The Coil

by Gayle Lynds

  “Is that the wisdom of Professor Sansborough?”

  “Actually, it’s from Martin Luther King Jr. Of course, I’m paraphrasing. But look at the faces of the agitators and then at the cops. Look at their body language. They’re mirror images of one another, seething with moral outrage.”

  “So if it’s really senseless, why do people riot?” Simon scanned security and the demonstrators. That was when he spotted Johann Jozef, Viera’s brother. Burly, not quite six feet tall, he held aloft a placard in English:

  MAKE THE GLOBAL ECONOMY WORK

  FOR THE PEOPLE WHO DO THE WORK!

  Johann’s face was twisted with anger. Sorrow showed in new crevices around his mouth. On his chest, he wore a plastic badge that displayed a photo of Viera, smiling. Simon’s breath caught in his throat.

  “A lot of it is herd mentality,” she said. “The power of the mob. But it’s also because they feel as if they have to do something. It’s like when some mentally ill people bang their heads against a wall or bite themselves. They desperately need to feel something, anything. The catharsis of feeling something. Naturally, people who are trying to right a wrong or improve a situation grow frustrated. And they may never get what they ask, and maybe they shouldn’t. The danger comes in a situation like this, when there are so many of them. The frustration of not being heard grows, the tension multiplies, something happens, and they riot. They get their catharsis, even though it’s not the way they want it. After that, there’s a lull. Then the tension can build again.”

  “That’s depressing as hell.”

  She peered up at him and adjusted her sunglasses. “What’s happened? You’ve seen someone, haven’t you?”

  “Viera’s brother is here.” He described Johann and turned away. To look at anyone long enough invited them to look back. He doubted Johann would recognize him in his disguise, but he could take no chance.

  “He’s furious,” she decided.

  “Viera martyred herself, and already she’s off the front pages. Maybe he’s beginning to comprehend that you’ve got to stay alive to make a difference.”

  As Liz and Simon approached Dreftbury’s swank entrance gates, a security man inspected luggage in the trunk of a limo while another stood at the driver’s open window, matching passports to a list of invitees. A Doberman pulled his handler around the car, sniffing tires and the undercarriage.

  Across the road, the chants and shouts of the protesters grew louder, more urgent, and the breakouts through police lines became bolder and more frequent. Troubled, Simon studied the chaos. As if to reflect the violent mood, the threat of rain filled the air, rising above the stink of diesel fumes, the clouds burgeoning into huge thunderheads. He remembered a saying: In Scotland, it’s either raining, or it’s just rained, or it’s about to.

  “There’s our man.” Liz kept her expression neutral. “You have my cell number memorized?”

  “I do. You remember mine?”

  She nodded, visualizing her Glock, packed at the top of her shoulder bag within easy reach. Simon wore his Beretta in a holster under his jacket, while the Uzi was zipped into the gym bag. The prepaid cells were their way to communicate.

  Simon gave a single nod. As they expected, an MI5 man was inside the gate and off to the side, inconspicuous, except to those who knew the signs—the casual posture as he leaned against the gatehouse, almost out of sight; the bored look as the sunglasses observed every face and vehicle; the slightly lopsided cut of the jacket, tailored to hide the pistol under his arm; and—above all—the isolation. Security was giving him a wide berth. A mistake. The agent should have told them to act normally, chat him up as if he were one of their own or a civilian.

  Liz’s muscles tensed as a stout guard, Bull Pup rifle cradled in the crook of his arm, turned. He had just cleared one of the limos. As it glided away toward the hotel, she exchanged a quick look with Simon, acknowledging the movie had begun.

  They readied their credentials.

  “May I help you?” There was a weary politeness in the guard’s voice; it had been a long day. But his gaze was sharp as it swept first Simon, then Liz.

  “Indeed you may,” Liz said coolly, the English accent quickly returning.

  They showed their MI6 credentials low and close, where no one else could see.

  “I need to speak with the chap over there,” Simon said, and nodded.

  There was hesitation as the guard weighed the situation.

  Liz did not like that. “Sorry we can’t tell you more,” she said conspiratorially. “You understand.”

  To make sure he got the point, she opened her purse, showing her Glock, as she put away the ID.

  At the same time, Simon pulled back his jacket to return his credentials to an inside pocket, displaying his holstered Beretta.

  That did it. The guard looked from one to the other. He blinked, waved them through, and studiously ignored them, feeling part of something big.

  Liz let out a long stream of air.

  Simon smiled pleasantly as they approached the MI5 man. He put on his best Oxbridge accent: “Need a chat with your chief, old man.”

  MI5 kept his gaze on the gate. “The both of you?”

  “You MI5 nosers need a dose of bloody reality,” Liz snapped indignantly.

  MI5 stiffened just enough for her to know she had made a hairline crack in his enameled superiority. When necessary, even MI5 had to lower itself to work not only with MI6 but with women.

  “Names?” he said. “Invitation numbers?”

  “Kennedy, MI6,” Simon said. “This is Young, MI6. Don’t be tiresome.”

  A long-suffering sigh. “Let’s see, then.”

  They displayed the IDs. After a glance, MI5 returned his attention to the gate and spoke inaudibly into his breast pocket. There was a tiny speaker in his ear.

  “You’ll be met at the hotel,” MI5 said, dismissing them.

  Hiding her relief, Liz nodded as if thanking a doorman. They climbed the drive, passing golf links and immaculate topiary bushes. Armed guards strolled the paths.

  “I thought that went well.” She brushed sweat from her forehead.

  “One more to go.”

  At the top, a woman with a clenched jaw was waiting, hands on hips. She wore the blue jacket and Dreftbury crest of a golf pro, but in her ear was another tiny speaker.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” she demanded, glaring.

  “Antiglobalization beat,” Simon said kindly. “Wire-snooping and electronics.”

  Liz explained, “HQ sent a few more of us than needed to watch the chaps down on the road. Chief thought we should offer assistance.”

  “Well, well.” MI5 was pleased to take advantage of MI6’s disorganization. “My lucky day. You nanny our phone and electronics setup, and I can move mine onto regular security. MI6 to the rescue, eh?”

  She described the monitoring closet and handed them green badges, indicating security. Every chief of detail always needed extra agents, and no one liked to be stuck in a tiny room doing surveillance all day. They had counted on that. While Liz went to look for Santarosa, Simon would report to the wiretap center to find out Santarosa’s room number as well as the room numbers of every member of the Coil.

  Forty-Nine

  “A tunnel?” Sarah peered into the dark space in the prison wall where Asher had pulled out the chunk of red sandstone.

  “Yup. Sure looks like it,” Asher said.

  There was a passage about three feet high, with a trace of dusky light far ahead. She removed the rest of the broken block and tugged out three whole ones. To annoy the guards, she stacked the heavy blocks in front of the door.

  “I’ll go first,” she told him. “We don’t know what’s ahead.”

  “You’ve got claustrophobia.”

  “That makes it all the more interesting. You’re feeling better, but there’s no shame in saying no. That first piece of rock you pulled out has a sharp point that’ll get their attention. We can go back to
my original idea.”

  “I adore you, Sarah. You’re the love of my life. But I don’t believe in heaven, so we’ve got to get out of this mess alive. This is a better shot.”

  She nodded, took a deep breath, and stuck her head and shoulders into the opening. The stink of dirt and mold assaulted her, and her chest tightened. You can do this. She crept inside, focusing on the dim light ahead, and put one hand, then the other, in front of her. As she forced herself to leave the cell behind, the rough walls of the tunnel seemed to squeeze around her. Breathe. Crawl. Breathe. Crawl.

  Within two minutes, she heard Asher follow. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Never better.” But his voice was strained.

  At last, the illumination increased, the tunnel curved, and she saw a spattering of sun rays. There was a whiff of fresh ocean air. She inhaled, grateful.

  Asher smelled it, too. “Maybe there is a heaven.”

  Excited, she crawled faster. The tunnel narrowed, but the light beckoned. As she neared the end, she saw a small boulder blocked the opening, but sunshine trickled in around it, plant roots acting like sieves. She listened for voices or other sounds that would tell her someone was nearby. Birds sang. Insects buzzed.

  Asher was breathing right behind her. “I’m here.”

  “Pain bad?”

  “It’s tolerable.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay, you stay where you are.”

  She broke off small roots and scooped away dirt. When she had cleared an opening about six inches wide next to the boulder, she peered out. They were on a grassy slope dotted with bushes, just steep enough she did not want to risk losing control of the boulder and drawing attention to them. She hesitated, realizing that as soon as they left here, they would be on the run. Hunted. She had a hollow feeling, as if they had come full circle, back to the sort of irreconcilable danger that had brought them together in the first place.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “Wonderful.”

  She rotated on her butt and used her feet to push dirt until she made a hole about two feet wide and high. Immediately, she slithered out, gulping fresh air, and rose into a crouch. Dark clouds gusted across the sky, filtering ominous light down onto the land.

  She was on a bank to the side and below their two barred windows. As it turned out, their cell was partially underground, probably once part of a medieval cellar. The rest of the stone walls vanished into the slope. Atop was a modern building, no more than a century old. Very large, with white walls and a red-tile roof and another wing that also jutted toward the sea on the north side, closest to the cliffs. Where they were appeared to be a little-used area of the property.

  Warily, she studied the structure directly above. There was a solid line of reflecting windows on the first floor—an indoor pool? On the three floors above were regular windows that stared out like vacant eyes. Fortunately, she was so close to the wall she would be difficult to see, if anyone was looking.

  “Sarah?” His questioning whisper seemed to float toward her from far away.

  “You can come out now.” She moved aside and described the terrain.

  He grunted and wriggled through. But he was wider than she, and his shoulder grazed the boulder. It rolled. Pulse pounding, she threw herself onto it, but it hurtled away, carrying her. She fell off, a sharp ache in her chest. Pulled by gravity, it sped down the decline, bouncing with increasing speed.

  In seconds, Asher was hunched beside her. “Goddammit.” He watched as it crashed through bushes. “Sorry. You all right?”

  “Fine. Just pissed that I couldn’t stop it.” She pulled herself up onto her heels.

  Tensed, they waited as the boulder noisily thumped and rolled. Birds stopped singing. The land fell silent. Finally, it slammed into a thicket of gorse and stopped. The sudden quiet filled her ears. They stared at each other and waited. Still, there was no sign anyone had heard or was yet aware of what they were doing.

  She jumped up. “I heard car engines around to the left. I feel inspired to escape. Are you well enough to do some hot-wiring?” She offered her hand.

  He took it and climbed to his feet. “Does a fox lick its paw?” He looked gravely into her eyes. “They haven’t got us yet.”

  “And they won’t.” She hurried around the corner and onto a flagstone walk that skirted the south wing.

  As she rounded another corner, she stopped, stunned, and quickly darted behind a large topiary bush shaped like an elephant. She peered out again. At a port cochere, uniformed hotel ambassadors offered white-gloved hands to passengers climbing out of backseats, while above the drive, men and women in expensive clothes, drinks in hand, peered over a balustrade. Sarah followed their gazes down to a road, where a protest was in full progress. Shouts and voices amplified by bullhorns drifted up the hill toward her.

  When Asher caught up, he was holding a fist-sized rock and panting. He had that determined expression that could turn deadly in an instant. His black eyes widened as he took in the sight. “Where the hell—”

  “Shh. Listen.” She pointed above them, indicating two men who had just leaned over, apparently to see the demonstration better.

  “Do they have any idea what they’re screaming about?” asked one. “A clue? Even half a brain?” Impatient, irritated, he spoke with a sharp Chicago accent as he slung his suit jacket over his shoulder. He drank his martini.

  His companion explained, “Alas, they are deluded. To them, we are the destroyers of nations.” His accent was French. He wore a golf shirt and immaculate linen slacks and sipped from a highball glass.

  The first man snorted. “Is that it? Fools. Fifty years ago, there were only seventy countries. Now there are more than two hundred. Does that sound like we’re destroying nations?”

  “You know what is said about leaders. When one is out in front of the herd, the view is better. The problem is, one’s back is rather exposed.”

  The two men laughed.

  “It is good to see you, Walter,” the second said. “Must we reserve these reunions only for Nautilus?”

  As the pair moved back out of range, Asher stared at Sarah.

  “Nautilus?” Asher said. “Do you know about Nautilus?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Oh, man. Oh, man. This is something. Really something. Serious. How did we end up here? Somebody in Nautilus must have the files!”

  “What in heaven’s name is Nautilus?” Sarah asked.

  But Asher had already moved on. “Okay, this does make sense. We would’ve been brought here if the guy with the files is a player. Nautilus always meets someplace that’s owned or controlled by a member or by a government friendly to Nautilus, so they can dictate security.” His head turned, studying, remembering. “According to the hotel uniforms, we’re at Dreftbury. That’s a hotshot resort, not a government place. And that means someone in Nautilus owns it, or one of his or her companies does.”

  “I give up about Nautilus. You can explain it later. But if the files are involved, and we’re here, then it seems to me something major is about to happen.”

  “It won’t be here,” he reminded her. “In Alloway. Remember, Malko said Alloway. That’s inland, near Ayr. We need to get to Alloway.”

  “You’re probably right, but how? The security here is in overkill. There’s no way we can steal a car. Plus, we’ve got no ID, and we look more like terrorists than we do like trustworthy people. No one’s going to believe us.”

  Dirt streaked her crumpled trousers and shirt and tailored jacket. He badly needed a shave. His beard grew in so fast that his jaw was the color of tar.

  As she dusted herself off, he contemplated his grimy sweatpants.

  “If we had a cell, you could call Langley,” she told him. “I’m going inside to steal one. Don’t let anyone see you. The way you look, they’ll arrest you in a heartbeat.”

  “Yeah,” he said morosely. “You’re right.” Then with a sudden movement, he pulled her close and kissed her. “Be care
ful. I don’t want to lose you again.”

  Enormous and elegant, the hotel lobby gave off a hushed air of privilege. As Simon vanished into the north corridor, carrying his gym bag, Liz repressed a profound sense of peril. She wiped all expression from her face, took off her sunglasses, put on Sarah’s glasses, and stiffened her spine as she stepped back against a wall, hoping that the blackmailer was not already in some back room with Santarosa. And that she and Simon would not be found out either by the killers who worked for the Coil or those employed by the blackmailer.

  But when people sauntered past and caught sight of her security badge, they looked through her or away from her. Good. With luck, she was now officially invisible, to attendees at least.

  She surveyed the lobby. The Venetian chandeliers and French parquet floor gleamed. Registration clerks wore starched uniforms in the colors of Scotland’s saltire flag, the oldest in Europe—white on azure blue. Across the expanse, guests sporting midnight blue badges lounged on settees around generous coffee tables, where drinks in handblown glasses and goblets caught the sunlight that streamed in through tall French doors, fading and brightening as dark clouds rolled past. At opposite ends of the lobby were the two corridors that extended into the north and south wings, where she remembered elevators, meeting rooms, guest rooms, banquet rooms, the spa, and assorted other opportunities for edification and relaxation—and ambush.

  Oriented, she gazed at the faces around her, instantly recognizing most. There were tycoons and statesmen, presidents and generals, just as Simon had said. But no Carlo Santarosa. Excitement swept through her as she spotted Richmond Hornish, the powerful financier, and Gregory Gilmartin, the construction czar, in intimate conversation at a distant window. She waited another minute. When neither looked up, she moved to the Balmoral Café and surveyed the sprinkling of people drinking coffee and eating snacks.

  “Think of this as a retreat,” Leslie Cheward, the Canadian who ran the largest shipbuilding firm in the world, was explaining to the new president of Sweden. “Nautilus provides a rare chance to exchange information and ideas without having to censor ourselves. If that seems exclusive, so be it. Would you rather we met on either side of a battlefield with automatic weapons in our hands and war on our minds?”