by Gayle Lynds
“The blackmailer as good as killed Robbie.”
“Robbie’s dead. There’s nothing we can do for him. Besides, we both know that’s beside the point. You want the files for yourself!”
“No, Cronus. You’re utterly wrong. This isn’t for me. It’s for the Coil. It’s what’s best for all of us!”
“Rubbish! I forbid it. Do you hear me?”
“I should think so, Cronus. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.”
London, England
In the hallway outside his bedroom, Sir Anthony Brookshire slowly lowered the cell from his ear.
The old bastard. He was retired! How could he have found out?
Instantly, he knew, because there was only one logical answer. He dialed his cell. “I’ve discovered where Sansborough and Childs are!”
Forty-Three
Northumberland, England
Clive was gone by the time Liz and Simon arrived on the second floor and walked to the back of the house. The door to the family suite was open, and a squad of muscular young men were pulling off dustcovers and putting things in order. Within minutes, everyone was gone, and a calmness settled over the large living room. Two doors on either side opened into bedrooms. Ahead were soaring windows. Liz and Simon went to them and gazed out at the fishpond and apple orchard, silvery in the moonlight. She looked up at the night sky, at the stars twinkling far away in foreign universes.
Liz turned back to savor the familiar room. “It hasn’t changed.”
Despite the dark-wood wainscoting, the room was cheerful. Brilliantly hued tapestry covered the chairs and sofas, while pillows in more bright colors lay about on straight chairs and the floor. Every floor lamp and table lamp was ablaze. The rugs were simple—each a solid blue, but in different shades. Tables for lunches and games were scattered about. An old-fashioned reading table stood in front of the end window, where Liz had done homework over spring holidays.
Emotion welled into her throat. “I didn’t realize how much we meant to Henry.”
He nodded soberly. “It’s like a time capsule. Does make one feel guilty. But on the other hand, we had many good times here. That’s what he wanted. Scrabble and gin rummy and laughter.”
“Hide-and-seek. Remember when Mick got locked in the trunk?”
He chuckled. “Was bloody annoyed about that, he was.”
She grinned. “Mick was annoyed a lot. We annoyed him.” She set her shoulder bag on the floor next to the reading table and headed for the liquor cabinet. “Here’s something different—it’s unlocked.” She pulled open the door and studied the bottles. Only for a moment did she consider making her usual martini. She rubbed her hands. “Ah, yes. Cragganmore. Who could resist?” She picked up the bottle of single malt. Little known abroad but highly respected in Britain, Cragganmore came from a small distillery high on the Spey River in Scotland.
“I’ll have a wee dram.” Simon sat at the reading table with his gym bag and removed his portfolio. “Didn’t your father drink Cragganmore?”
“Yes. Good memory.”
“You developed a taste for it, too?”
“Uh-huh. Let’s not probe any more into how similar I am to my parents. I’ve done enough agonizing about that over the past few days to last several lifetimes.” She found two glasses, poured, and walked them to the table. She handed him his glass.
“You won’t hear me disagree.” He held it up to the light.
The whiskey was the rich color of gold. He touched the heel of his glass to the rim of hers. In that gesture, traditional in the Childs and Sansborough families, he saw a world of communication distilled, their shared history, their critical goal now.
Her gaze was sober. “To Sarah and Asher. May we find them safe and quickly.”
“And may Santarosa lead us instantly to the bloody damn blackmailer!”
As they drank, she made herself pay attention to the whiskey. It was full and sweet, mouth-filling. Not a note off-key. There was a touch of astringency in the finish that somehow made it even more satisfying.
She sat and looked at Simon. He was not truly handsome. His features were irregular, and of course his misshapen nose destroyed any refinement to his face. She remembered his undressing in Pigalle. How his muscles had rippled. His long limbs were sleek, like a runner’s. He had a tan down to his bikini line. There was something freewheeling about him, from his thick hair and penetrating blue eyes to the casual way his body moved. He had always drawn people to him, but he was not as natural, as unguarded now. Something had made him take on personality traits to hide himself.
She asked, “What’s happened to you since the last time we met?”
“What?”
“The last time I saw you, you were easygoing, open. Not hiding out. You were different.”
“You expect me to remember that long ago?” He gave a small smile to buffer not answering.
She studied him, wondering what the truth was.
He changed the subject. “How’s your arm?”
“Fine. Hardly hurts at all.” True, or maybe she was just too tired to notice.
“Right. Let’s see whether we can find some meaning in the photos.” He arranged the three big prints of the baron’s wall left to right. “It might help to tell me more about those Titans you mentioned.”
“Sure. Their names were Atlas, Cronus, Hyperion, Ocean, Prometheus, and Themis. Atlas was the one who carried the world on his shoulders. Cronus was the leader. Hyperion was the father of the sun, the moon, and the dawn. I suppose one could push the analogy for Baron de Darmond and say he could buy the sun, the moon, the dawn, and probably all the stars in the galaxy, too. Ocean was the river that encircled the earth. Prometheus was the savior of humanity. And Themis was usually translated as Justice.”
Simon scowled. “Justice? There was certainly no justice in what they did to you.”
“People are resourceful when it comes to justifying their actions. Anyway, we know Hyperion was Baron de Darmond. Look, here’s a fourth photo of Mellencamp.” She dug out her yellow Magic Marker and circled it as she had the three others.
“In this one, the baron and he are with your president and France’s prime minister. In the second, they’re with John Sloane, Paige Powell, the international financier Richmond Hornish, the Italian ambassador Edward Cereghino, and Christian Menchen, the fellow who runs the car company.”
“Who are Sloane and Powell?”
“Hotshot journalists from the BBC. They did a miniseries about the financial interdependence of Europe and the United States a couple of years ago. Four of the people they interviewed were de Darmond, Hornish, Cereghino, and Menchen.”
“Okay, the journalists aren’t going to be high enough up the food chain for the Titans, but Menchen runs Eisner-Moulton, right?”
He knew instantly where she was going: “Eisner-Moulton owned that warehouse where Sarah and Asher were held.”
“My mother always said there was no such thing as a coincidence.”
Simon took lined paper from the table’s drawer and wrote:
The Titans
Baron Claude de Darmond (“Hyperion,” deceased)
Grey Mellencamp (maybe “Themis,” deceased)
Christian Menchen—Eisner-Moulton (potential member)
He said, “Here’s a photo with Mellencamp, the baron, Nicholas Inglethorpe, and some other fellow. Do you recognize the background?”
“Forget the background.” There was excitement in her voice. “I don’t think I got around to telling you that I tried everything to find out who gave the order to cancel my TV series. Finally, I climbed so high up the corporate totem pole that I reached the office of the man whose company owned the network.”
He stared. “Inglethorpe?”
“Yes! He runs InterDirections, which owns Compass Broadcasting as well as a slew of newspapers, radio stations, and other media companies. Compass spent a lot of time and money on my series. It made no sense they’d kill it. I left a message to talk t
o Inglethorpe, but of course he never got back to me. And there’s another connection. He was on the Aylesworth board with Mellencamp and succeeded Mellencamp as chairman. Which meant he was chairman when the board awarded me my chair.”
“Inglethorpe has to be a Titan.” He wrote the name. “Who’s the other chap?”
“Another American. Gregory Gilmartin of Gilmartin Enterprises. They’re huge in international construction. They do defense production, too—tanks, airplanes.”
Simon pointed. “See those big trees behind them? Those are redwoods. That carving is an owl, the symbol of the Bohemian Grove group. They meet in the redwoods north of San Francisco.”
“I remember reading an article about them. A low-profile, all-boys camp where men go to act like jackasses and bond. But a lot of power and shoulder rubbing, too. Are you saying that if the baron and Inglethorpe were at the Bohemian Grove together and they’re both Titans, then Gilmartin may be a Titan, too?”
“Guilt by association. Shaky ground, but in this case, we should consider it.”
She frowned. “That connection’s tenuous. Gilmartin’s not as active as Mellencamp or Baron de Darmond were, or as Christian Menchen and Nicholas Inglethorpe are now. Gilmartin’s quiet, reserved. His father was the flamboyant one.”
“Yes, but he’s influential not only in the private sector but in government circles. When MI6 needs to insert someone into the Middle East, we often go in as engineers or technicians for Gilmartin, or as employees in one of their hotels. The company’s always building somewhere—because they’re so big, they can underbid almost anyone. They put up hotels to house their staff, then they charge the government for housing. That’s how their hotel chain started. Of course, once the deal’s made, they give a kickback to local officials and apologize that it’s all going to cost more than they first thought. You’d think the public would figure it out.”
“Okay, add his name, but put two question marks after it.”
As he wrote, she sat back and stretched. “Let’s look at the files you photographed.”
Huddled together, they studied the financial statements and letters. Every time they saw the name of one of the men on their list, Liz highlighted it. At last, they came to a letter recommending an investment in prefabricated pubs.
“Thomas Brookshire?” she said. “Why do I know that name?”
“Tom Brookshire’s my age. The letter says this is his first company. He can’t be a Titan, for God’s sake.”
Liz pointed to the letterhead. “It’s from his father. Didn’t Sir Anthony and Lady Agnes have dinner once or twice a year with your parents?”
“Right. He was chancellor of the Exchequer, and now he’s an EU commissioner. He’s held various portfolios in Tory governments for decades.”
She read the letter again, looking for hidden meanings. She sat up abruptly and pointed to the lower left-hand corner.
“Simon, look!”
He frowned. “All right, so old Tony Brookshire doodled one of those Slinky toys that kids like. Or maybe a pinwheel. Or it could be a coil of rope or a snake’s coil. So?”
She was already digging through her bag. “Here it is.” She brought out the crumpled paper with the dean’s address from Santa Barbara and described finding it on the ground after she and Mac had put the corpse into her car trunk.
“You think the paper fell out of the janitor’s clothes?” he asked.
She started to nod but stopped. Her eyes narrowed. “That’s what Mac said, and it seemed logical. I figured I’d missed it when I searched the body. But what if it fell out of Mac’s pocket instead, when he leaned into my trunk? Mac worked for the kidnappers. The Titans. Their emblem or sign could be this squiggle or coil.”
“Coil?” Simon’s pulse quickened as he remembered. “There’s something else. I remember now…. When the baron was telling the blackmailer off, he said he’d fight him at Dreftbury. Then he threatened him: ‘I’ll even tell the Coil that you’re the one.’ The Coil. That’s what this mark is, and I’ll bet that’s what these Titans call themselves—the Coil!”
“You could be right. The inside of a nautilus shell is a spiral—”
“A coil!” He tapped Brookshire’s letter. “And it’s the key to this puzzle!”
It took only seconds. They found ten more photo prints with the same symbol, always in the lower left-hand corner, always small and written lightly in pencil. Easily erasable. They were also in the same hand, as if the baron were marking which documents would receive his special attention. Each was a request or application for a loan or investment, or for backing for a large stock or bond offering. Some were linked directly to the living names on their list—Brookshire, Gilmartin, Inglethorpe, and Menchen. Others were from partnerships in which one of these men was involved, while a few were from companies downstream from the parent, subsidiaries that one of the men ran or in which he had a financial interest. Several letters and applications included two or more of the names. The sweep of multinational alliances was staggering.
Simon was excited. “Until now, we’ve been guessing and deducing. With the Coil symbol, we have confirmation about Sir Anthony and the others. That leaves us needing the last member. Let’s take a look at those four photos again.”
They returned to the pictures Liz had circled in yellow. The second had shown Baron de Darmond, Mellencamp, the two journalists—Sloane and Powell—Italian ambassador Edward Cereghino, automotive wunderkind Christian Menchen, and the legendary financier Richmond Hornish.
Liz said, “Didn’t we just read about Hornish?” She sorted through the prints. “Yes. Here’s the letter from him. Hornish wanted the bank to help guarantee a new securities instrument.” She looked up. “He’s the international speculator who almost destroyed Malaysia’s economy by betting against their currency.”
“Right. Malaysia and six other countries. Now he’s making showboat charity donations—buying computers for kids in Latvia, funding a free university in Bulgaria, promising college scholarships to every kid who graduates from one of Chicago’s inner-city schools. Shazam—his face on the cover of Time magazine, awards from churches and temples, and a shot at the Nobel Peace Prize. He’s buying himself respectability. I’d believe his sincerity a lot more if he weren’t still up to the same dirty business. To hell with the people who starve because of his greed.”
She tapped the discreet coil on his letter. “This proves it. He’s the final one.”
“Agreed.” He snapped out a clean sheet of paper and wrote the names alphabetically.
The Titans
Brookshire, Sir Anthony—EU commissioner & politician.
Gilmartin, Gregory—Gilmartin Enterprises, international construction.
Hornish, Richmond—InQuox & investment vehicles, speculator & investor.
Inglethorpe, Nicholas—media & communications empire, including InterDirections, which owns Compass Broadcasting.
Menchen, Christian—Eisner-Moulton, automobiles & transportation.
As they studied the list, the room receded. The silence extended.
“The blackmailer is one of them,” she said, her tone reverent because they had reached this moment at long last. “But which one?”
Forty-Four
Somewhere in northern Europe
In Asher’s weakened condition, there had been no way they could fight their transfer from the truck to what turned out to be an anonymous Learjet. The only improvement in their situation was clothes for Asher—sweatpants, shoes, socks, and a shirt, plus the jacket he had found in the truck.
Once he was dressed, Sarah’s demands that he be carried to the jet and up the stairs were ignored. By the time they were aboard, he was white as snow, drenched in sweat, and gritting his teeth. He fell into a seat, and she gave him extra pain pills.
Enraged, she stayed awake, listening. The jet sat on the tarmac two hours before finally taking off for a short flight. There were four men—two armed escorts, and the pilot and copilot, who never left the co
ckpit. From their occasional conversations, she learned Asher and she were being kept alive only until some important deal was closed.
In the dark hours before daybreak, the jet landed in a rainstorm so drenching she could not make out landmarks or signs. They were blindfolded and transferred again, this time to some kind of powerful sedan driven by a man named Malko, who was obviously in charge. The car plowed through driving rain and rolling thunder and a harsh wind that shook all of them. Malko swore as he fought to keep the car on the highway.
At last, the noise abruptly stopped, and so did the car. Its big engine sounded almost docile as it echoed inside some kind of shelter. Sarah found Asher’s hand, but before she could squeeze it, he squeezed hers. There was comfort in a known love, and hope, despite the overwhelming odds.
The men yanked her out of the car. She could hear Asher’s being pulled out, too.
“Be careful of him!” she said angrily. “He’s been shot!”
“Too bad,” said a disinterested voice.
Hands hustled them down steps and into an enclosed space colder than the driving wind that had met them at the jet. The storm continued to rage outside, but there was another sound—surf?
When a heavy door clanged shut, Sarah ripped off her blindfold. “Asher?” The darkness was thick. The room stank of mold and damp stone.
“I’m here.” His voice came from somewhere to her right, sounding of pain and exhaustion and—very unlike him—not trying to hide it. Still, there was fight, too. “Wherever the hell we are, it’s near the ocean. Listen to those waves pound. They’re louder than the rain or the thunder,” he said.
