by Gayle Lynds
When she did not see Santarosa, she hurried to a hand-lettered sign that related the weekend’s events. There was an opening banquet at eight o’clock tonight, with an after-dinner talk by software king Bob Lord about investing in electronics. On Saturday and Sunday, seminars began at 7:30 A.M. and did not finish until 10:30 P.M., with one-hour breaks for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Topics were serious—Turkey’s role in the Middle East, Asia’s poor economy, the effects of NATO expansion, state-sponsored terrorism versus freewheeling terrorism, that sort of thing. Whatever else they were, Nautilus attendees appeared to be here to work.
Her face neutral, she crossed the lobby to the wood-paneled Culzean Bar. Staff with orange badges hurried past on errands. Inside, drinkers complained about the demonstration. Again, no Santarosa. He was not on the veranda either or inside the gift shop. Kilts hung in the window and from display racks.
She opened the door to leave, again worrying they had missed the blackmailer’s dirty work. And stepped back. For a moment, she had a sense of utter dread: Malko was skirting the lobby, walking with quiet purpose, almost unnoticeable. Mid-thirties, dressed in a gray suit, he wore a green security badge like hers.
But Malko could lead her straight to the blackmailer. She slid her hand into her bag and clutched her Glock. When he turned into the south corridor, she followed.
On the wall behind the registration desk hung two oval mirrors in ornate gold frames. Each offered one-way viewing. In the office on the other side, César Duchesne received reports and monitored a tracking device as he secretly observed the lobby. Liz Sansborough’s disguise was good. With her gray hair brushed severely back, she looked like a guard from some high-security prison. He admired her chameleon qualities. It had taken him nearly five minutes to make her. He checked the Walther in his holster, gave a grim smile, and slipped out the door.
Fifty
After carefully checking the corridor, Simon entered a utility closet, where an MI5 agent sat hunched over a computer, earphones on, listening in on the hotel’s phone lines and extensions. MI5 looked up instantly, hand on the weapon on his hip, but Simon already had his credentials out. One swift look, and MI5 was back at work.
A cable from his computer hooked into a multicolored bundle of cables that ran through a metal box on the wall. The oversize green screen displayed a grid of two hundred white squares. Inside each was a room or office number and the surname of the occupant. As the counterespionage agent listened to the conversations, the hot-button software silently searched all lines for words like gun, weapon, and kill in more than a hundred languages. If the software—called BlackWash—found any, the miniature printer would spew out pertinent information—phone numbers, locations, a transcript—while the computer stored everything, including the audio, on its hard drive.
Three squares flared fiery red. MI5 immediately touched one, listened, and it turned yellow. He touched the second, again listened, and it, too, turned yellow. He touched the third, with the same result. He was scouting for threatening tones of voice or nonsense conversations that might indicate coded messages.
He looked up. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“Ready for a break?”
MI5 might dislike MI6, but not this time. He stood. “You know how to handle the equipment?”
“Absolutely.”
Without a backward glance, he hurried out, and Simon sat and ordered the software to print the room plan. On his way to relieve the MI5 technician, he had stopped at the reception desk and learned all members of the Coil had arrived, each late because of the turmoil. Santarosa had shown up less than a half hour ago. Simon put on the headphones and touched a new red light. “…at table seven tonight,” a man’s voice said in German. “Kroner will be there, too. Let’s catch a drink….”
Simon disconnected and studied the squares on the screen, quickly identifying the rooms of Commissioner Santarosa and the Coil—Brookshire, Hornish, Inglethorpe, Menchen, and Gilmartin. None was alight. Disappointed, he dialed Santarosa’s room.
An annoyed voice said, “Santarosa.”
“Oh, so sorry, old man,” Simon said innocently. “Seems I have the wrong room.”
The receiver slammed down in his ear. Carlo Santarosa was angry, edgy about something. An appointment with a blackmailer perhaps? Or since the blackmailer was unlikely to tip his hand until face-to-face, just an appointment with a man he did not want to meet because he intended to turn him down?
He dialed Brookshire’s room. This time, he broke the connection the moment the receiver was lifted. He dialed Hornish next.
Tense, jumpy, Sarah moved quietly along the south hall, dodging people as they appeared from meeting rooms and offices and what looked like a distant lobby. She recognized three—NATO’s supreme allied commander, the new female head of Germany’s powerhouse Bundesbank, and the extraordinarily wealthy prime minister of Italy, who was also the current EU president. All were accompanied by assistants and were deep in conversation. She stared after them, wondering again what Nautilus was.
But that would have to wait. As soon as she found a bathroom, she washed up and used the cloth towels to damp-mop her clothes. Then she was off again, listening at doors, opening them when there was no sound, and gliding inside to check desks, tables, and chairs, looking for a cell, fighting discouragement. Surely someone had left one behind somewhere.
In a windowless staff room, she worked her way down the row of employee lockers. No cells, and one locker was locked. What the hell. She used a butter knife to jimmy it. On the shelf were paperbacks, candy, toiletries, condoms, and cigarettes, but no phone. There was a man’s shirt and sports jacket, too. She felt the pockets. Empty. But when she moved the jacket, she saw a belt hanging from the same hook. She stared. Attached to the belt was a holster encasing a big Colt .45. Unbelievable. Wonderful! But not loaded.
She checked it—recently cleaned and oiled. She rummaged through the bottom of the locker, found a box of ammo, loaded the cannon, and raced back to check the rest of the lockers. When she came upon a padded cloth bag full of knitting yarn and needles, she dumped out half and lay the Colt inside.
And paused for a few seconds to marvel that something good had happened. But she still needed a cell.
At the door, she listened. Another door was closing. She opened hers a few inches. It was the guard with the AK-47, the one who had brought them sandwiches. Her heart leaped with hope: His cell still dangled from his belt. She took out the Colt, waited for him to pass, and prowled after. He was heading around toward the rear, where the corridor paralleled the wing and then angled back to the main hall.
She had been there already. As he disappeared around the corner, she broke into a quiet run, warily following.
At the same time, Liz headed into the south corridor, which turned out to be a discouraging thicket of meeting rooms and offices off side hallways. Predatory, almost invisible, Malko drifted past a stand of wooden telephone booths and crossed to a side hallway. As he vanished, Liz’s heart seemed to stop. She did not want to lose him. She yanked out her Glock and ran. At the corner, she paused, weapon extended, and slid around.
He was gone again. But where? She strained to listen, heard footsteps ahead. A door closed somewhere. Pulse accelerating, she sprinted to the corner. Again she raised her weapon in both hands and rolled around into the next hall.
And froze. Fear shot through her, and her temples throbbed as she stared into the barrel of a huge Colt .45.
Then she saw who held it. Her heart soared. “Sarah!” she whispered.
Emotions ricocheted through Liz—relief and excitement and utter amazement. There are moments when time really should stand still. When if the world were fair or even halfway right, you should be able to extend for eternity that surprising sense of the miraculous, coupled with inordinate gratitude. Sarah was alive, and, somehow, she was here.
Liz drank in the sight of her. “My God, Sarah. I could’ve shot you!”
“Liz? Is that you?�
�
Sarah stared at the gray hair, the lined face. But the voice was right. So were the eyes and the shape of the face. The last three days swept over her, the maddening frustration and bottomless fear…the sight of Liz in the warehouse, the agony on her face…and, later, the worry Liz would be destroyed by the forces that had been manipulating Asher and her.
She found herself grinning, saying irrelevantly, “You’re wearing my computer glasses!”
They smiled deeply into each other’s eyes, acknowledging in only a few seconds one of those natural friendships that was impossible to articulate and the love and trust that bound them.
Then they remembered where they were. What they were doing. Both looked quickly up and down the corridor.
“Let’s get out of sight so we can talk!” Sarah said quickly.
Liz was already listening at the door to the next room. She nodded and opened it slowly. As soon as she peered inside, her Glock came up.
Looking over Liz’s shoulder, Sarah saw the bored guard with the thick brows and irregular face. He had found an empty conference room in which to relax and was pulling out a chair, Hustler magazine thrown onto the table next to his rifle.
He scowled. “What are—”
And noticed Sarah. He grabbed for his AK-47. A gunshot would bring security instantly. Liz dropped her shoulder bag, ran straight at him, and delivered a stunningly fast mo-rote-zuki two-handed punch to the chest. He staggered back but hoisted the Kalashnikov, forcing Liz to stop.
Desperate, Sarah leaped onto the desk. As he swiveled to face this new threat, she shot a mae-geri snap kick to his chin. His head cracked back, and he toppled against a side table. In an instant, Liz was there. She supported him so he would collapse quietly to the carpet, unconscious.
“That was close,” Sarah breathed.
Liz snapped up his weapon. “I’ll say. You know him?”
Sarah jumped down. “He’s the reason I had the Colt aimed when you and I ran into each other.” She described the guard’s role in the prison in which Asher and she had been held under the hotel.
“Asher’s here, too? Thank God!”
Sarah unsnapped the guard’s leather pouch and removed the cell. “He’s hiding out front, waiting for me. This is what I wanted.” She held it up. “Asher’s going to phone Langley for help.” She turned it over and swore. The keyboard was cracked.
“He must’ve crushed it when he landed against the table.”
Two pieces fell into Sarah’s hand. “Damn! Do you have one I can borrow?”
“Yes. Let’s take care of this guy before he wakes up, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Good. And you can tell me what in God’s name is going on. I don’t know much more than it’s about your father’s files.”
As Liz quickly filled her in about Santa Barbara, Simon Childs, Nautilus, the Coil, and the blackmailer, they stripped off the cords that held back the drapes on the two windows and tied the guard. While Sarah described her captivity with Asher, she and Liz used a scarf from Liz’s shoulder bag to gag the man.
“Langley must have someone here undercover,” Liz said, “considering the history with Nautilus and the high level of the attendees. Thank God, because Langley will listen to Asher, and we need help. You mentioned Malko brought you here. He’s the one I was looking for when you and I met. I’d hoped he’d lead me to the blackmailer.”
“Now I know why he wanted to keep us alive—in case he needed us as a weapon against you and Simon. I overheard a conversation he had with his boss. It may make sense to you.” She repeated it.
“Alloway?” Liz said. “That’s definitely what Malko said?”
“Yes. He was making preparations for something important in Alloway. If you’re right about Santarosa, maybe the blackmailer plans to meet him there.”
“But it doesn’t make sense. Too far away. Too inconvenient. Why go to all that trouble when both men are here already?” Liz closed her eyes. Where had she seen that name? In her mind, she was back in the lobby, studying the schedule of seminars. They were held in rooms with the names of Scottish places, villages, inns. “The Alloway Room. That’s it!” She pulled out her cell and dialed.
“Where the deuce have you been, Liz! I’ve been trying to call—”
“I turned off my cell because I was following Malko.”
“You tracked him? Now that has possibilities! And?”
“I lost him, but I have better news. Sarah and Asher are not only alive, they’re here. In fact, I’m with Sarah now. Asher’s going to phone Langley, so with luck, we’ll have help in unmasking these bastards. She overheard Malko phoning his boss. It sounds as if Malko’s made some kind of special preparation to meet in Alloway, but I doubt he meant the town. Unless you’ve got better intel, my guess is the blackmailer’s setting up the meet with Santarosa in the Alloway Room.”
“Damn impressive. Tell Sarah thanks. On my end, I can report Santarosa’s still in his suite, or he was ten minutes ago. He’s been here in the hotel not quite an hour, so I doubt he’s had any meetings yet.”
“Where are the Coil members?”
“Not in their rooms. Except Brookshire. Hold on just a minute…. Yes, I see there’s a schedule here, as well as a map. Okay, the room next to the Alloway is the Tam o’Shanter. Nothing’s programmed for either place tonight. I’ll set up a listening post in the Tam o’Shanter, so you and I can make sure we’ve got the blackmailer in the Alloway and not just some poor sod who’s stumbled into the wrong room.”
“Give me directions. We’d better get there damn fast.”
Sarah and Liz quickly dumped the unconscious guard in a linen closet Sarah had found during her search for a cell. As Liz hurried off to meet Simon, Sarah took Liz’s cell and headed in the opposite direction, toward the side door that would take her outdoors to Asher and his all-important call to Langley. But as she moved down the hall, Malko stepped from an office. His head turned left and right. Heart thumping, she darted into a writing room.
When she peered out again, Malko was prowling off to where the corridor dead-ended. Were she and Liz wrong? Was the blackmailer here, not in the other wing, waiting in the Alloway Room?
As Malko disappeared, she sprinted after, troubled. The wing ended in a T, where there was a glassed-in swimming pool and spa. When she reached it, there was no sign of him. The aromas of expensive massage lotions and suntan oils drifted through the air. She approached the glass carefully. The pool was Olympic-size, with diving boards at the far end. More important, the entire area was empty, although a gentle ripple ruffled the water’s perfect blue surface.
The Colt felt heavy in her hands. She raised it, reminding herself to keep her legs springy, her walk even and stable. She advanced along the windows, studying the water. It smoothed slowly, the surface growing glassy. Something had caused that ripple. Something like a rush of air from a door’s rapid opening and closing.
Worry crowded her. She had not fired a gun in years—not since Bremner….
She stopped the thought and opened the door. Chlorine-tinged air enveloped her. She stepped inside and pulled the door closed silently. The pool’s surface crinkled again, but less this time. To her far right, steam rose from a hot tub.
To her left past the diving boards and beyond another glass wall were elliptical trainers, stationary bicycles, and treadmills, all lined up like oversize toy soldiers. She could see no one inside. On that wall were three doors—one into the exercise room, one labeled STEAM ROOM, and the third labeled OFFICE.
If Malko had come this way, he must be inside one of them. The office seemed most likely. She fervently hoped he was there with his boss, and that she would either recognize him or hear something to identify him. She padded forward, tight with tension. At the exercise room, she peered carefully through the glass windows. Empty. And stepped toward the steam room. There was a glass oval in the door. She looked through. The steam was not on; the air clear. The wood benches were deserted.
That left th
e office. She gripped the doorknob and turned. Locked. Where—?
“How nice we should meet again.” It was Malko, behind her.
She froze, listening to the door of the steam room swing back into place. Cursing herself, she realized he must have been hiding directly beneath the glass oval, where she would not spot him—unless she opened the door.
She thought all this in a flash, heard his voice, and reacted.
“Put down your weap—” he began.
She whirled, stepped forward, and slashed up her foot in another mae-geri kick aimed at his chin. He dodged, rebalanced, and shot a side-thrust kick into her shoulder that sent her spinning across the floor and told her she was greatly outmatched.
He ran after and swept up her weapon. She jumped back up. Too late. He kicked again, this time connecting with her chin as a blinding flash of lightning illuminated the pool and a loud burst of thunder cracked the air.
Her neck snapped. Black pain radiated through her entire body. She pitched sideways into the cold hard softness of water. Enveloping her. Choking blackness surrounding her as thunder rolled and exploded again, sundering the heavens.
The summer rainsquall poured down as Asher crouched in the thick cover of the topiary bush. Soaked, he glanced at his watch, wondering what was taking Sarah so long, worrying about her.
Three times, he had been forced to burrow deeper into cover as private security passed uncomfortably close. Now as the thunder and lightning split the boiling black clouds, the noise from the protesters suddenly seemed to turn ugly. Asher peered cautiously out from the sodden topiary elephant and down at the distant road. The giant fuchsia balloon in the shape of a pig whipped and twisted in the wind, looking more like a feeble, frightened piglet. Despite wrapping themselves in sheets of plastic, the activists were drenched, and their faces were taking on an angrier look.
