by Gayle Lynds
Disgusted and at last tired, Prometheus slowed. He signaled Raoul and Roger, two of his bodyguards, who had been running on either side and a little behind. Their faces were red, and they were breathing hard.
Raoul handed him a bottle of Evian. “Shall I have the car brought, Mr. Hornish?”
“I’ll walk.” Prometheus—Richmond Hornish—drank and hurled the bottle at Raoul without bothering to screw the lid back on. The water splashed his shirt and the blouse of a woman who was walking past with a little boy. The expression on Raoul’s face did not change as the woman shrieked in surprise and pulled the boy close.
Feeling a moment of satisfaction, Hornish turned and stalked back toward his hôtel particulier. He banished the noise of Raoul’s apologies to the woman and reached out a hand. Roger slapped a plush terry-cloth towel into it. As he mopped his face and neck, Hornish heard his private cell ring. It was attached to Roger’s belt. He yanked it off and gave a short, imperious wave. The two bodyguards backed out of earshot.
He took a deep breath. “This is Prometheus.”
“Where are you, Prometheus?”
“Paris still. Why?”
“We need a meeting of the entire Coil. My place, London, in two hours.”
“I’ll be there. What in blazes is going on with the Carnivore’s files? I expected the next time you called it’d be to say they’d been located.”
“I should think you’d have other things to keep your mind busy. I hear you’re in trouble in New York now.”
“That? Lawsuits are simply a hazard of doing business. I’ve been waiting for an update about the files from you, Cronus. Are you trying to run this operation without us?”
“The charges against you are far from minor, as we both know, and there are still the ones in California. I imagine you’re having to borrow.”
“Possibly, but Hyperion’s useless for that now, isn’t he?”
Intensely private and exclusive, the Travellers Club was housed in an elegant manse in the heart of the city, just off the Champs-Elysées. Atlas vaguely recalled that a nineteenth-century adventuress—a notorious marquise, whose name he had never learned—had once owned it. In the club’s Grand Salon, he nursed a cup of Assam tea at a linen-covered table set against a solid interior wall. The windows were on the far side of the room, lessening the chances of electronic eavesdropping from outside. The ornate salon’s other tables and easy chairs were spaced far enough apart to ensure private conversation.
Tall, thin, and intense, Atlas sat curved like a scimitar over his tea, hiding his impatience as he waited for EU Competition Commissioner Carlo Santarosa. Santarosa was crucial, because he could approve Gilmartin Enterprises’ projected $40 billion deal to regain its once-dominant position in world construction.
He checked his Timex. The EU bastard was late.
Surrounded by dark woods and the hushed air of privilege, the engineer was imperfectly turned out in his off-the-rack suit, sturdy wing tips, white button-down shirt, and Stanford school tie. There were blue ink stains on the middle finger of his right hand. A calculator and a cell sat near his elbow on the table. Although his fortune was valued at nearly a billion dollars, he hardly noticed luxury. He liked the Travellers Club because it was discreet, not because it was chic; because his privacy was assured; and, most especially, because it impressed those with whom he did business.
He was in his early fifties but already had high blood pressure. His unpretentiousness and apparently relaxed nature hid shrewdness and bottomless ambition. But then, his great-grandfather had built the Hoover Dam, while his grandfather was celebrated as the Atlas Industrialist of World War II, honoring the long line of warships the company’s shipbuilding arm had produced under the war’s difficult conditions.
His father had topped both when he laid the Alaskan pipeline and doused Kuwait’s flaming oil wells after the 1991 Gulf War. When his father chose him from among his three brothers to take over the family empire, Gilmartin Enterprises was the undisputed giant of global contracting. Since then, it had been edged out by hungry newer companies with aggressive interests in services and a willingness to merge.
But Atlas was no financier. He was an engineer who came from a long line of engineers. Like them, he ran Gilmartin Enterprises with a steel hand. Unlike them, he still had made no extraordinary mark on the company. He would admit to no one how deeply this disturbed him. However, that was about to change.
When his cell rang, so much time had passed that he knew the news was bad.
It was Santarosa’s assistant, offering apologies. “The commissioner is most sorry, Senhor Gilmartin.”
Atlas—Gregory Gilmartin—said smoothly, “Tell him I’m disappointed.” Like a scalpel, the forefinger of his free hand drew a sharp line across the tablecloth.
“Senhor Santarosa is equally disappointed,” the man said politely in accented English. Santarosa was Portuguese, and so was his assistant. Small people from a small, unimportant country.
Gilmartin allowed steel to show in his voice. “I expect him to make time to have a private conversation tomorrow. Tell him that.”
There was a pause of uncertainty. “I cannot—” the assistant began.
Gilmartin’s other cell vibrated silently against his chest. He snapped, “Tell him!” He broke the connection. As he surveyed the other guests in the salon, he took his private cell from inside his jacket and turned his back.
“Atlas here.”
“Are you still in Paris, Atlas?”
“Of course. What news do you have?”
“We need to meet. Two hours, my house in London.”
“Tonight? Why so late, Cronus?”
“It’s the situation with the files. We may need to reevaluate.”
“I’m not surprised. When the foundation is weak, the project collapses.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve never been convinced the files existed anyway. It’s entirely possible we’re chasing a chimera.”
It had not been a good year for Ocean. A few doors from the Baroque church of Saint-Louis-en-l’île stood one of his favorite pieds-à-terre, a magnificent town house owned by his automotive company but built by a French duke during the reign of Louis XIV.
Bare-chested and wearing linen trousers, Ocean sat tensely on a Second Empire chair in the high-ceilinged master bedroom, trying not to think. Cecily was singing to herself in the bath, preparing for him. He was a vigorous fifty-five years old, with a full head of black hair, a sloping Prussian nose that Bismarck would have prized, and a stocky build that he never allowed to devolve into fat. He had a charming but implacable will, whether at the most lavish dinner party or in the most competitive boardroom.
He had taken his blue pill an hour ago. That was usually more than enough time, but today he wondered. The evening heat pounded the tall windows, making the glass panes seem to vibrate. Above the bed, a plantation fan rotated lazily, and for a few seconds it seemed as if he had escaped to some exotic place in the Far East…perhaps to teeming Beijing or colorful Shanghai, where Eisner-Moulton was launching new auto and truck factories, and he could concentrate on the exciting problems of growth.
Two decades ago, he had been Europe’s most celebrated wunderkind. He had turned around West Germany’s Eisner Motorwerks almost overnight, retooling it from a company that produced clunky, sputtering sedans to one that turned out sleek machines with powerful engines that begged to be driven. After that, his empire had grown rapidly. Dodging economic downturns and leading changes in taste, he had transformed Eisner into an intercontinental powerhouse that produced cars, trucks, and airplanes. In the 1990s, he bought the Clarke Motor Company, the declining U.S. maker of luxury cars, and then merged with truck-building Moulton of France. Today, Eisner-Moulton built vehicles of all kinds and classes around the world.
But now it—and he—were in trouble, largely because he had thought the world economy would continue to boom. Who would have envisioned such a drastic down
turn? Worse, that it would last so long?
In January, he’d had to fold the balance of Eisner-Moulton’s money-losing electronics subsidiary into other divisions. The cost was a nasty write-off of 1.1 billion euros. In March, he discovered Eisner-USA auto units were draining twice the red ink his accountants predicted. Then came the third blow: In May, he’d had to cut off Koekker Air, the floundering Dutch airplane maker, of which Eisner-Moulton owned 51 percent. As a result, Koekker declared bankruptcy, and Eisner-Moulton faced another write-off, this one a shocking 4.2 billion euros. He had just learned yet another subsidiary, Truckliner America, was expected to post losses of nearly 1 billion euros. A total of some 8.3 billion lost so far, and the year was barely half over.
Ocean jumped up and paced, thinking angrily about Claude de Darmond. He had counted on de Darmond’s giving Eisner-Moulton a discreet loan to get past this, so he could diversify into new areas, especially in Eastern Europe. He needed that money. He thought about Citibank’s problems with the Justice Department, the money-laundering charges against Bank of America, the internal waffling of Deutsche Bank. Where was he going to find a bank large enough, sensitive enough, and healthy enough—
“Christian,” Cecily called, her voice a coo.
Ocean—Christian Menchen—lifted his head. She was shimmying in from the bathroom, blond and swathed in some sort of see-through diaphanous material.
With relief, he felt his heart thump excitedly. She pirouetted beneath the gilt cove ceiling. More than a distraction, she was fascinating, as only the young who did not yet know themselves and their impact could be. As the translucent fabric swirled, he inhaled sharply. There was the tattoo on her left buttock—a curled serpent’s tail. He could smell her from where he stood, the scent of musk and violets. In his mind, he saw the five places on her privates where she had applied the costly perfume.
Heat exploded through him, but he did not move. He liked the agony.
She picked up her cloudlike gown, turning, allowing his gaze to follow the blue-green tail that seemed to grow backward from her pink ass, snaking around her hip to her belly, where it swelled into a roaring red dragon tattoo perched just above her blond pubis.
He stared, swallowed hard. His problems evaporated. The curls were pale, barely yellow. He had forgotten how innocent. Like a little girl’s.
In three steps, he grabbed her wrists and yanked her close.
She giggled, pretending to try to escape. “Non, non, Christian. Oh, you frighten me!” She was like a French pastry, smelling of woman’s sugar and moistness.
“Bon,” he growled. “Be afraid.”
She laughed again. He bit her neck. She moaned, and he yanked her head back and covered her mouth with his.
Two hours later, Cecily was drinking champagne and running naked around the room, dressing and prattling. Lying on the large bed, he felt a deep fondness for her. If she had asked for a diamond tiara, he would have considered it. Instead, he knew she was content—even grateful—for the thousand euros he would slide into her purse before she left. He liked that about her, that she was genuinely fond of him.
He felt like himself again. After two intense orgasms, any man would. That was because of another, more pragmatic magic—the blue pill. He did not need it for one, but for two—yes, and well worth it.
His private cell rang. He rolled to the edge of the bed, but Cecily reached his suit jacket first.
“Stop!” he roared.
She froze, wide-eyed, staring with genuine fear. “Christian?”
Naked, he padded toward her. “Never touch it again. Never.” He ripped the cell from her hand, punched the ON button, and said softly: “Wait.” He pulled out his wallet and told her, “Get the rest of your clothes. I’ll call when I need you.”
She picked up her remaining things, and he hustled her to the bedroom door, shoving euros into her hand. She lifted her face. He kissed her, again feeling the stirring that was so important to him. He lingered in the doorway as she stepped into her pumps, straightened her skirt, and flipped her golden hair back over her shoulders.
As she headed for the staircase, she gave him a happy wave. He knew her affection was fake. He had known it all along, and now that he was able to reenter his world, he no longer cared. He closed the door and lifted the cell.
“Ocean here. Is that you, Cronus?”
“Yes. We must meet tonight. Two hours, my place in London.”
“Tell me what the hell’s going on with the Carnivore’s files.”
“Not much new. We’ll discuss it all then.”
“Damn right we will. This is a big waste of time. We have to get this problem solved any way we can. Do you agree, Cronus?”
“I should think so. But then, all of us want the files, don’t we, Ocean?”
Thirty-Four
Aggravated, César Duchesne limped quickly back to his cab, carrying a strong cup of coffee. His walkie-talkie crackled as he barked orders and listened to the reports from his spies as they wheeled through Pigalle, picking up and dropping off customers attracted to the wild nightlife and drugs, the open sex and neon signs selling the illusion of fun. Increasingly, Pigalle was considered a hip neighborhood by the young. Fools.
“Guignot on the rue Duperré at Fromentin. Waiting for customer. Peugeot continuing on to Douai.”
“Trevale,” Duchesne instructed, his tone demanding, “you’re close.”
“Got it.”
From south of the boulevard de Clichy up to the top of Sacré-Coeur, he sent one driver after another, following the wrong Peugeots. He’d had one report that was solid, a confirmed sighting of the sports car leaving Belleville—Childs driving, Sansborough in the passenger seat—circling around and down into Pigalle, where it had vanished off the boulevard de Clichy. Since then, nothing.
Duchesne climbed into his taxi, fired up the engine, and raced back into the stream of traffic. For a moment, he had a sense of other cabs, other cities, the excitement of love and purpose wrapped in the perfume of his wife. Berlin. Zurich. Rome. London. New York. Las Vegas. Los Angeles. So many cities. The names rolled off his tongue. He could see each in his mind, but superimposed over all was the face of his wife. The face of a past and joy that was gone, erased with her life, because of the Carnivore’s files.
Langley, Virginia
Frank Edmunds shoved his fingers through his hair, frustrated, worried. His people had lost Sansborough. The chaotic streets and stream of humanity in Pigalle had dumbfounded his CIA team. By the time they reached the intersection where the last call from her had been pinpointed, the car was gone, and there was no sign of either Sansborough or Childs on the street or in the shops. Now he had ten men out, looking, on foot and driving, while he waited, helpless, railing. Soon he would have to report to Mr. Jaffa again, and he did not look forward to that.
Paris, France
The feet in the shadowy garage stairwell padded past and continued up toward the top floor. Simon and Liz slid out just in time to see the feet belonged to two men with assault rifles. In the lead was a man reading the screen of an open notebook computer.
“Malko!” Liz whispered angrily. “He’s tracking the Peugeot again.”
Simon swore. “He must’ve planted a backup tracker on it!”
As they resumed their quiet flight downward, Simon reached back and took the Uzi from Liz. He listened with barbed pleasure to the frustrated shouts from above as the men discovered his car was empty.
Panting from their six-flight run, they landed at the bottom, where the enclosed area was irregularly shaped and lighted by an overhead bulb. No one waited in ambush, but there was no way out except through a closed fire door.
Simon cracked the door open. His back went rigid, and he closed it quickly. “Malko brought a full team. There are four men on guard, armed to the eyeteeth. We could try to fight our way out, but I should think our chances would be damn slim.”
“They’ve got the firepower to stop us this time.” Liz peered warily aroun
d a corner that seemed to lead nowhere. “There’s another door here, almost out of sight.”
Simon followed, and she tried the knob. “Locked, dammit.”
Above them, voices debated heatedly. Feet descended the stairwell.
Simon had picklocks in his hand. “My turn.”
She stepped away. He tested one picklock after another as she ran around the corner, jumped, and smashed the light with the butt of her Glock. Darkness enveloped them, then Simon’s flashlight glowed on. She returned, took it, and aimed the beam at the lock. His face was intent, completely absorbed. Picking a lock could not be rushed.
Above them, the feet veered off onto another floor, the men searching there. A reprieve, but it would be short. With a tinny rattle of metal, he finally opened the door.
“Perfect timing,” she breathed.
They hurried into darkness, but they could not lock the door behind them. The lock was rusted on this side. Simon dropped his gym bag in front of the door. Anything to slow their pursuers. Liz swept the shaft of light around what turned out to be a storage room, revealing haphazard stacks of brooms, shovels, and car parts. The place stank of dirt and grease, and there was no exit. Very bad. Still, she studied the walls closely. The room was far older than the parking garage. The wood paneling was black with age, and the red-brick floor had been pounded dusty pink by many feet. Like a cellar or—
Simon cursed and turned to sprint back to the door. “It’s a dead end.”
Liz caught his sleeve. “Grab your gym bag and get back here!”
Somewhere beyond the door, people were conversing on walkie-talkies. She could hear voices and buzzes of static. The fire door in the passageway slammed open, and the noise of running feet grew dim, heading into the garage.
She took a deep breath. “There’s not much time.”
“This is an act of unreasonable trust on my part. They’ll be back.” Holding his gym bag, he returned.
