The Coil

by Gayle Lynds

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  “She’s been surveilling me off and on, and I’m pretty sure she killed Mac. She’s working for the people who have the files.” And she had led the team that had kidnapped Sarah and Asher a second time.

  On the cobblestones, the man twitched. Definitely returning to consciousness.

  “So…if by chance she’s with our friend here—” Simon began.

  “They know you’re looking for the files. Remember, my cell was bugged. Whoever has the files has decided he needs to wipe you, too.”

  “Just what I wanted to hear.”

  The man’s eyes fluttered. As soon as Simon pressed the muzzle of his Sig Sauer against the man’s temple, one hand shot up to grab it.

  Simon cocked the trigger. “Hear that, bloke?” he asked softly. “That’s your last memory before your brain blows.”

  The eyes flew open. Saw Simon. Checked out the gun. His expression did not change. He lowered his hand. “We need to talk.”

  “Don’t talk. Whisper,” Simon ordered. “Who sent you?”

  Liz rose to a crouch and focused on the woman as she continued to prowl toward them. She was hugging the tenements now, where the shadows were densest. The only reason she was visible was because she was erect and moving, reflecting just enough moonlight to be seen by anyone who knew where to look. The traffic and distant music were loud enough to cover their whispers, and she apparently had not yet heard or seen them where they hunched in dark shadow.

  “It’s just what she said,” the man told Simon, lowering his voice again as Simon pushed the gun deeper into his temple. “We know you’re working together.”

  “You didn’t answer the question. Who are you? Who’s paying you?”

  With no change in expression, without a tic of muscle to warn them, the man’s mouth snapped open, and he bellowed, “Beatrice!” He rolled away from Simon’s gun, kicked Simon, grabbed his ankles, and threw him. Not only solidly built, he was strong, and this time he had the advantage of surprise.

  As Simon lunged back, the man ducked and yanked the knife from the ankle sleeve under Simon’s trousers. Now he was armed. At the same time, the woman yelled, “Malko!” She opened fire and ran toward the sound of his shout. Her bullets exploded into the cobblestones, searching for them, sending chips flying like razors.

  All of this happened in seconds. As Simon kicked and searched for an angle to fire his Sig Sauer, he roared, “Sarah!”

  Liz felt paralyzed where she crouched, one knee up, both hands aiming the Glock. Then a voice inside her mind spoke calmly, You made a decision. You don’t have time to agonize. She squeezed the trigger.

  The Glock’s kick sent a battery shock up her arms, and something inside her shattered. A piece of her that she valued vanished, but her bullet hit Beatrice dead-on. Beatrice continued two more steps, then slumped as if her spine were dust.

  As she pitched forward, the man punched a fist straight into Simon’s belly and slammed the other up into his jaw. Simon collapsed, and Liz whirled the Glock to shoot again. The man kicked it out of her hand and ran.

  Swearing, Liz scooped up the Glock and gave chase, but the man named Malko was next to the tenements, in the deepest shadows. Before she could close in, he disappeared into the darkness, a phantom swallowed by the night. She spun on her heel, raced to the woman, and rolled her over. The chest was bloody. No pulse. For a moment, Liz looked at the dead face and wondered who she really was. Whether this woman, Beatrice, had a husband, children, a life.

  Then she shook the thought off. She would mourn later. Now there was a job to finish, a blackmailer to stop, and Sarah and Asher to find. Liz searched the woman but found nothing useful. She grabbed the woman’s Uzi, ran back, snatched up the Sig Sauer, and bent over Simon.

  “Simon?”

  His eyes were closed. His right foot was tucked up under his left thigh in an unnatural position, and his head was twisted to the side. Blood glistened on the cobblestones.

  Thirty

  Terrified, Liz pressed her ear against Simon’s chest. When she heard his strong heartbeat, she sat up and wiped moistness from her eyes. Thank God. She glanced around. No sign where their attacker had gone.

  Simon groaned. Liz studied him. His wavy hair was a disaster, his big features splotched and dirty, and his sports jacket and trousers rumpled. She smiled. “Look at you,” she murmured. “Still the family bad boy.” She straightened his leg and adjusted his head gently. Then she shook his shoulder roughly. “Simon, wake up! Wake up, dammit. We’ve got to get out of here!”

  He opened his eyes and groaned again. “Bloody hell. I screwed up proper.”

  “You did fine. We were both distracted, and he knew what he was doing. He beat me, too. Ran off before I could stop him. Can you walk?” As he swayed up to his feet, she watched the alley, wondering again how Malko had found Simon here.

  “I hope so. I’m too banged up to drive.” He holstered his Sig Sauer and knife, then limped off, heading for the other end of the alley. “Better we go out this way, in case we get any more visitors,” he explained.

  She joined him. “Your mind appears to be working fine, but your wobbling feet indicate drunkenness.”

  “I wish. Do something useful, will you? Shoot out that blasted streetlight.”

  “When we’re closer. My aim’s not reliable. It’s been too long.”

  “Looked bloody reliable to me. Dropped Beatrice with one shot.”

  “Trust me. It was pure luck.”

  Above them, the tenements towered seamlessly one after another, not a breath of air between. On high alert, Liz kept the Glock in her hand and tucked the Uzi into her purse. The grip still stuck out, but at least the weapon was less noticeable.

  At the mouth of the alley, they peered out. The street was mixed residential-commercial. The bars exploded with noise every time a door opened. Rusty heaps jammed the curbs, sandwiched together as if by a Goliath’s putty knife. Traffic rolled past. Pedestrians walked, strolled, and staggered.

  Simon was quiet, still collecting himself. When there was a break in pedestrians, Liz shot out the streetlight, and they hurried off. It was only a matter of time until he bombarded her with questions. Right now, she had a large one for him.

  “I’ve been thinking about the guy with the stiletto,” she said, keeping her voice low as she scanned the neighborhood. “Beatrice called him Malko. If Malko had a team to back him up, they should’ve been around to help when I jumped him. But there was only her. Since he called to her, I assume he was expecting her.”

  She glanced at Simon, saw he was staring at her.

  He looked away quickly. “You have a theory?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” she continued. “Maybe the reason you didn’t see him surveilling you was because he really was out of sight. And maybe he didn’t need a full team, because he could surveil you alone…because he or someone else planted a tracking device on your car, the way the kidnappers did with my cell.”

  Simon shook his head. “No way. No one went near the car before he found me. No…” Then he remembered. “Damn and damn again. The bicyclist.” He described the “accident” in Chantilly. “The kid fooled me, but it was that guy—Malko—who must’ve set it up. He could’ve tailed me to the village from the baron’s château.”

  “These people are damn good, and they have one hell of a lot more people power than we do.” She sensed he was staring at her again. She turned quickly, caught him in the act, and had an uneasy feeling she knew what was on his mind.

  “What?” she demanded.

  He hesitated, then said slowly, “You look damned comfortable with a weapon in your hand. You took out Beatrice with one shot, even though she was running. You know far more than the rudiments of karate. You’re good at tactics and execution, too. You play a role believably—you didn’t miss a beat when we interviewed Jimmy Unak. And now you went straight for a tracking device to explain how the killer found me. Not to mention, of course, t
hat you’re injured and trying to ignore it.”

  Inwardly, she sighed. “I’m sure there’s a point somewhere in your rambling.”

  “As if you didn’t know.” He gave a short smile. “Let’s think. If I’d wanted to send someone after the Carnivore’s files, it would’ve been his daughter, not the niece who barely knew him. Obviously, Liz is the better-informed, far more experienced hunter, not Sarah. At the same time, why are you so very good at what Liz was trained for? True, you’ve had some tradecraft, but not enough to explain your expertise.”

  He watched her face for a reaction. Her eyes were dark pools, unreadable.

  Finally, she murmured, “All right. Say it, Simon.”

  “You’re Liz.”

  She heaved a sigh. “You always were a little rat.” She smiled. When she saw his expression, she chuckled. “I was going to tell you now anyway.”

  He felt himself flush. “Bloody hell, you are Liz. You could’ve let me in on this before. Damn irritating of you.” He scowled. “And I told you about my crush. Of all the underhanded tricks. You should’ve trusted me!”

  “I couldn’t trust anyone. But now you’re beginning to impress me.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  Paris’s two-tone police sirens wailed in the distance. They traded glances and broke into a lope. Someone had reported the gunshots in the alley.

  She studied him as they rounded a corner onto a wide, busy boulevard. “Level with me, Simon. Is MI6 after the files, too?”

  “You believe I’m lying?”

  “I know how agencies work. The service and the mission first. Always first.”

  He pulled her into the shadow of a plane tree and poked a finger at her. “We’ve got to get this straight. I could jolly you with another smart remark, or we could make an agreement right here, right now, that we’re operating on a level field. I respect you…and you respect me. We work together as equals. Never mind my age, my attitude, or your being out of the game for five years. And no more lies.”

  “Well, I can hold up my end. But eight years is a big difference. Remember, I changed your diapers. Think a kid like you can hold up your end?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “You haven’t changed a whit. It’s been a long time since anyone could irritate me and make me laugh at the same time.”

  “Know what you mean. Let’s move. I want to tell you about Sarah and Asher.” They walked quickly on.

  Yes, he made mistakes, like worrying about Beatrice and her when he should have been focused on Malko. And he was flippant, occasionally inappropriate, and much too interested in his own sex appeal. On the other hand, he was fearless when necessary, smart as hell, and a decent sort.

  With cool, detached tones, she related the highlights of the attack on her in Santa Barbara, Sarah’s kidnapping, and her flight to Paris with Mac. She did not bother to tell him about the movie in Santa Barbara yet, and she glossed over London, since he knew most of that anyway.

  “Jesus,” he breathed, stunned. “So that’s why you’ve been chasing the Carnivore’s files. You needed them to ransom Sarah. They’re damn bloody fiends to have shot Asher just to make the movie believable!”

  “Yes.” She heard the bitterness in her voice and did not care. “I can see why they took him from the hospital later—it upped the ante, keeping me on track. Except, of course, it didn’t work, because I figured out what was really going on when I found Mac and the bugs in my cell. That’s when I decided to follow Beatrice.” She described the team assault on the Eisner-Moulton warehouse. “I actually saw Sarah and Asher for a few seconds. Oh, Simon, it was horrible. They could’ve been killed so easily, and God knows whether they’re still alive.”

  He inhaled and shook his head. There was a distant look on her face that he could not quite read at first. Then he understood: She was not only furious with the kidnappers but with herself, and feeling terribly guilty.

  “We’ll find Sarah and Asher again,” he said confidently, although he could not see how. “Have you told anyone else about this?”

  “Who could I possibly tell?” She scanned the street. “And I haven’t given you all the details yet. How much farther? We need to get away from here.” Her wound was on fire, and she felt drained. Still, she had survived, but had Sarah and Asher?

  He watched as she clasped her arm to her chest. “My thought exactly.” She was definitely no whiner. In fact, she was rather admirable. “The car’s in the next block.”

  The Peugeot waited in the glow of a street lamp, squeezed between other parked cars. They stepped into a doorway to observe the street. A sharp stench of urine arose from the corners beside their feet. They studied the sidewalks for anyone who looked out of place, who showed too much interest in the car, or who was hanging around alone, busying himself or herself with the customary cigarettes, chain-smoking to cover the fact that a stakeout was in progress.

  Simon found himself glancing at Liz. Now that he knew who she was, whatever feelings he’d had about her seemed an eternity ago. Still, there was something about their standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the dark, silently surveilling in unison, that seemed especially familiar, as if they had done this many times. He liked that, then instantly dismissed the thought.

  “I’ve been wondering why the blackmailer went to the trouble of taking Sarah and Asher,” she said. “The only reason I can see is leverage. He made no attempt to kill them.”

  “Maybe it’s not about them or you at all. Maybe he has a reason we can’t see.” He pressed the side of his wristwatch. A light flicked on. Although it was faint, it was enough to illuminate the dial.

  “How long have we been here?” Liz asked.

  “Fifteen minutes. If you’re right about the tracking device, that’d explain why no one’s watching. Malko figures he can pick me up again whenever he wants.”

  A police car rolled past. They tensed until it disappeared down the street.

  He memorized the plate. “Might as well give it a go. Cover me.” Simon slipped out, dashed through traffic, and circled the Peugeot, inspecting. Everything looked normal.

  He nodded at her, jumped in, and turned on the engine. She ran, dodged, and slid in next to him. He gunned the sports car out into traffic. Seven blocks later, they were in a new neighborhood. While he parked, another police car with a different license plate cruised past—and pulled to the curb four cars ahead.

  Edgy, they watched as it parked. But the two gendarmes were on a mission of their own. They hurried toward a brightly lit bistro on the corner, hiking up their trousers with anticipation, and vanished inside. This bistro was off the beaten track, a good spot for a quiet bock, where no one would trouble them or report them.

  “They’ll be there awhile,” Liz decided. Relieved, she rolled down her window.

  Without a word, Simon got out, removed his flashlight from the bag in the trunk, crawled under the right front fender, and found a miniature GPS tracking device where the bicyclist had skidded.

  He slid back out and showed it to her. “Good guess.” His face was irritated.

  She nodded. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Not quite yet.”

  “Simon,” she warned.

  But he was already trotting away through the shadows. He slowed, waiting for two women who were holding hands to pass. At last, he bent to adjust his trousers. He glanced up, saw no one was looking, and stuck the tracking device onto the undercarriage of the police car.

  Grinning, he jogged back and jumped in behind the steering wheel.

  Liz was laughing. “I wish I’d thought of that!”

  “Thank you.” He let out a hoot of laughter, started the car, and threw it into a U-turn, heading back into the center of Paris.

  As their laughter subsided, she curled up, her cheek resting against the seat’s back cushion, studying him as he drove. Behind the facade of carelessness and youth, he was turning out to be a skilled, imaginative agent.

  He said, “Talk to me about the attack
on you in Santa Barbara and Sarah’s kidnapping. I’m still trying to understand. It sounds as if they were simultaneous. Both groups went into action at once, apparently without communicating.”

  “Exactly. But they did communicate. The trigger seems to have been the advance publicity for my show on assassins, especially since a lot of the media reported that one would be the Carnivore. Of course, neither the blackmailer nor the kidnappers wanted me to reveal the Carnivore might’ve kept a record. At the same time, anyone chasing the files might think I had them or that I’d uncover them.”

  “Which set Sarah’s kidnapping and ransom into motion, I should think.” He frowned at her, then resumed his careful watch of traffic. “That warehouse where the kidnappers were holding Sarah and Asher would’ve been top secret. So how did the blackmailer find out about it? How did he know to send his people there?”

  “You’ve just hit on a major problem for both groups. The ones that want the files—the kidnappers—have a traitor.”

  His brows rose. “You have my full attention.”

  “It’s the only explanation for how the blackmailer has been able to stay one jump ahead of me a lot of the time. For how he could send janitors to kill me in Santa Barbara in order to stop the kidnappers’ plan in Paris before it really got off the ground. For why the janitor in London had to beat up Tish to find out where I was going next.”

  “So that’s it. Some insider is feeding the blackmailer information, but not complete information. That explains why janitors weren’t waiting for us at the Gare du Nord, and why Malko wasn’t at the baron’s château to kill me. If he were, he would’ve stepped in. Instead, he was there to protect the baron’s murderer—Malko’s boss, the blackmailer. So the people who want the files are holding back information in an effort to smoke out their Judas while keeping us on task.”

  She stared at him, thinking, seeing another possibility. “Maybe we haven’t taken this far enough. What if we’re wrong? What if there’s no mole among the kidnappers?”