by Gayle Lynds
“If you’ll look into cyber cafés, I’ll pump gas,” she told him.
“For you, anything.” He smiled.
She smiled back and pulled into a petrol station. While she filled the tank, he made calls at a phone kiosk. As she paid, he bought a local map, and soon they were back in the Jeep. He directed her south into the city. The café was in an area of little shops on a picturesque street. Their socks and shoes were dry. They dressed. As they left the thrashed Jeep, she adjusted Asher’s beret and put on Sarah’s glasses.
Breakfast odors of bangers and baked tomatoes and fried eggs wafted from a traditional diner. It was midmorning. Still, people crammed tables, gossiping.
Next to the diner stood the cybercafe—Byte Me. Simon checked the sidewalk as she opened the door. They stepped into noise and the aroma of rich espresso. The decor was hard-surfaced and techno, with a lot of chrome and white paint. Businesspeople, students, and geeks and freaks of all persuasions sat at some twenty terminals, cups and mugs at their elbows, gazes riveted to screens. Each terminal had a small printer.
In a distant corner was an espresso bar, and above it hung a wide-screen television. A BBC news program was on in full living color. Since the network had carried the story about her yesterday, it was possible it would still be broadcasting it.
Swearing under her breath, Liz tugged the beret down to her ears and hurried to the only free terminal, where she angled the chair so she could sit with her back partly to the TV. Instantly, she punched in Shay Babcock’s code and went to work. She might have little time, if she were recognized. The terminals were just a few feet apart—too close.
Simon took in the situation with one troubled appraisal. At the espresso bar, he ordered two lattes and two hard buns with cream cheese. He laid his last twenty-pound note on the table. A necessary expenditure, if it worked.
“Can’t break that.” The man had sleep in his eyes and irritation in his voice.
“Not a problem. Say, would you mind switching to CNN? Addicted to it, as it were.” And at this early hour, CNN would be covering world news and sports, far less likely than a UK station to run a story about the search for Liz Sansborough.
The man was staring at the cash.
“Oh,” Simon said, as if remembering, “and do feel free to keep the change.”
That did it. The fellow’s eyes slitted, the money vanished, and CNN appeared. Simon watched the room. When his order was ready, he rejoined Liz. Her profile was tense. He pulled up a chair and sat close.
“Thanks,” she whispered. “Anything?” She drank the latte.
“Five copies of the Times. Fortunately, none look opened. We may get lucky.”
She glanced uneasily around.
“Want to go back to the Jeep?” he asked. “I can do this alone.”
Her brows shot up. “No way. My disguise has been fine so far.”
“Then let’s get to work. What have you found?” He sipped his latte.
“This is the EU Web site. I’m checking the Competition Commission. Here’s Santarosa. Thought you’d like to see what the commissioner looks like.”
Carlo Santarosa had a wide Mediterranean face, with dusky skin, narrow dark eyes, and the sort of mouth that could easily be sweet or cruel, depending on circumstances or whim. His hair was pepper gray, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses.
“He doesn’t look as if he’ll roll easily,” Simon decided.
“Our blackmailer may have a tougher time than he’s anticipating.” She clicked a hyperlink. “Competition cases are posted, so we’re lucky. I’m in the section on antitrust and cartels—you know, when companies collude instead of competing, and how the commission controls anticompetitive agreements. What I found almost instantly was Eisner-Moulton, in a nasty case where it’s accused of illegally controlling car and truck prices throughout Europe. Christian Menchen’s named specifically.”
“That sounds bad.”
“Very. His multinational’s swimming in red ink and closing plants and selling off subsidiaries. The one bright spot has been European sales. If the decision goes against him, profits will plunge, which will hurt him on several fronts, including making it difficult to borrow money to offset debt. The company’s huge. It’ll survive. But if this continues, Menchen may be out of a job, and Germany’s not known for its platinum parachutes the way the United States is.”
“Is he our blackmailer?”
She shot him a grim look. “He’s a good possibility. So much depends on who he is. What he fears. What he wants. Assuming Menchen has the files, he could look at this as a chance not to be missed. All he has to do is blackmail Santarosa into deciding in Eisner-Moulton’s favor, and a lot of his personal as well as business problems vanish.”
“He sounds like the blackmailer. But common sense tells me we need to make sure we haven’t missed anyone.” The computer next to him was free at last. He moved over and signed on, using one of his covers.
They worked quietly, drinking their lattes.
“Here’s your old nemesis—Nicholas Inglethorpe,” Simon said at last. “In the mergers section.” The Competition Commission was the one-stop shop for merger control in the EU. “The commission is weighing whether to demand his multinational divest itself of its six-billion-dollar stake in pay-TV operator SkyCall before it’s allowed to buy Grossblatt of Poland, because Grossblatt owns one of Inglethorpe’s biggest competitors—Polska-Storrs Media. It’d be the largest forced divestiture ever.”
“Inglethorpe’s multinational is having financial problems, too. The lousy world economy’s hurting everyone. I remember reading he wanted to expand into the old East bloc. If he were counting on SkyCall, and Santarosa makes him divest, he’ll reel.”
“That makes two of the Coil who could be our blackmailer.”
They exchanged an uneasy look and resumed searching. Liz stayed in her chair, keeping her face in her screen, but an hour later, Simon left to buy two more lattes.
When he returned, he drank slowly. “Here’s the East bloc again.” He kept his voice low. “This time it’s Richmond Hornish and his flagship charity project—computers he’s selling below cost to every school in Bulgaria. The commission is investigating whether he’s been granted interest relief, which, it claims, distorts competition.”
“Are they saying Hornish may be taking kickbacks?”
“Basically, yes. If the report concludes he is, and Santarosa sanctions the report, the scandal will blast Hornish out of the running for the Nobel Peace Prize. He’s devoted the past five years to trying to undo his reputation as a financial mercenary and prove he’s worthy of it.”
“He’s got a lot to lose then. He could be the blackmailer, too.”
Simon nodded, and they returned to their investigation. They had read through the entire site and were just about to quit, when Liz saw Gregory Gilmartin’s name.
“I’d forgotten about Gilmartin Enterprises’ merger with Tierney Aviation. But then, it’s already been approved in the United States by the SEC. I had no idea the EU had to okay it, too. Both are American companies. Why is Europe involved?”
“Because both do serious business here,” he said, “so SEC approval isn’t enough. Our Competition Commission isn’t like your SEC—it can’t break up companies that abuse their market power, and it can’t force them to divest. Once a merger’s approved, the commission has little recourse to stop monopoly. Its real control is beforehand, so that’s why it investigates, no matter what the SEC has said. Then Santarosa decides.”
“This merger’s colossal. A forty-billion-dollar coup. It’s so big, it’ll make Gilmartin-Tierney one of the largest multinationals in the world and skyrocket Gregory Gilmartin’s reputation ahead of his father’s and grandfather’s. I recall reading that they were legendary, but he’s been a corporate wallflower so far.”
Simon sat back and stretched. “So now we know the bad news—four of the Coil have reason to blackmail Santarosa. No clear-cut answer, dammit.”
“I
t’s surprising so many have actions waiting for his decision. Still, I imagine it’s impossible to conduct international business these days without stumbling into regulatory agencies.”
“You’re right. Globalization’s all about free trade, so corporations can move money, factories, and investments anywhere in the world to find the cheapest labor and materials, the most lucrative markets, and the best tax shelters. So every time they cross a border, they risk new rules and regulations. Part of the fallout from that is international trade agreements are destroying the ability of governments to govern. In fact, they’re becoming subsidiaries to financial markets…to bonds and stocks and investments, not to what people need.”
“You mean food and shelter.”
“Yes, and clean water and an education. The EU’s fighting to control corporations, but as long as profit is capitalism’s primary goal, multinationals will keep striving for it, and they’ll continue to run afoul of the Competition Commission. In the end—unless globalization becomes less about wealth—I think the multinationals will win.”
“And the public will lose. That’s depressing as hell,” she said.
“The only progress we made here was to eliminate Brookshire, because he’s a politician. Naturally, he’s the only one with no deals pending before Santarosa.” He studied her. “You’ve been sitting here nearly two hours. Want to take a break while I look into Dreftbury?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
At the espresso bar, she ordered two regular coffees while a windblown CNN reporter on location in Glasgow listed the attendees expected at the G8 on Monday. When Liz returned to the terminal with the coffee, Simon had not moved, but four sheets of paper lay on the table beside him, facedown.
“Thanks.” He took his coffee. “What do you remember about Dreftbury?”
She sat. “The resort is beautiful—rolling hills, trees, and links golf courses. The hotel’s on a high knoll, built on the remains of a castle. There’s a long drive leading up to it, very dramatic. You can see the hotel and parts of the golf courses from the road.”
“That helps.” He turned over four printouts. Across the top of the first page was the announcement:
THE DREFTBURY HOTEL, GOLF LINKS, AND SPA
A LUXURY RESORT
RENOWNED FOR ITS OPEN CHAMPIONSHIP TOURNAMENTS
He arranged the four pages to form a rectangle. “Here’s a map of the grounds. It’s big—nearly eight hundred acres.” The central hotel had two arms reaching back and jutting around to form something of an upside-down pi—p, plus there were several outbuildings, as well as roads, trails, and areas for other sports.
With a finger, she traced an arm of land that jutted into the sea. “One of the links extends over this peninsula. The cliffs are high and sheer, and in some places there’s almost no beach. I remember Mom and I tried to go wading, but there was no way.”
Woods encircled the perimeter of the vast property and made occasional sorties onto the grounds. Dreftbury was bookended by the sea and the highway, which ran from Ballantrae and Loch Ryan in the south to Troon and Symington in the north.
“I couldn’t find any information about who’s staying in which room.” He pointed. “But here’s the main entrance from the road, and here’s the service entrance. As I said, security will be heavy—local constabulary and probably Glasgow police and Scotland Yard, too, and of course a private company. Dreftbury could be a target of choice for terrorists this weekend, which means MI5 will be there as well. We can count on the grounds being completely patrolled. Entering won’t be easy, even for us.”
With a chill, she nodded. “I know. It’s brains and cunning all the way.”
“Let’s get out of here. We’ve got to create the movie of our lives.”
Forty-Seven
Somewhere in Northern Europe
Sarah awoke with a start, although the noise of surf rhythmically pounding rocks had softened, which meant it was probably low tide. Morning light slanted down through the barred windows, coloring the air dusky rose as it illuminated the walls, floor, and ceiling, all of which were built of red sandstone blocks that looked centuries old. Restless, worried, she eased away from Asher, who seemed to have slept soundly once he was warm. She walked around their prison, looking for a way to escape, but the sandstone blocks appeared solid.
She was examining the door, which was heavy, ironbound wood, when she heard the metallic screech of a bolt being pulled. She stepped back quickly, and the door opened. Standing there was one of the men from last night. He held an AK-47 rifle in one hand and thrust a paper sack forward with the other. Beyond him was a narrow stone corridor with a low ceiling, typical of medieval castles.
“Sandwiches.” He gave the room only a perfunctory scan.
She kept her gaze casual as she studied him. His brows were thick, and his face lopsided. His expression radiated boredom. He held the rifle loosely. A cell dangled in a leather case from his belt.
“Thanks,” she tried. “Is it a nice morning?”
He stared at her as if she were out of her mind and stepped back.
“Hey,” she objected, “is this all? We’re hungry.”
“Eat or not.” He swung the door closed, and the bolt slid home.
“Food?” Asher inquired from the cot. He sat up.
His voice was stronger than last night. Even from across the cell, his eyes looked clear. His curly black hair was crazed, but his coloring was normal. He sat with his feet firmly on the floor, his back erect. He looked fine, except for tightness around his jaw and eyes. Dappled sunlight from the high windows played across his hawklike face.
She sat on the cot beside him, and they ate cold egg and bacon sandwiches and shared a bottle of water. Ever since the guard had arrived with food, she had been mulling a plan. “I might see a way out of here, but do you feel well enough to help? It’d involve a fight.”
Asher’s eyes hardened into black agates. “Talk to me.”
“We need a big, sharp rock. Something that looks menacing. When the guard comes back, you stand with the rock raised, as if you’re going to attack. Since they seem to want to keep us alive—for a while at least—his first response should be to knock you down, probably with his rifle. So you’ll be far enough away that he’ll have to run at you. That’s where I come in. I’ll be flat against the wall, beside the door. When he blasts through, I’ll kick the rifle out of his hands. You grab it while he goes for me.”
Asher’s face fell. “Holy heaven, Sarah. What makes you think a plan that simple has a chance?”
“The guard does. He’s bored out of his skull. He’s going through the motions because he thinks we’re no threat.”
Asher considered the idea. “Among the top risks are that his orders have changed, or that you can’t actually hit the rifle hard enough to make him let go. Are you sure you’re still good enough at karate to pull this off? I mean, it’s been a long time.”
She said coolly, “I do more than research and write while you’re gallivanting around the world.”
He decided saying no more was wise, since his absences were a sore point with her. He felt a twinge of guilt, because he should have known about the karate. He looked across at her. Her face was streaked with dirt, and she had that pissed expression that meant no quarter given. He had always liked that about her.
He was just about to mention it, when she said, “Plus, there’s the issue of whether you’re strong enough. Because even if my plan works, we still have to get out of whatever this place is, and that may mean running.”
Asher nodded. “I can ignore the pain.”
“Unless it gets so bad you pass out.”
“Not going to happen,” he assured her.
But both knew it could. Still, they had no other options. They finished eating and went to work, checking the walls for a loose rock large enough to make the guard react.
By afternoon, sunlight warmed their stone cell, and the briny scent of the sea filled the air. Sarah had found two crack
ed blocks of stone, but neither she nor Asher had been able to pry them from the wall. There was nothing in the room to help them, and the guard might return any moment.
“I’ve been thinking carefully about this,” Asher announced. “I believe we’re not in Elsinore. Personally, I believe we’re in Scotland, on the coast.”
“Good heavens, why?” She sat back on her heels and stared. He often did this to her—surprised her with deductions, without bothering to explain first.
“Couple of reasons. First, people are playing golf out there. I’ve heard some snatches of conversation. Golf is Scotland’s national sport. Second, we weren’t in the air long enough to go anywhere far. And third”—he grimaced, trying to explain—“this place feels like Scotland. Rain in the air. A scent of heather. The pounding sea. High cliffs. A streak of coldness even though it’s July. And then there’s this old castle—Scotland’s full of them. Of course, I could be wrong.”
But she could tell he did not think he was. The best agents had what was unscientifically called gut. Using a combination of experience, genes, and boldness, they sensed or intuited answers or actions that often turned out to be uncannily correct.
“You’re probably right,” she decided. “But I don’t see how that helps us.”
“Yeah. I was afraid of that.” He was just about to predict a rainstorm, when there was another voice outdoors, but this was near enough to be almost clear.
She lifted her head. “You hear him?”
“It sounds like the guy who drove us from the plane last night.”
“Malko. Can you make out what he’s saying?”
“No. I—”
She ran to the cot they had not used. It had a welded metal frame, with stained canvas stretched across. She propped it against the wall at about a thirty-degree angle.
“Come here and brace it, will you?”
“Sure.” He was there in an instant.
As he leaned into the cot, holding it in place, she hurried to the other wall, ran back, and scrambled up to the window, where she grabbed the bars and tucked her feet between the canvas and the frame.
