheet of wood could give such satisfaction? She started to smile at herself when she heard a noise in the hallway. Her chest contracted and she paused, the cutters raised above her right shoulder, ready to make the next blow.

  It sounded like rolling wheels. That was new. Instantly, she dropped the tool onto the plastic flat where she had found it, pressed a stack of flats down on top, threw the shirt into the footlocker, and pulled her cot beneath the window to hide the plywood chips and splinters and dust.

  She rushed to the door, brushing her clothes and face with cramped hands. It swung open, and a man, wearing the usual stocking mask, hurried in and stepped to the side, aiming his Uzi at her. Behind him, two more guards pushed a gurney toward her, accompanied by a rolling pole from which an IV bottle swung. Her pulse pounded. She stared, unsure…hope growing….

  Trying to control her excitement, she advanced as one of the men pulled off the patient’s hood. Her heart swelled with joy, and she ran. Asher! His eyes were closed, and his face slack, but it was Asher. Alive! His black brows and wiry black hair were stark against the white hospital pillowcase. The few strands of gray that threaded up from his temples made him seem terribly vulnerable.

  “What have you done to him?” she raged. “Why isn’t he in a hospital? Why—”

  But they were already leaving. One dropped a paper sack onto the gurney. The door closed. The lock clicked.

  “Asher, darling.” She kissed his forehead. “Asher?”

  He did not respond. A tear spilled down her cheek. She brushed it away angrily. He was alive; that was all that mattered.

  She checked the IV bottle and was encouraged—only a saline solution, which would keep him hydrated. His skin temperature felt normal. The paper sack held two bottles of pills, the labels typed in French, no doctor or pharmacy listed. One was an antibiotic, the other a painkiller. Also inside were first-aid supplies to take care of his wound—bulk hospital brands not found in retail pharmacies. She lifted the blankets and his hospital gown and checked the bandage on his chest. Clean, no visible bloodstain or seepage, no angry red flesh indicating infection.

  Relieved, she rolled his gurney to her cot and sat. As she stroked his cheek, he stirred. “Asher, darling, can you hear me?” She brushed wiry curls from his forehead. When his eyelids fluttered, she kissed his ear and whispered into it, “It’s Sarah. You’re with me now. It’s terrible that they got you, but I’m so glad to know you’re alive.”

  His voice was light, almost dreamy. “Hi, sweetheart.”

  She pulled back. “Asher! Have you been awake all along?”

  “Nope, just recently.” He looked deep into her eyes. “Had to wait long enough to be sure they weren’t coming back. The dog-breaths drugged me at the hospital. That’s how they sneaked me out of there.”

  A lump filled her throat. “Asher—”

  He said huskily, “Come here. I can’t believe it’s really you. I missed you, you know. It scared the bejesus out of me when they snatched you.”

  She leaned forward to kiss his cheek, but he turned and caught her lips with his. What she intended to be sweet and reassuring exploded with intensity. With survival and defiance and a hunger to live. His mouth was firm and irresistible. Heat spread through her. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. She fused into him.

  When he released her, she was unsteady. Love glowed on his swarthy face.

  “You never stop surprising me.” She smiled at him. The hollow ache that had grown around her heart over the last two days vanished. “Tell me about your wound. A chest injury is nothing to take lightly.”

  “Bullet went clean through. Well, it did nick a rib and a few other things. But they tidied up the splinters and sewed me up. I saw the stitches. Nice job.” He looked around the room. “The doctors said I could check out in a couple of days, but I doubt this was where they had in mind. Let’s talk about what’s really important—you.” His brow furrowed as he scrutinized her. “Are you okay?”

  “Other than going stir-crazy, I’m fine. Don’t look at me like that, Asher. I’m not lying. I really am fine, especially now that I know you’re getting that way, too.”

  “Everything’s going to be copacetic no
w,” he decided. “We’re together.”

  “They don’t have a chance, whoever they are.”

  “You don’t know?” he asked.

  “The only thing I know is they’ve been careful to make sure I couldn’t identify them, which leads me to think they intend to release me while I’m still breathing. However, I’m not relying on their goodwill. How about you?”

  “I can identify by sight the three guys who took turns guarding me at the hospital, but you’re right…no one else. Now for the bad news…” He described the ruse that had fooled both Liz and him. “CIA, my big toe! Liz and I were manipulated like puppets. The guys at the hospital were so knowledgeable about tradecraft, jargon, methods, I never questioned they weren’t Langley. And, of course, I never called in to check on them.”

  “What about the files? Did Uncle Hal actually keep a record?”

  “With all this fuss, I’ve got to believe so. Liz says there were two attempts on her life in Santa Barbara, probably by whoever’s got them. The problem is, I talked to her only once, so I don’t know what she’s found out since. What’s worrying me is she could still think she’s working with Langley.”

  “Oh, dear God.”

  They stared at each other, their future and Liz’s future tenuous between them.

  “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “I’ve been working on that,” she told him.

  “Ah? Talk to me.”

  Chantilly, France

  In the Château de Darmond, Simon paused in the corridor outside the baron’s office. He listened, ears straining, as a door closed somewhere around the corner, echoing in the emptiness. Where had the bastard gone? Propelled by fury, he raced along the corridor, opening doors. He had checked only four rooms when he heard the voices of a man and a woman as they headed upstairs. Servants, going about their duties, the silenced shot unheard in the vast château. There were three more doors in this wing.

  He sped onward, opening the next two doors, glancing inside, finding only unoccupied rooms. The last room was empty, too, some kind of secretarial office. But across the office, through the French doors, he caught a glimpse of a man running from the woods, where Simon thought he had seen movement earlier.

  Simon sprinted to the glassy doors and looked down. Instantly, he recognized him: Dressed as before in an expensive business suit, he was the same janitor with the cane who had killed Terrill Leaming, but there was no cane today. Still, something metallic glinted in his hand. A knife?

  Simon wanted to watch longer, to see why he was running toward this side of the château, but the voices of the two people ascending the stairs were closer. He bolted out of the room and around another corner, heading toward a second flight of stairs. He must get off the estate without being noticed.

  As soon as he reached the first floor, he heard someone walking toward him. Heart pounding, he smoothed his hair, straightened his footman’s uniform, lowered his gaze, and advanced. The other person’s shoes came into view first—men’s, cheap, with a high gloss. A well-trained, well-turned-out servant. Simon looked up, gave a relieved nod to another footman, and continued on just as distraught shouts sounded from the floor above. Help for the baron. The voices rose, full of panic. Le baron was shot.

  Soon the narrow back hall filled with alarmed servants, wondering aloud what had happened as they converged on the staircase Simon had avoided. He tried to weave through them, but for a full minute they packed its width, all moving in the opposite direction from the one he needed to go. He pushed and shouldered, but the flow dragged him back toward the stairs. Finally, he forced himself to quit fighting. He eased sideways until he reached a wall and pressed into it, pinned against the wainscoting as the stream rushed up the stairs. Fear was in their faces…fear of change, fear for their livelihoods.

  In seconds, the worst of the crush was over. Head down again, he hurried off, thinking about the employee parking area. As a plan formed in his mind, he paused outside the men’s staff room, listening. He suspected that everyone with two functioning legs would be upstairs by now, wanting news about the baron. The staff room should be empty. When he pulled open the door, he saw he was right. He searched through the lockers, checking all trouser pockets, until he found a car key with an electronic remote control.

  He retrieved his own clothes from another locker, tucked them into a tight bundle under his arm, and ran back to the corridor through which he had entered the château. Panting, he gazed outside. No sentries in sight. With luck, they, too, had rushed into the house. The baron’s murder had become the advantage he needed.

  He straightened his uniform and, as if on a crucial errand, followed the walkway around to the gravel lot outside the kitchen where employees parked their cars. This was his chance. Probably his only one. As he closed in, he pressed the unlock button on the remote device he had filched.

  Lights flashed on a beige Renault. With relief, he checked all around. Satisfied, he ran to it, jumped in, and revved the engine. As he sped the car toward the service entrance, he concentrated on psyching himself for the next scene he must play. This was one of those times when absolute conviction counted: He was a footman with double emergencies to address. As he focused, a distressed expression spread across his face. His chin rose; his eyes widened. He loosened his collar, rolled down his window, and slowed as he neared the service gate.

  Frowning, the guard stepped from his kiosk. “What are you doing in Monsieur Pietro’s car?” he demanded in French.

  Dazed, Simon looked up from his window and answered, naturally, in French, “It’s a tragedy. A terrible tragedy. Someone has shot the baron! And now my wife is about to deliver our son. What do I do? My God, I am overcome. Then Monsieur Pietro kindly throws me his car keys and says, ‘Go.’ Did you not know about the baron?”

  The man’s complexion turned gray. “Merde alors, non!” The phone in the kiosk rang, and he leaped to answer. “Dead? He’s dead? Murdered? You’re sure?” He clasped the top of his cap in alarm.

  Simon rose out of the Renault, tapped the horn, and gestured anxiously at the gate. The sentry had just had confirmation that half of Simon’s story was true; with luck, it would make the part that was a lie believable, too.

  The guard gave a startled look, as if he had forgotten Simon. He nodded, pressed a switch on his console, and returned to his conversation.

  The big gate swung smoothly inward. Simon hit the accelerator and shot out to the road. The local gendarmes were probably already on their way. He needed to put distance between himself and the château before Monsieur Pietro—whoever he was—missed his car, or before the gatekeeper began to think more critically about the stranger who claimed he was about to become a father.

  But he drove no faster than the speed limit; attracting the wrong kind of attention was the last thing he needed. As the car sped onward, he allowed himself finally to appreciate how close he had been to discovering the monster who had provoked his father’s death. Hot rage swept through him. His chest tightened, and his hands knotted on the steering wheel. That bastard…that blackmailer…had as much as murdered his father.

  Trees rushed past, a blur, and the road stretched ahead like a gray snake. He fought to control his fury, reminding himself that since he had managed to get this close once, he could and would do it again.

  As the minutes ticked past, he found himself calming, becoming more rational. He had learned a great deal. He did not know what all of it meant yet, but with the passage of time and the collection of enough information, he would put together the puzzle of the killer’s identity.

  He took a deep breath. Listened to the hammering of his heart. And moved his mind to what he must do next—get the film developed and printed quickly. The blackmailer had some kind of deal going with the baron, and the file folders on the desk were probably what the baron had been working on. Information about the deal was likely in them. Simon knew a woman in Paris he could trust to handle the miniature film and say nothing.

  Ten
se as a steel spring, he hardly noticed a sleek black Citroën sedan pass, its windows darkened. It was also heading in the direction of Chantilly. He blinked to return himself to the present. A police car raced past in the opposite direction—toward the château—its siren shrieking.

  As soon as it was out of sight, Simon floored the gas pedal, whipping past trees and farms, slowing only when he reached the outskirts of the village. Everything appeared normal there. Tourists and locals shopped. Cars cruised.

  He parked behind his rented Peugeot, got out, and strolled around it, checking the locks and tires as he also covertly scanned for surveillance. He saw no one, and nothing looked suspicious. Through the fabric of his trousers, he felt for the miniature MI6 camera. Yes, it was still there. Reassured, he left the keys to the borrowed Renault on the car’s floor and returned to his sports car.

  But just as he swung open the door, a bicyclist hurtled past. His handlebars nicked Simon’s door, and everything happened in seconds: The bike skidded in an arc and slid out from underneath the rider, who grunted and swore as the force of the fall propelled his shoulder under Simon’s front fender. He lay almost motionless, only his arm rising under the car, as if to ward off a blow.

  Simon closed the door and hurried to him. “Est-ce-que je vous ai sait mal?” Are you all right?

  The youth crawled out, shaking his head, dazed. “Imbécile!” He wore a bike helmet, and his blond hair straggled out from under it, stringy with sweat. He glared indignantly, continuing in French. “This is all your fault! You should look around sometimes. You’re not the only person on the street!” His shirt was ripped by the cobblestones. Drops of blood beaded on fresh scrapes.

  “Sorry.” Simon tried to help him up. “But you were riding on the sidewalk.”

  The young man shook Simon off, stumbled to his feet, and lurched toward his bike. With each step, he regained his balance and his indignation increased.

  He yanked the bike up onto its wheels. “Look at that paint!”

  Simon studied the scratches, which were minor. The bike was a simple five-speed Schwinn, but the fellow was either inordinately fond of it or was trying to shake him down. People were gathering, and Simon could risk no more delay. He must put distance between himself and the stolen car before anyone, especially the police, came looking. Besides, he had to get back to Paris to get his film developed.