by Gayle Lynds
With relief, Liz noted no one’s attention lingered on her, appraising. With her slouched posture and glasses, she was not only unattractive but uninteresting in the charged scene. Still, she could not shake her apprehension. Alongside her, Simon advanced as if he owned the street, the city, the world. Women cast glances at him over their shoulders, and men looked away.
At the place de Clichy Noctambus stop, they bought tickets and stepped aboard. Advancing down the aisle, they casually inspected faces and sat in the rear. Simon set his gym bag on the floor between them, leaned back, and sighed as the bus ground into motion. He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it off his forehead, and removed his sunglasses and slid them into his pocket, glad to be finished with the idiotic affectation.
He found himself studying her as she gazed out at the glittering urban nightscape. Her profile was tense, her generous mouth tight. She looked uneasy, as if her mind were far away, someplace only she could know.
As the bus entered traffic, he asked in a low voice, “Is losing Sarah and Asher at the warehouse why you changed your mind and wanted Malko’s Glock?”
She glanced at him, then gave a small nod of acknowledgment. He had called her back, and, for him, she had come. “Yes and no. Part of me wanted a gun from the moment I was attacked in Santa Barbara. My first instinct was to kill whoever had tried to kill me. But what does revenge get you but more injured or dead people? Your pain isn’t erased. The people who’ve been hurt or who’ve died aren’t healed or resurrected. Nothing’s improved. You’re not improved. You’ve acted like them, the evildoers you despise. I don’t consider that honorable or smart. Certainly not ethical or moral.”
“I’m not sure many people would agree with you.”
“What you’re saying is you don’t agree.”
“Maybe I am,” he admitted.
“Violence has become an all-purpose remedy. I worry about what we’re becoming. Where civilization’s headed.”
“And yet you wanted the Glock.”
She sat back, grappling with her emotions, trying to be honest with herself, with him. “There are few people with my training. It’d be hypocritical to ask someone else to save Sarah and Asher, using the excuse that I’ve got the moral high ground and don’t want to be sullied.” She gazed at him. “I’ve got to do it, because I can.”
“You hesitated with Beatrice. You weren’t sure you could shoot her, were you?”
“No.”
His rugged face was kind. “Remember, you’re not alone anymore.”
“I know.” She saw something in him that warmed her, made her feel comfortable. Something she had not experienced in a long time.
His eyes twinkled with a certain amusement…and perhaps challenge. “We’re partners. Buddies. Pals through thick and thin.”
“Sure, the Bobbsey Twins. The Two Musketeers. A lawful Bonnie and Clyde.”
They looked away from each other. Soon they transferred buses, heading northeast. She focused on the lessening traffic, on the ubiquitous sea of taxis. Had a tail kept up with them? Found them? Impossible, she told herself, but she watched alertly.
Death was more and more her constant companion. She wondered again as she had thousands of times how her mother could have killed and gone on killing. But she knew the answer; it was just that it had never satisfied her—Melanie had assassinated for her country, for patriotism. For a calling she thought more vital than personal beliefs or squeamishness. When Melanie finally accepted that the Carnivore had been lying to her for years, that they had seldom worked for British or even U.S. intelligence, she never fired a gun again.
Liz shook off a feeling of guilt. Now she was doing what her mother had done—embarking on a path for what she considered a higher cause, this time for Sarah and Asher and to find the Carnivore’s obscene files. She had become her mother, or perhaps she had been that way all along…which was why she herself had been able to do black work for Langley.
She must stop thinking about it. As the bus’s tires hummed, she glanced at Simon. His face was wary as he surveyed the street. She liked the way he sat so easily, nonchalant, big shoulders comfortably back, as if he were relaxed…until one looked in his eyes and saw the sharp vigilance.
She whispered, “I’ve been meaning to ask about Nautilus. Before the garage attendant interrupted us, you were going to fill me in.”
He looked around and lowered his voice. “You’re right. It’s critical you know, especially now. Think moguls and kings, presidents and generals. Think a private alliance between Europe and America that’s beyond any mere government.”
“Mere government?”
“You’re getting the picture. All of Nautilus’s chairmen have been among the world’s elite—a former British prime minister, a former chancellor of West Germany, a former NATO secretary-general, and a former vice chair of the European Commission. That’s a fact. The people who attend are at a similar rarefied level—bankers, tycoons, presidents, prime ministers, international statesmen, NATO commanders.”
“You need an oxygen mask to breathe at those political heights. If our blackmailer is part of Nautilus, then we really have a hell of a mountain to climb.”
“Yes, and we’d better be ready. Their security is formidable, better than most Third World nations. That’s another fact.”
As the bus pulled to a stop at a red light, she asked quietly, “Just how many people are we talking about?”
“There’s a permanent steering committee of about thirty—half Europeans, half Americans—and ninety guests invited to the yearly meeting. They vary, depending on who’s in power and who’s accomplished what over the last twelve months. There are usually future political stars, too. They’re brought in as soon as possible to be educated.”
“Educated? I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Of course you don’t.” He paused. Suddenly it seemed clear that Ada had been wrong about him. In fact, he had been wrong about himself. He had not spent three long years undercover untouched, without thinking about what he saw and learned. “I’ve heard Tony Blair and Bill Clinton were invited a couple of years before they were elected to national office. George W. Bush apparently wasn’t.”
“For brainwashing?” When he shrugged, she said, “The bottom line is, they’re political and fiscal superstars. Everyone should be able to hear what Nautilus talks about.”
“They claim they can’t be frank if they’re in the public eye.”
She snorted with disbelief. “When people don’t want you to know what they’re saying, be warned. It’s usually because they’re being more than ‘frank.’ They’re talking about plans they don’t want other folk like thee and me to hear.” She paused, thinking of Sarah. “I still don’t understand why the media doesn’t cover their meetings.”
Simon scanned the intersection as the light turned green and the bus rumbled through. “When I said tycoons, that included media tycoons. They’re like everyone else—they have to pledge not to reveal what’s said, who’s there, or even that they’ve been invited. That means they pass the word down to their managers that there’s no story. Reporters and freelancers have to make a living, so if their editors tell them there’s nothing to write about, they tend to believe them. The only U.S. publications that seriously try to cover meetings are usually on the extreme right or extreme left. The exception is the European press, like the Irish Times and Punch. They photograph and report on those entering and leaving. I’m sure you’ve heard the highly sophisticated theory of management that goes like this: Shit flows downhill. This is a perfect example. It all starts at the top, and not even the top crosses Nautilus lightly.”
“But some people have? That’s encouraging.”
“But not always successful. Margaret Thatcher tried in Brussels in 1988. She called the plan for a centralized Europe a nightmare and vowed Britain would never give up her sovereignty or her currency. But a European superstate is a high priority for Nautilus, and Thatcher bloody well knew it, since
she attended regularly. So Nautilus worked behind the scenes, arranging for her to be attacked and her supporters coerced and her money to dwindle. Just two years later, in 1990, she was forced to resign.”
“That’s politics. Hardly unusual.”
He shook his head. “Thatcher was no ordinary politico. She was PM, with all the vast dominion and resources inherent in the office, but even she couldn’t stand up to them. I know you’re going to ask why, so I’ll just go ahead and explain. The world’s changing. It’s globalizing along a commercial path Nautilus has set out. The result is that politicians—including prime ministers and presidents—have less actual power in Nautilus, as well as in their own countries. In fact, two-thirds of Nautilus’s core membership is now made up of bankers and financiers and businessmen, not politicians or statesmen. Whether or not you agree with Thatcher’s politics, what Nautilus did by bypassing the British public and deciding her political future was despicable. The primary thrust of globalization doesn’t have to be profit for the few, but that’s what it’s become.”
As the bus pulled into the station, she said, “It’s frightening. But that’s the reaction you intended me to have. What if you’re wrong about Nautilus?”
He gazed at her, recalling again Ada’s accusation that he had no opinions. But he had wanted none then, no problems, certainly nothing to rock the bloody boat. Just to do his job without trouble. Now the boat was capsizing, and he could no longer pretend he did not care.
“I’ve heard Nautilus called everything from an innocent business network, to an aristocratic think tank, to a conspiracy that runs the world,” he told her. “We both know anything that’s hidden has intrinsic power. And as your J. Edgar Hoover said, there’s something addictive about a secret. Nautilus works too hard to keep the secrecy and the power. If the public’s ignorant about what it does that’s good, you can bet we’re just as ignorant about what it does that’s bad.”
She felt a sudden chill. “How do you know so much?”
He watched as the bus’s door opened and people began to disembark. Either they were partners or they were not. He lowered his voice. “I’ve been in deep cover, penetrating Nautilus’s prime opposition—the antiglobalization movement. The world’s structure is shifting from the nation-state to the corporate-state, and it’s being encouraged, some say driven, by Nautilus. Which makes it a prime target for the movement, especially since Nautilus meetings are ultra-secret, ultra-secure, by invitation only, never made public, and no media allowed.” He glanced uneasily at her. “You understand I shouldn’t have told you. You can’t breathe a mention.”
She did not hesitate. “Simon, if you think you’re going to have any job at MI6 when this is over, assuming we survive, you’re living in dreamland.”
Wounded, he said nothing, weighing her warning. She touched his arm and stood up. He looked around and saw they were the last two people on the bus. He stood up, too. Together they walked toward the exit.
Thirty-Nine
As he followed the florist’s van in his Citroën, Gino Malko seethed. He was fighting an unfamiliar sensation—humiliation. He snapped open his cell and punched REDIAL and made a full report without bothering to pull off the street.
He concluded by saying, “The police caught four of our people, but none knows enough to cause us an immediate problem. I phoned the lawyer. She’ll bail them out and send them out of France.”
Sansborough and Childs had outwitted him damned neatly. It was not only that they had sidelined four men; it was that word of it would spread like a disease. Malko made a mistake. Malko was outsmarted. The grapevine always found out.
Childs and Sansborough would pay, and painfully. He could promise that.
“Then I can consider it handled? The four will never talk?”
“It’d be a fatal error,” Malko assured his boss. “All have been in the business long enough to know that.”
“And Sansborough and Childs?”
“They’re isolated and on the run. With the CIA and French police looking, too, something will force them into the open. When it does, I’ll be there.”
“That may be unnecessary.”
His boss’s unemotional delivery of surprising changes in plan always gave Malko pause. But then, the man did business with the cold heart of a shark, too. Malko admired him.
“There’s a new development?” Malko asked.
“A large one.” He described the Coil’s decision to terminate Sansborough and Childs. “César Duchesne and his people will take care of it.”
Malko objected: “Are you sure it’s wise to pull me off? Is he really that good?” He had not met the Coil’s new security chief, but he had not met the previous one either. The risk of being sniffed out as a link to the Carnivore’s files was too high.
“Duchesne seems smart enough. Besides, I need you in Scotland. Cronus has tumbled. There’s no other explanation for why he stopped the flow of information and told us next to nothing when we met tonight. What’s good for us is that he’s cut off everyone, so he’s still trying to figure out which one of us has the files. My biggest risk is at Dreftbury, while I’m trying to put together the deal. If Duchesne loses Sansborough and Childs…if they stay alive long enough…it’s possible they may figure out somehow that I’ll be there. This is what I want you to do….”
As his employer elaborated, Malko smiled. When they severed the connection, he sat back, driving automatically as he turned the ideas over in his mind, liking them more and more. As he considered the new direction, he found himself savoring the power of the powerful engine purring in his hands. He liked the quiet strength of the black car, imagining a great hungry panther on the prowl, like the wildcats he had seen in the swamps of Florida in his youth.
Immediately, he discarded the image. Back in Jacksonville, Malko had trained himself to limit his imagination. Much better to rely on facts, not guesses; on what was, not on what might be. He had seen not only family but colleagues destroyed by too much fantasy. After enough kills, longtime enforcers began to see danger in every doorway, and then revenge. Eventually, they slid into too much drink or drugs—or both—and emptied their weapons into enough shadows that either the authorities took them out or another professional did. No one Malko knew in the business lived long enough to retire. His own mentor had died at forty-six in a hunting “accident” outside Fort Lauderdale. Malko had always suspected suicide.
Somewhere in France
As the big semi hurtled through the night, Asher’s voice was businesslike. “Did you learn to pick a lock when you were trained at the Ranch?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. But I’m not sure I could still do it.” In the murky light, Sarah felt around until she found the paper sack of medical supplies under the gurney.
“Yeah, figures. Good thing I’m still a whiz. When they ditched us in here, I got a look at the door locks. They’re wafer-tumbler. I know you won’t object if I tell you I need that med sack anyway.”
“Why? Are you bleeding where you pulled out the needle?” She located alcohol wipes inside it. “I’m going to make sure you don’t get an infection. I’ll give you the sack, if you promise not to stab me.”
“That’s reasonable.”
“I thought so.” She dropped it on his lap, picked up his left hand, and scrubbed.
“That’ll do,” he told her, trying to hurry her along. “Thanks.”
She said nothing. Finding a stick-on bandage, she applied it, then set his hand gently back into his lap. Immediately, he sorted through the sack. She turned to the IV pole. The saline bag was almost empty, which was a good sign. They had no drinking water, but he would remain hydrated for a while. Yes, the pole’s metal parts screwed into one another. At last she found the piece she thought would work.
She released the bolt that held it in place. “How are you doing?” she asked.
“I can use the needle for a pick. It doesn’t curve up at the end like I’d like, but I’ve made a needle work before. The
problem is, I need something for a tension wrench. There’s nothing in the sack I can adapt for that.”
“How’s this?” She handed him the small metal stick she had just unbolted. It was like a miniature flat-headed screwdriver.
“That’s my Sarah. Resourceful. Thanks.” He moved his legs off the gurney and stood, clasping his hospital gown at the back. “Floor’s cold.” He seemed to be gazing down at his bare feet.
She knew the truth: He was still having a hard time straightening because of the pain. She wanted to tell him to forget it, get back on the gurney, but she knew he would not do it, at least not yet.
“I’ll bet the floor’s cold,” she sympathized. “Dangerous, too. God knows what’s gone on in here. There could be screws, bullets, broken glass, maybe metal shavings down there. I’d say you should watch your step, but it’s too dark.”
“You’re much too cheerful,” he grumbled. “I’m going to check out the door in front anyway. I want to know what that light’s about.”
With misgivings, she grabbed a blanket and followed. They had heard no sound from the driver’s compartment since being locked inside. She had tried to peer through the cracks, but they were too narrow. She folded the blanket and laid it on the floor in front of the lock. As the truck swayed into another turn, he braced his hands against the door and lowered himself.
Sarah watched as he assessed the situation. Fortunately, lock picking did not require sight. It required acute hearing and enough practice to sense when the tumblers moved into position. Wafer-tumbler locks were basic and reliable, similar to pin-and-tumbler locks, except there were no pins, just wafer-shaped tumblers that had to be tickled into place for the lock to open. Such locks were common in vehicles, filing cabinets, and lockers, as well as in many padlocks.
