The Coil

by Gayle Lynds

  Sir Anthony took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. His face was hot, and he could feel an attack of indigestion coming on.

  He snapped, “You’re there now?”

  “In Belleville, yes. The police are at the warehouse, cordoning it off. I’m driving, looking for Sansborough. My people are on it, too.” Duchesne regretted not having had a tracking device to plant in the cell. It was, in fact, his cell and his jacket. He had improvised at the last moment. “We’ll find her.”

  “You’d damn well better! If she locates the files while she’s out of our control, she could keep or hide them, and we’d never know. How do you propose to prevent that, Duchesne?”

  There was a knowing smile in Duchesne’s voice: “Simon Childs is the answer. As you recall, they worked together in London, and they exchanged cell numbers so they could stay in touch in Paris. She’s in a bad part of the city, injured, and needs help. Not only is he trained, he’s her cousin. She’ll have to call him. There’s no one else. He rented a Peugeot at the Gare du Nord. Through the Peugeot, we’ll track her. I have another idea, too.”

  “Tell me.”

  “When Sansborough found Mac dead, she phoned her door, asking for help. We can use that.”

  Sir Anthony listened as his chief of security made suggestions, nodding to himself, beginning to forgive Duchesne again. Duchesne had the quality of being both maddening and brilliant. There was something that was driving the man, something personal. Sir Anthony suspected Duchesne himself had had a run-in with the Carnivore. Maybe Duchesne’s name was in the files or the name of someone he cared about. Sir Anthony had questioned Duchesne several times but had gotten nowhere.

  “Good idea, Duchesne. Of course you’re right. Once she’s phoned her door, it becomes inevitable she’ll do it again. And we can use MI6, too.”

  “We’ll find her,” the security chief vowed. “We’ll protect her. And she’ll lead us to the files. The files must be found. Our plan is good. Solid.”

  “Your plan, Duchesne. And you’re right—there’s no reason to deviate from it.”

  Twenty-Six

  Paris, France

  In the photo studio near the Place des Vosges, Simon arched his back to ease the stiffness from bending over the photos of Baron de Darmond’s documents, reading and compiling, trying to make a connection between the slew of loan requests and the baron’s killer. He rolled his head from side to side and stretched. As soon as his attention left the work, Sarah returned to his mind, and worry riddled him. Sternly, he reminded himself he could do nothing more. He needed to keep his focus.

  Seven multinational corporations were asking for one kind of loan or another from the Darmond Bank AG. They were empires, doing business around the globe:

  Temple Eire Group

  Eisner-Moulton

  KonDra Poland

  Gilmartin Enterprises

  InterDirections Britain

  FabriMaire Systems

  Trochus Pharmaceuticals

  Simon figured the baron’s killer must be in a position to negotiate on behalf of the corporation, or he had to have a stake so great he was willing to go directly to the banking baron, hat in blackmailing hand. Temple Eire was a software developer and manufacturer. Eisner-Moulton built cars and trucks. KonDra Poland was a shipping concern. Gilmartin did engineering and defense. InterDirections was a media conglomerate. FabriMaire specialized in home and food products for the masses. And Trochus Pharmaceuticals created and manufactured drugs.

  Simon had listed the names of those who had signed the loan papers, as well as those of whatever other officers and board members he could find. There were three personal letters requesting loans, too, and he added their names, too. This was another part of espionage the public never knew—the wearying, detailed sifting of data. Turning pages, cataloging names, pausing to weigh the facts.

  His cell buzzed. Suspicious, he stared at it. He allowed himself no excitement. Sarah? At last?

  Trying not to hope, he touched the ON button. “Yes?”

  “Where have you been hiding yourself?”

  It was her. The same melodious voice, but breathless, as if she had been running. Simon paused as a tidal wave of relief swept through him. Nearly ten hours had passed since they parted at the Gare du Nord. He opened his mouth to shout with frustration, then closed it.

  “Very amusing,” he grumbled. “Bloody hell, Sarah! You scared the bejesus out of me. Thank God you called. Are you all right?”

  Sore and exhausted, Liz smiled. “It’s good to hear your voice, too.” She was surprised, in fact, at how very good it was. Constantly scanning for trouble, she was pressed against the wall of a tenement in an alley five blocks from the Eisner-Moulton warehouse. Out on the street, traffic hummed. In the distance, rock music rumbled.

  “You have a lot of explaining to do,” Simon was saying. “Who was the dead chap the police found in your hotel room? Who was the bloke who answered your cell? What was that warning all about that you left me? It’s high time you told me what the deuce is going on!”

  “You may be right. The murdered man was working with me. His name was Mac. I found him dead, which told me they were getting too close. When I couldn’t figure out how they’d managed to stay with me, I checked my cell. There were tracking and listening bugs in it.”

  “Both tracking and listening?” He swore.

  “Yes. Nasty, huh? So of course I dumped the cell, and after that, there was too much happening for me to call you again. I’m sorry I worried you.”

  He ignored the apology. “The dead guy was CIA?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Yes and no? What does that mean?” He was not going to let her dodge anything anymore.

  “I’ll have to explain later. It’s complicated.”

  “I’ll bet it is. I have the patience of Job. I’ll wait, because you will explain. You think the blackmailer planted the bugs?”

  “No, it was someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “I told you, it’s complicated. We really need to talk.”

  “No kidding. Who was the American who answered your cell?”

  “It must’ve been someone from or with the guys who planted the bug. I expected them to track the cell after I junked it. I guess they did.”

  “They of the CIA or maybe not CIA?”

  “Sorry, but yes,” she said. “I’m desperately hoping you have good news about the Carnivore’s files or the blackmailer. I could really use some good news.”

  “As a matter of fact, I had an enlightening experience in Chantilly. Productive. I’m working on what it means. We can talk about that, too. Where are you?”

  “I’m hiding in an alley in Belleville. It’s too narrow to drive into. How much would it cost to convince you to give me a lift?”

  “Since you’ve already apologized, I’ll let you off the hook. Tell me where you are.” As she talked, he jotted directions. He did not like her location—very dangerous. “Are you armed?”

  “I have my cell.”

  “Swell. Wait there. I’m in the Marais. Figure at least a half hour, depending on traffic. Don’t leave without me.”

  “Not if you paid me.”

  Smiling for the first time in hours, Simon broke the connection and gathered up the prints and his notes. He spotted a stack of new photo portfolios, chose a small one, and dumped his notes inside. He folded the oversize prints and added them to the eight-by-tens and put them in, too. As he scribbled a letter thanking Jackie, he heard the bell on the front door tinkle. A dozen customers had come and gone while he worked on the photos, but none in the last—he checked his watch—hour.

  Jackie’s voice was raised, so he would hear: “So sorry, monsieur. I am closing.”

  Simon stepped softly into the hallway.

  A man’s voice said in bad French, “He drives a Peugeot. I’d say he’s about six-two or -three. Brown hair, wavy, on the long side. Blue eyes, with a nose that looks as if it’s been smashed by
a fist.”

  “Oh, my, how mysterious. Do you have his name? That might help.”

  “No name. My car hit his accidentally after he’d walked away. By the time I parked, he’d disappeared. I didn’t want to leave a note, because I hoped he and I could work something out privately. You understand.”

  “Absolutely.” Her tone was sympathetic, the perfect response of someone who was about to deny everything. “I do wish I could help, but I haven’t seen him. You’re sure he came this way?”

  Simon slid along the hall until he could see. His chest tightened. It was Terrill’s killer, the one who had later lurked in the trees near Baron de Darmond’s château. Dressed in the same suit as earlier today, he was solid-looking, with a long face, flat gray eyes, and medium-length hair. Despite his civilized attire, there was something sinister about him, as if whatever power he had came at the expense of others.

  As Jackie turned on the charm and it became evident she would get rid of him—a tribute to her years in French intelligence—Simon returned to her workshop, left euros on the table to cover the cost of the prints and supplies, and opened the back door. He glided out into the night, thinking about Belleville, eager to see Sarah.

  Gino Malko was a careful man, fastidious not only in his grooming but in his habits. Because of the highly sophisticated trackers planted on the Peugeot, he knew the man had stopped here in the Marais district earlier, which in itself was interesting. And it gave Malko an advantage. Using his computerized map, he had drawn one-quarter-mile circles around the two parking spots. Statistically, it was most probable the man’s destination was somewhere within the overlapping area.

  It was late now, and most stores were closed. Still, he went door-to-door, telling lies to cover his questions. After he left the photo studio, he found a barber closing his shop two doors away. Malko showed him the photo, and the barber recognized the man. Malko felt a frisson of excitement. This moment of success was not due to good luck. He did not believe in luck—good or bad. He believed in complete attention to detail and a relentlessness that left his competitors choking on his dust.

  “Certainement,” the barber said as he smoothed his white apron, continuing in French, “I saw him but a few hours ago—two, no more than three. He went into Madame Pahnke’s shop. You know Madame Pahnke? Ah, I see you do. A delightful woman, a pleasure as a neighbor in business. But he must be gone by now. Who stays in a photo store for hours, other than the owner or the clerks? In and out, in and out—those are the customers who keep us small businesses alive.”

  Malko’s natural carefulness made him pause. This woman—Madame Pahnke—had lied convincingly. She was protecting the man, but why? “This is a very fine street for businesses and shops. You have been here long?”

  “Oui. Since my father opened in 1959 on this very same spot—when he was a young man and the great de Gaulle was running France. Those were glorious days.”

  Malko nodded. “And Madame Pahnke? She has also been here so long?”

  “Non, non. Just five years, a newcomer.”

  “She fits in well? I mean, she certainly appears to. But there’s something…” Malko waited, hoping the barber would rise to the bait. Few people could leave a provocative sentence like that dangling.

  The barber leaned forward conspiratorially. “Strange people come and go there all through the night sometimes. Intriguing, yes?”

  “She’s discreet, confides little about herself or her business?”

  “Oh, yes. You can say that several times and loudly. Very discreet.”

  Malko thanked the barber. Back on the sidewalk, funnels of light shone down from the tall lampposts. Tires hummed over the cobblestones. The barber was right: Madame Pahnke and the man’s visit to her were intriguing. Her nighttime visitors made Malko think of drugs or stolen goods. Or perhaps intelligence agents. The underground or the undercover. The man in the Peugeot could fit into either world.

  The front window of her store was dark now, covered by a blind. A sign announced CLOSED. He looked both ways, cupped his eyes, and peered around the blind that covered the glass door. From what he could see, there was no movement inside. Not even a shadow wavered. He padded a few doors away, allowing pedestrians to pass. He took picklocks from his pocket.

  When he returned, he stood close to the door to hide what he was doing. The French had two-stage locks, which were more difficult to pick than those in other countries, but he soon found matches and opened it. Warily, he slipped inside, his crepe soles silent. But it was the somber suit that really disguised his purposes. Who would believe a man in a business suit was burgling?

  He turned on the small but powerful flashlight he kept on his key chain and went to work searching the drawers behind her front counter. He found nothing particularly interesting, except a little .22-caliber pistol. That was hardly earthshaking. Small businesses kept defensive weapons on hand in case of robbery. He returned it to the drawer. His flashlight beam pointed the way through the gloom as he advanced down a narrow hall, stopping to open a storage closet, a bathroom, a developing room, and a print room. Again, he found nothing that seemed important.

  In the rear room, he aimed the beam across an empty worktable and counters lined with chemicals and boxes of photo paper. Prints hung from drying lines. He examined everything closely, finally pausing at the wastebasket. It was full. He dumped it onto the table. At first, all he found was a useless mishmash of discarded photo prints, facial tissues, torn labels, an empty ballpoint pen, and junk mail. When he worked his way to the bottom, which was what had been on top, he stopped, riveted.

  He picked up three prints of uneven quality—one was too dark, and the others too light. Still, they were readable. One of the light ones was a simple record of some framed photos hanging on a wall. What was important was a photograph in the upper-right-hand corner; it was his employer with Baron de Darmond. His suspicions heightened, he inspected the other two prints, which were different from any he had seen—parts of a financial statement. He recognized the name of the company. Fortunately, it was not his employer’s. But it was that of a client—a valued client.

  When he returned to study the other photos on the wall, he swore loudly. Baron de Darmond appeared in each.

  He lifted his head, thinking. From the baron’s château? If the man with the Peugeot had photographed these, what else had he recorded? What else had he seen?

  With cool efficiency, he slid the three prints inside his suit coat and returned the trash to the wastebasket, and the wastebasket to where he had found it. He gave one last look around to make certain nothing indicated he had been there. At last, he trotted back through the shop and out into the night. He had an urgent phone call to make.

  Twenty-Seven

  From the air, the lights of nighttime Paris dazzled from horizon to horizon. Sir Anthony Brookshire admired the panorama from his window in his private jet as it circled downward toward Charles de Gaulle Airport. The sight brought back memories of the 1950s, when he was a teenager and accompanied his mother and aunt to Paris for shopping, culture, and “life,” as they enthusiastically called it. They would leave from Victoria Station, take the Newhaven–Dieppe ferry, and stay at the Ritz or the Bristol.

  Often it was dinner at the Crillon, where diplomats from nearby Embassy Row bought and sold Third World countries in the elegant bar, followed by late-night drinks at any number of private homes or bistros, where affairs of state were far more important than affairs of the heart. He swam in the piscine Deligny, learned about Kronenbourg beer at a jazz cellar in Saint-Germain from streetwise older boys who thought they could take advantage of his generous allowance, and at dawn walked to the place de Clichy alone, where Paris never slept: Already street cleaners were scrubbing the streets, while people thronged the cafés for coffee.

  But by the time he was twenty, everything had changed: His mother and father divorced. His aunt was dead of alcoholism—her liver finally failing. He was about to graduate from Cambridge, and he had
“A Future.” There was no more time for midnight swims or to listen for the romantic call of jazz wafting across the Channel. Sir Anthony was hardly a nostalgic man, but the world pressed heavily on him tonight, just as it had then. He had not thought about Paris so sentimentally in a long time.

  As the jet landed and rolled to a stop, he sat back. The business of the Carnivore’s files was difficult. Still, no matter how unpleasant, he would resolve it.

  “Shall I fetch you a drink, sir?” His man, Beebee, appeared at his side. Beebee’s real name was Horace Bedell, but Sir Anthony’s oldest child, Thomas, had been unable to say Bedell when he was a little boy.

  “A brandy will do. The Cordon Bleu, I should think. Two snifters, eh?”

  “Of course, sir.” The voice faded. Footsteps retreated. Soon Beebee returned. A cut-glass snifter touched the back of Sir Anthony’s hand. “Here we are, sir.”

  Sir Anthony picked up the snifter by the base. He sipped, savoring the fiery liquor as it warmed his throat. Beebee set the other snifter on the small table attached to the over-stuffed seat across the aisle and returned to the bar, where he resumed polishing the already-polished glasses.

  As the jet’s powerful Rolls-Royce engines quieted, the door opened. Sir Anthony heard the brisk footsteps of his passenger climbing the rolling staircase. He gathered himself, banishing maudlin thoughts that might interfere with hard decisions.