by Gayle Lynds
The Coil was indeed on a slippery slope, but Brookshire could see no way off it. The Coil must survive—unknown, undetected, and with its power undiminished. The files must be brought in, but not at the cost of the Coil itself. He, Cronus, knew what had to be done. It was the duty of leadership to make these impossible choices.
His voice was calm as he watched each face for a reaction. “The security of the Coil must come before the Carnivore’s files. We will find the files and stop the blackmailer, but not now, and not through Sansborough and Childs. They know that someone has been manipulating them, or they would not be acting the way they are. If they survive, they’ll fight us for the files and worse. Each has important connections and could cause vast trouble, not the least of which would be to reveal and destroy the Coil. I see no other option: Sansborough and Childs must be eliminated. After that, the blackmailer will have no further use for Walker and Flores.”
There was a profound silence. But beneath it, Cronus sensed relief. They had been worried, all but one.
At last, Richmond Hornish took an audible breath. “Walker and Flores are probably already dead.”
Did he know that? Cronus wondered.
“Sometimes sacrifices must be made,” Inglethorpe analyzed, “the lesser evil tolerated to eliminate the greater evil.”
Was Themis the first yes? Eager to stop the hunt for the files?
“Each is dangerous to us in one way or another,” Gilmartin added.
Menchen was the only one who said nothing, only glancing uncomfortably at Sir Anthony and then quickly looking away. Neutral because he was the blackmailer?
“Then we are agreed?” Cronus asked. “If so, I will instruct Duchesne to eliminate Sansborough and Childs the moment he finds them.”
Hornish gave an abrupt nod. “It’s time to cut our losses and move on.”
Cronus said, “Prometheus is yes.” He faced Gilmartin. “Atlas?”
“It’s gone bad. I have to vote yes.”
“Themis?”
Inglethorpe muttered, “Yes, dammit.”
“Ocean?”
Christian Menchen looked down at his empty palms. He turned them over and seemed to study the backs. At last, he clasped his hands in a knot. “Yes.”
Brookshire gazed left and right at the sober faces. He drank deeply of his brandy. “So be it.”
Part Three
Why rob a bank when you can own one?
—AMERICAN PROVERB
Thirty-Seven
Somewhere in France
A noise like rushing water awakened Sarah Walker from a deep sleep. She had not wanted to sleep. She had intended to stay awake to watch Asher…. Her hand reached out. His gurney was warm but empty. The blankets were in a pile.
Her voice was nervous with fear. “Asher?”
“Yup.” He was at the portable toilet.
She flung off her blanket, rolled off the bench, bowed her head because of the truck’s low roof, and stepped through the darkness, using the wall to keep herself balanced as the big rig swayed around another curve. The tires whined, then resumed their monotonous drone.
“I’m peeing,” he said in an irritable whisper. “Geesh.”
“Good God, Asher, what are you thinking!”
“Want to help?” A smile in his voice.
In the gloom, she could make out his shadow and the rolling stand that held the bottle of saline solution. One of his hands was braced on the wall of the panel truck.
“You’re incorrigible.” She smiled to herself.
“I’m finished anyway.”
He turned and let her help him back to the gurney. He was remarkably steady, although still bent because of his incision.
“Are you really this strong, or are you pretending?” she asked.
“Pretending. Good at it, aren’t I?”
“Yes, dammit. You shouldn’t be up again. You could tear things open. You’ve got so many stitches you look knitted together.”
“If I tore a stitch, I’d have blood dripping down my legs. I don’t. So I didn’t. Want to feel my legs?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
He sat on the gurney. In the light that seeped out from around the door that separated them from the driver’s section, she could just make out that his shoulders had slumped.
“Want some help lying down?” she asked, feeling sorry for him. “No, don’t say it. I’m not going to get into the gurney with you.”
“You know me too well.” He drifted down onto his right shoulder. He grunted as he landed and rolled onto his back. “Has the truck made any stops?”
“I don’t know. I fell asleep, too.” She covered him, sat on the bench again, and wrapped her blanket around her legs.
He watched. “I really am feeling better.”
“You had your pain pill. That’s why you feel better. Go back to sleep.”
“I took a leak all by myself.”
“And you’re to be congratulated. Go to sleep, darling.”
She felt more than saw his hand reach out through the darkness. She took it, kissed his palm, and placed it back on his chest. He did not resist.
“I’m going to try to sleep again, too,” she told him.
She leaned back and closed her eyes. Her mind was crowded with events of the last few days. With the image of Liz’s horrified face in the warehouse…with the terror of being kidnapped again…with the men who had been killed. Her thoughts roiled with the incomprehensibility of it all, and her chest was knotted with tension. She had no idea where they were. What she did know was these men wore no masks, which meant they were not worried Asher or she would live to identify them.
With a chill, it all came rushing back—the blood, the stench of violent death, the gunfire that had seemed to shake the foundations of the warehouse. The killers had forced Asher and her into a panel truck, Asher’s gurney in the middle, wheels locked, between two benches. The woman—a harridan named Beatrice—was in charge. She and the men piled onto the benches and ordered Sarah to the end, far from the rear doors.
The only advantage was the door to the driver was open, and through the windshield she could watch trees, lampposts, and street signs fly past. Judging by the one sign she’d glimpsed, they were headed northeast. Were they being taken someplace to be killed?
Whenever she or Asher tried to speak, every weapon focused on them. At last, the truck turned into some kind of construction site. Waiting ahead was an enormous big-rig commercial truck. As they slowed, the rear opened and a ramp lowered. The panel truck sped inside, and the gunmen jumped out. When one set a portable toilet between the benches, she and Asher exchanged a relieved look. They were going to be kept alive for a while at least.
The driver closed and locked the door to the front section. As the rear doors locked, too, she jumped up and tried the handles on both. Tied to his gurney, Asher cursed. They were in a mobile jail—sealed inside the panel truck, completely out of sight inside the semi. It was claustrophobic and dark, except for a ribbon of light that seeped from around the door to the driver’s section.
She released the straps that bound Asher to the gurney. They held hands and strained to listen as the commercial truck’s mighty engine throttled to life. Gears grinding, the big rig circled and sped off. If her sense of direction was accurate, they had left the construction site the way they had entered and turned right, returning to the highway, again heading northeast.
But now she had no idea where they were. Going west to the coast? East toward Belgium or Luxembourg? Had they angled south, and she had missed it? She listened to the incessant whine of the big tires and fought frustration and fear.
Asher cleared his throat. “Do you still have the bag with all the med stuff?”
The semi leaned. They were turning again.
She opened her eyes. “You need to rest. To heal. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“What we need even more is to figure out how to get the hell out of here. It’s better to do it now, at
night. We’ll have a better chance.”
“You’re a lunatic.”
“Actually, I fibbed. I know you think I’m honest through and through, so it disturbs me to disillusion you. But the truth is, I’m feeling a lot better. Stronger. In fact, much stronger.”
She said nothing. Then she saw movement. He was sitting again, fiddling with his hand or wrist.
“What are you doing?”
“I can use the needle from my IV.”
She jumped up and grabbed his hand. “No! Asher, darling, don’t take it out!”
“Too late. Hey! Watch it! I don’t want to stab you by accident. I found the little gizmo to turn off the saline solution. Neat and tidy, that’s my motto.”
She threw up her hands. “And to think my one big wish was to have you around all the time. I’m the one who’s nuts!” She forced herself to calm. “Okay. You’re well enough that I can’t control you, so I guess you’re well enough to do a little work. Tell me what you have in mind.”
London, England
Amid abandoned crystal snifters and fading cigar smoke, Sir Anthony Brookshire returned to his chair in his study and sat, staring thoughtfully into the last of the fire’s angry coals. Tonight’s meeting of the Coil had been less than satisfactory. All but one were good men with good intentions, people who recognized the need for pragmatism. A vital balance. Without it, little could be accomplished. They had left a half hour ago for their London homes. Tomorrow was Dreftbury.
And he still did not know which one had the files. The act of betrayal ate at him, acid on his heart. He listened to the quiet of the house, filled with melancholy.
When his special cell rang, he reached for it eagerly. “Yes?”
“I got your message to call.” It was Duchesne, his businesslike tone no different whether at midnight or noon. “As I thought, Sansborough and Childs are together, but they’ve disappeared in Pigalle.”
“And the files?”
“No sign yet.”
Sir Anthony stifled a groan. “How do you know Sansborough and Childs are in Pigalle?” he asked suspiciously.
“One of my people followed them from Belleville. Don’t worry. I have the streets covered. We’ll pick up on them again soon. The situation is fully under control.”
“The streets covered?” Sir Anthony repeated. “How can you possibly do that? You’re not the gendarmerie or the French army.” There were times he longed to have Peter d’Crispi in charge again. D’Crispi was perhaps less clever than Duchesne, but he was also far less secretive.
“There are ways,” Duchesne said. “My expertise is why you hired me. Have I ever failed?”
“You’ve been with me only a short time.”
“If you want me to pull my people, I will. Perhaps you have a better idea of how to track down Sansborough and Childs.”
Hot rage jolted Sir Anthony. César Duchesne had just threatened him, and in it was the implicit contention that they were equals. Sir Anthony prided himself on treating employees with respect. He demanded the same in return.
His fist tightened on his cell. In full control of his voice, he said neutrally, “Are you unhappy with your job, Duchesne?”
César Duchesne knew instantly he had gone too far. Sir Anthony was one of those men who demanded not only obedience but appreciation. As he drove and scanned the sidewalks, looking for Liz Sansborough, Duchesne realized he had allowed his judgment to be clouded by his burning impatience to unmask the blackmailer.
He made his tone conciliatory. “Of course not, Cronus. The work is good. The salary generous. The reason I can’t say is that those who help me demand secrecy. If I protect them, I’m able to give you the high standard of return your investment deserves. I hope you can forgive my abruptness.”
Sir Anthony nodded to himself. His hand relaxed. “I’m sure it won’t happen again. I have two changes in assignment for you.”
As Cronus, Sir Anthony was the Coil’s clearinghouse for information. It was his job to shepherd his colleagues through the morass of decisions they faced—everything from choosing which currency markets to support and which oil companies would share in international pipelines to which Third World nation to rebuild and which dictator would remain in power.
It took men with good heads for business to make certain the decisions within reach were handled with the best outcome for all, and if this group were less altruistic than earlier ones, it was because the world had changed and not for the better. During the Cold War, it had been far easier. The enemy was Communism, good versus evil, a clear focus. Now there were many enemies, all of whom sapped and abused and chipped away at Western civilization. The Coil could not solve every problem it tackled; that much was obvious. Nor did it always make the right decision—supporting the new U.S. president was an example of that. Still, over the past five-plus decades, the Coil had done its best to make the world a better place.
He felt a wave of nostalgia and quickly admonished himself. Such self-indulgence did no good.
He told Duchesne, “As you know, I met with Themis, Prometheus, Ocean, and Atlas tonight. I was unable to determine who has the files, so I’ll need you at Dreftbury. The only explanation I can see for Hyperion’s murder is the blackmailer must have put some plan in motion. If we figure out what it is, we’ll have the blackmailer’s identity.”
“Of course. I’ll be there. If I may make a suggestion—”
“Yes, what is it?”
“There are certain measures we can take.”
As Sir Anthony listened, he began to smile. Yes, Duchesne had his uses. He was a clever, underhanded bastard—just what was needed now.
When they finished, Sir Anthony changed the topic: “As I said, I have a second change in assignment for you.” With regret, he described the Coil’s new decision. “When your people find Sansborough and Childs again, purge them. You must not fail. If by some miracle they have the files, your orders are still to purge them and, as before, deliver the files to me instantly. In any case, make certain their deaths can’t be traced to us.”
There was silence. Sir Anthony sensed he had surprised his security chief. He indulged in a smile. If he ever became completely predictable, he might as well be dead.
“Do you have a problem with this?” Sir Anthony demanded.
“Of course not.” Duchesne sounded bored. “I was just thinking about Sarah Walker and Asher Flores. Do you want me to liquidate them, too?”
“Yes, of course. If you find them.”
“If there’s nothing else, I’ll get on with it.”
Thirty-Eight
Paris, France
As she ran downstairs, Liz tugged Asher’s beret to her ears and put on Sarah’s glasses. Simon pounded after, slamming his arms into the thin black leather jacket she had found for him. He snapped on his sunglasses and pulled his hair over his forehead. The clothes on Liz were loose and long while Simon’s fit him nearly perfectly.
She landed on the first floor and sprinted. He was right behind. At the front door, they hid their pistols and looked each other up and down.
“You’re good,” he decided. “Can’t believe you play a mouse so well.” She had that same timid, weighed-down appearance that he had seen in Waterloo Station.
“Just goes to show how little you know me. I’m a retiring creature at heart.”
“Your nose just got a foot long, Pinocchia. What about me?”
“Lout comes to mind,” she said approvingly. “Also hoodlum. I was getting tired of that preppy look that you seem to think is the real you.”
He smiled. “Thank you.” Then the smile vanished. He inched open the door and peered out through the crack.
“Well?” she said.
In answer, he pulled it wider and slid out to the step. She was on his heels. Judging by the strident noise of the sirens, an entire antiterrorist squad was on its way. As the street cleared of anyone with something to hide, a dozen of Malko’s gunmen poured into the florist’s van. It screeched off, tires scr
eaming.
“My God,” she said. “This may actually work.”
“Scary, isn’t it?”
With enthusiasm, they watched the last two gunmen jump into the back of the Toyota. The driver gunned the engine, and the car exploded off toward the other end of the block. The dead man in the center of the front seat fell forward and was quickly yanked upright as the driver dodged from one lane of traffic to the next.
Only bewildered tourists remained on the sidewalks. As the sirens crescendoed, the old Pigalle buildings with their tawdry fronts and tacky signs took on a desolate air.
Liz and Simon glanced at each other and set off at a steady, ground-eating pace.
He kept a close watch for trouble as she dialed his cell. Any situation could reverse in an instant. When tires suddenly screeched, he spun in time to see the Toyota’s door flung open and the body of the garage attendant thud out. With another squeal of tires, the Toyota rammed through the intersection, sending cars reeling, sparks flying. Squad cars pursued, their overhead beacons flashing angrily.
In the other direction, the van full of Malko’s gunmen disappeared, successful in its getaway for now.
Simon inhaled, enjoying the moment of freedom. So far, so good. His gaze settled on Liz. His heart throbbed with an odd sensation as he listened to her murmur into the cell in a tone of voice that said “old friend.” He wondered whether her plan to get to England was workable. Still, he had nothing else to suggest, and she was determined. He had an unfamiliar willingness to trust her.
When she hung up, he said, “Will Faust do it?”
“Yes, we’re in luck. Any problems?”
“Not yet.”
As he described with relish how the van and Toyota had turned tail and fled, locals drifted like cemetery ghosts back onto the block. This stretch of the boulevard de Clichy between place Pigalle and place Blanche was thick with peep shows and sex shops as well as live-sex parlors.
Warily surveying the street, Simon and Liz picked up their pace. Blue light spilled out of bars, turning white clothes eerily luminescent. Prostitutes wore Day-Glo gloves and made suggestive gestures, advertising hand jobs. Others flashed knives slipped into garter belts. People queued up to watch violent porn films. The air was filled with the odors of booze and trouble and desperate sex.
