The Coil

by Gayle Lynds

  One way or another, it was possible Langley had already discovered where Simon and she were. Heart thumping, she rolled down her window and hurled the damn cell onto the street. With brittle satisfaction, she watched the side-view mirror as the tires of the car behind crushed it.

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  Frank Edmunds was stunned. He stared at the phone in his hand. The bitch had hung up on him. He punched numbers. “Did you trace Sansborough?”

  “Yessir.” The technician repeated the street and address.

  He hung up and dialed Paris. “Sansborough’s tumbled. She’s armed and still with that rogue MI6 body. Pull the team off the safe house and find them. You know what to do.” He repeated the license plate number and the results of the trace. “And keep the Paris cops out of it. They’re not going to like us mucking around in their territory.”

  He took a deep breath, trying to quiet his hammering pulse. Then he made the most difficult call of all. “Mr. Jaffa, I’ve got some news you’re not gonna want to hear….”

  Thirty-Two

  Paris, France

  Simon guided the Peugeot around the curving back streets of Montmartre and down into Pigalle, Paris’s red-light district, once the haunt of Toulouse-Lautrec, Gauguin, Van Gogh, and hundreds of titled Victorians. Most of the great cabarets were gone, but at night the old quartier was still madly alive, pulsing with sleazy bars and peep shows, tabacs and saloons.

  Liz and Simon watched for pursuers and for a place to get rid of the car, but not on the street, where Langley and MI6 or Malko could spot it quickly. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper with the usual cars, trucks, and—as always on Paris’s thoroughfares—taxis, which were the city’s transportation curse as well as lifeblood.

  “Something had better turn up soon,” Liz muttered.

  Simon glanced at her tense face, her eyes large, bright, and hyper-alert. Nothing got past those eyes. At the same time, her expression was composed, calm.

  Liz gestured at three taxis, one right after the other, a caravan. “I’ve been thinking about all of the cabs. One never really notices, does one? Not in any big city. Like the mailman or the street cleaner, they’re just there.” She told him about the driver who had picked her up twice. “Statistically, that’s one hell of a coincidence in a city overrun with them. Every time I look, I wonder. Any could be watching me—us.”

  Suddenly, Simon swore and slammed the brake. Liz gripped the dashboard. Her seat belt cut into her chest. A small Fiat had darted in front, barely missing their fender.

  “Did you see their faces?” Simon asked, clenching the steering wheel.

  “No.” Liz peered ahead, straining to see in the garish light of the crowded street.

  The Fiat slowed, forcing Simon to slow, too. To their left, cars throttled past. They were nearing an intersection.

  “I’m going to turn.” His voice was tight.

  “I’ll watch the Fiat.”

  Sporty small cars like the Fiat were seldom used in surveillance or pursuit. They were too noticeable. Much better to have an ordinary car, but one with a tricked-out engine. Still, there were exceptions, and as Simon turned the corner, the Peugeot’s tires squealing, she focused on the Fiat. It stopped sedately at the curb, and a young man in a tuxedo jumped out. He ran around to the passenger door, opened it, and a young woman in a short skirt snaked out and grinned up through her lashes.

  Liz turned back in her seat, smiling a little. “We don’t have to worry. They have other things on their minds.”

  “Speaking of worry…” He nodded at her arm.

  “A scratch. A bullet creased my arm, that’s all.”

  “Finally you tell me.”

  “It didn’t seem important, not with what was happening. I bandaged it.”

  “It’s still a wound, and—”

  She swiveled in her seat. “You just passed a parking garage. We could leave the car out of sight there, if we can talk our way in.”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  In traffic-dense Paris, private parking garages were usually fully rented. Car owners waited months, sometimes years, for a slot to become available. With such high demand, most garages did not bother to post a display sign, much less advertise. She had noticed the narrow opening only when they were halfway past.

  “Okay if I put the Uzi in your gym bag?” she asked. “It’ll be out of sight there.”

  “Stick the portfolio inside, too, will you?”

  He circled around the block, approaching the garage’s dark entrance again. A gang of partygoers darted through traffic. Horns bleated in protest, and Simon took advantage of the pause to pull into the garage.

  An attendant hurried toward them, scowling, shaking his head, and waving them off. “Non, non.” He had a grizzled chin but a clean, neatly pressed uniform. His gait was easy, although his expression was determined, official.

  “Do you want me—” she began.

  “I’ll handle it.” Simon rolled down his window. “Bonsoir, monsieur.” An air of confidence, a certain glibness, and a common French name were the tools for this short movie.

  The attendant was indignant. “Private parking only,” he announced in French, moving his hands as if to push the Peugeot back out to the street.

  Simon gave him a brisk, casual smile. “I’m using my friend’s space,” he explained in French. “He’s in Nice for a few days. Surely he told you?”

  The frown deepened. “I have no memory of you, monsieur.”

  Simon grimaced. “That bastard Jean-Michel. I’ll bet he forgot. Not your fault. But that’s Jean-Michel for you. Much too nonchalant, don’t you agree, darling?” He looked at Liz.

  She forced a smile. “I would say lazy, mon chéri. Jean-Michel is seldom reliable, except when it comes to the girls. Then, of course, he is a satyr.” She peered at her watch. “May we park now? Mustn’t disappoint Marie.”

  “Right you are.” He gazed up at the guard. “We’ve bothered you enough. I can see you have many responsibilities around here. Jean-Michel gave us the slot number. We’ll find it ourselves.”

  The guard glanced across to a small glassed-in office, where a thermos and a croissant waited on a table. He was a man with priorities.

  “Merci beaucoup,” Simon said cheerily. And then drove inside.

  “What’s he doing?” she asked immediately. “Is he following? Making a phone call to report us?” She did not want to increase suspicion by looking back.

  Simon eyed the rearview mirror. “He’s still standing there, watching, frowning.” He drove the Peugeot up the narrow ramp slowly, past cars that were parked so tightly no door could be fully opened.

  “Anything now?” she asked.

  Simon felt his gut relax. “He’s heading back to his thermos and croissant.”

  As the Peugeot continued up and around, they watched for a free space. Finally at the top, Liz spotted one. Simon drove in and cut the engine. Abruptly, the car and garage were quiet. With its low ceiling and crammed-together vehicles, the dark place had all the charm of a mausoleum, but it was as safe as anything could be right now, and they simultaneously sighed with relief.

  “We’ve got to keep exchanging information,” Liz said, looking back over her shoulder. “If something were to happen to one of us—”

  “Okay, you’re right. Let’s take a few minutes. You keep going.”

  “Nice try. It’s your turn. Tell me about the baron’s murder. You said you were hiding on his balcony?”

  He released the steering wheel. He had cleaned the blood off his knuckles, but the scrapes showed, small red wounds, almost black in the garage’s dim light. He turned in his seat to face her, leaning back against the car door, but his body was not relaxed. It seemed coiled, as if ready to leap into battle.

  He began without preamble. “The baron was indignant, outraged. He was railing against the other man. He said, ‘Using the gray areas of the law to make money is one thing. Killing’s entirely differe
nt.’ Then he named people he claimed the other fellow had ordered murdered—Terrill Leaming in Zurich, a woman in London, and a man in Paris. The blackmailer’s death list, of course.”

  “Yes.” Poor Tish. For a moment, Liz saw her sweet face, the heating pad on the back of her chair.

  “Then he said something about being a fool…that he shouldn’t have let himself be talked into it. He asked how many had to die, and he mentioned a place called Dreftbury. Then he said, ‘I’ll give you the money, but only for the Carnivore’s files.’ If not, the man would get no help from his bank. He threatened to tell the Coil, whoever or whatever that is, and then I heard the gunshot. It was silenced, which meant the killer had come prepared. This isn’t about only the Carnivore’s files—there’s a great deal of money involved. No one gets a private audience with an international banking tycoon like de Darmond unless it involves a fortune…or serious blackmail. Although it certainly seemed they already had a banker-client relationship.”

  “Until the baron had second thoughts, and they came to a parting of the ways. A fatal parting.”

  Simon nodded. “The killer said one thing that could indicate a more personal relationship. He called the baron Hyperion. Of course, the baron has many names, the way all French and British aristocrats do, but Hyperion isn’t one. I checked.”

  Liz sat up straight. “Hyperion? In Santa Barbara, Kirk and the dean reported on me to someone named Themis.”

  Simon looked mystified. “So, what does—”

  “Hyperion and Themis were two of the Titans.”

  “The Titans?”

  “What happened to the British classical education? The ancient Greeks believed heaven and earth were the first parents, and the Titans were their children. The gods came later. They were the Titans’ children.” Her heart rate sped, and she pulled the crumpled paper from her shoulder bag. “There’s something I intended to show you…. When I grabbed that jacket in the alley, I found not only a cell but a note in it.”

  He turned on the map light, and she smoothed the paper. They read it together:

  Call Cronus at 4:00 P.M.

  “Cronus is also a Titan name,” she told him. “That makes three. Too many for a coincidence.”

  “How many Titans were there?”

  “Seven primary ones, and Cronus was the most important of all. He was in charge, until his son Zeus dethroned him.”

  “Damn, just the sound of Titans makes me uneasy. That implies power. Huge power. The kind Baron de Darmond certainly had.”

  “The one who manipulated me—Themis—obviously had plenty. But what do the names mean? Some kind of group?”

  “A club?” he said, rattling off possibilities. “A fraternity? A drinking society?”

  “Could be any of those. And now we have a link not only between the baron and Themis but between Cronus and someone who was in the warehouse with Sarah and Asher.”

  “Someone employed by either the kidnappers or the blackmailer.”

  She nodded, her mind moving quickly on. “What do you think the baron meant when he mentioned Dreftbury? There’s a famous golf resort in Scotland by that name. When I was a schoolgirl, we stayed at the hotel and visited one of my mother’s old friends nearby. Perhaps the baron and the blackmailer planned to meet at Dreftbury. But when? Maybe the Titans are some kind of high-end golf club, and we can figure out through that when the blackmailer’s planning to be there.”

  “Dammit!” His voice rose, excited. “I should’ve seen it. The baron meant the Nautilus meeting!”

  “Nautilus?”

  “Yes, it’s meeting at Dreftbury this year. The Nautilus Group is a low-profile but very powerful organization of global movers and shakers. Considering the baron’s wealth and influence, it’s logical he was a member. As much press as the next G8 meeting is getting, you’d think I would’ve put the two together. You see, Nautilus always sets its annual get-together for the weekend before the G8, since so many in Nautilus go on to it. The G8 opens Monday in Glasgow, very convenient to Dreftbury. That means Nautilus starts tomorrow afternoon.” The G8 was an informal summit of the leaders of the world’s seven wealthiest nations—Britain, Canada, France, Germany, Italy, Japan, and the United States—plus Russia. Senior officers from the IMF, the UN, the World Bank, and the WTO also attended.

  She grabbed her shoulder bag and reached for her door. “And we have to be there! We—”

  She froze, listening.

  He wheeled around in his seat. “I hear it, too.”

  They drew their guns, and she saw the flashlight beam. “It’s the attendant.”

  The shaft of light swept the cars below them on the slope, finally settling on their Peugeot, flooding it with blinding light.

  A voice demanded loudly in French, “Sacré bleu! What do you do in there?”

  “He’s better than I thought. He remembered the car.” Simon opened his door and crawled out, his Sig Sauer behind his back. He hunched beneath the low ceiling as the flashlight scoped him up and down.

  “Anything I can help you with, monsieur?” Simon asked genially in French.

  Glowering, the man stood his ground but let the light drift to Simon’s feet. Now Simon could see that in his other hand, the man gripped a billy club.

  “I waited for you to come out,” the attendant grumbled, “but nothing. You must know Pigalle is sometimes rough. Perhaps something has happened to you, non?”

  “My wife and I needed to talk. Don’t worry about us.”

  “Non, non. What if one of my patrons reports a loss? You don’t look like thieves, but how am I to know? Drive out, or walk out.” He gestured at a central stairwell. “It does not matter. But one way or the other, you must leave. Or I call the gendarmes.”

  Liz climbed out of the car, carrying her purse and Simon’s gym bag. She looked across the car roof at Simon and smiled sweetly. “It’s fine, Homer. I’m hungry anyway. We’re late for Marie’s. Really late now.”

  He blinked at her and turned back to the guard. “She’s the boss.”

  They walked away, and she handed him the gym bag. As soon as they stepped into the stairwell, they heard the man plod toward the car ramp.

  Simon set his gun inside the bag but left it unzipped. He gave her a short smile. “I never thought of myself as a Homer.”

  She smiled back. “You got even by calling me the boss.”

  Chuckling, she preceded him down the steps, her apparent good humor hiding her desperation for someplace safe to work and an expert to help them understand Simon’s documents. She had a feeling they were close to learning who and what was behind all of these murders and where the files and Sarah and Asher might be, assuming they were still alive. She repressed a shudder and quickened her pace.

  They had gone only a half flight when she stopped abruptly. Her smile evaporated. Light footsteps headed up the staircase beneath them.

  “More than one person this time,” Simon whispered. “Trying to be quiet.”

  “It could be nothing.”

  “Or something.”

  With memories of the bloodbath at the Eisner-Moulton warehouse fresh in her mind, she broke into a run down to the third floor. Simon was right behind. They ducked off the staircase and out of sight, waiting.

  Thirty-Three

  Sixty years old, in excellent health, Prometheus jogged along the dark embankment above the River Seine. Sweat drenched him, but he hardly noticed. Of medium height and build, he had always been an athlete—tennis, golf, and jogging. His darkly tanned face was scored with lines from years of exposure to the sun.

  In public, he was known for his wealth, compassion, and platinum Rolodex. But the truth was, Prometheus lived a secret life of solitude and anger. His hair-trigger temper was notorious among his staff. Married and divorced five times, he lived alone in New York, Paris, London, and Rome. He was one of the great financial speculators of the New World, a pioneer of an investment instrument—the hedge fund—that was something of a novelty in the long-ago day
s when he first began.

  In his white shorts and T-shirt, he ran past Paris’s famous quayside bookstalls, his Nikes pounding the pavement. Not given to self-examination, he had no idea why he needed to run right now. He saw little connection to the events that had been set into motion today, when he received word he was being sued by the State of New York on civil charges that he had steered business to the Darmond Brokerage in exchange for hot stock offerings.

  Still, Prometheus was outraged and more than a little worried. This new suit claimed he directed corporate finance work for InQuox—his public investment firm—to the brokerage arm of the Darmond Bank in return for sweetheart deals on initial public stock offerings—or “spinning,” as Wall Street’s practice of personally rewarding executives with coveted IPOs was called.

  The New York attorney general’s complaint demanded he pay a fine of $28 million, which it claimed was the amount of spinning profits made when he sold his IPO shares. That was not all. The asshole wanted another $500 million—preposterous!—for what he said were profits reaped from his sale of InQuox shares. His lawyer read him the news story, since he had not yet received the written complaint: “The shares were ill-gotten due to their being touted to the public by the Darmond’s brokerage analysts as part of the scheme.”

  He had met the attorney general at several Metropolitan Museum of Art parties, which he always attended when in New York. But then, he was on the board of directors, where his Rolodex and, consequently, he were in great demand. He remembered the attorney general as small and sly, his ambition feral.

  Every time one of his feet thudded onto the pavement, his muscles complained, and his outrage increased. It was all too much at a time when he needed to concentrate on the new deal he was weaving together in former East bloc countries. It was crucial, providing a beachhead for InQuox where creative financing was still unregulated.