The Coil (13 page)

“How does the blackmailer contact you?”

“First, it was a whispering voice on my cell. Unrecognizable, naturally. The second time, just this morning, it was secured e-mail on my home computer. The prick had sent me what looked like actual entries from the Carnivore's records, covering everything from when I'd first hired him to when he hung Tebaldi under the bridge.”

“Did you save the e-mail?”

“Are you mad? Of course not!”

“What did the blackmailer want?”

Terrill sighed heavily. “For me to go to Italy and take full responsibility for the bank's crimes. It'd be a far lesser sentence than if I were exposed as the man who set up Tebaldi's murder. In exchange, I'd get to keep the money I've earned, and there'd be no mention of my role in Tebaldi's murder.”

“If you're right, the baron could be your blackmailer.”

Terrill's voice was almost lifeless. “Yes, or they're working together somehow. I told you they were going to scapegoat me. My guess is they're arranging things so it'll look as if I were completely responsible for both.” He peered at his watch. “Will you take me to the police station now?”

Simon wanted to walk away and let the self-serving coward find his own fate. Instead, he said, “Of course.” Besides, Terrill's confession would put more pressure on Baron de Darmond and the blackmailer.

They left money on the table and pushed out among the shoppers and tourists. Terrill continued to condemn the baron, the blackmailer, Tebaldi, everyone and anyone but himself.

“I'll tell the authorities everything!” he raged. “The baron will be sorry he—”

They were moving through a mob of tourists off one of the blue-and-white trams, when Terrill's face tensed, and he stopped. His body seemed to shiver. He rose up on his toes and gave a gasp…a raw cough—

Simon stopped with him. “What's wrong, Terrill? Do you feel sick?”

But Terrill said nothing, his eyes wide as he slammed a fist against his chest once.

Simon grabbed him from the side, propping him up. He was a deadweight. Instantly, Simon pressed two fingers against the banker's neck, where his carotid artery was.

There was no pulse. Terrill was dead. In seconds, without warning, with no indication of feeling ill or weak or even uncomfortable, Terrill Leaming had simply coughed, pounded his chest, and died. Still propping him up, Simon scrutinized the throngs, sorting through adults and children, tourists and locals, off for business and shopping, until he focused on the back of a man dressed in a conservative dark suit. He was solid-looking as he walked off. Not hurrying. His step firm. Not looking back.

But what attracted Simon's attention was a black cane with a silver handle that the man gripped in his right hand, holding it out in front of him. As Simon watched, he let the cane slide down through his fingers until the tip touched the ground. At which point, he began using it properly, stepping rhythmically along, the tip tapping the pavement.

Simon dropped the corpse and tore after him. Behind him, he heard a muffled gasp, then a shout in German.

“What's happened?”

“Is he hurt?” someone else called out, also in German.

More shouts followed in other languages. The cries were taken up across the
Platz.

“Stop him!” someone shouted at Simon's fleeing back.

But there was too much confusion—too many people, too many trams, too much fear in the few hands that clutched at Simon—to interrupt his headlong run.

The man with the cane, who should have reacted to the first scream as the rest of the crowd had, made a second mistake. He glanced back. As soon as he saw he was being pursued, he broke into a run.

The tall spire of the Fraumünster Church rose ahead, sharp against the blue Alpine sky. Simon pounded alongside thick traffic heading toward the Münster Bridge over the Limmat River. As horns blasted angrily, the assassin suddenly darted among the vehicles, slapping fenders and dodging with the skill of a star soccer player.

Simon tried to follow, but a pair of bicyclists was pacing him. He dropped back, while the killer landed on the other side of the street. Simon sped after, also banging car fenders to alert drivers to slow as he ducked, dashed, and leaped. On the far side, he brushed past pedestrians and nearly fell over a low stone wall as he sprinted into a narrow medieval alley and pounded north, sweating.

The janitor was in superb shape, running easily, his strides long. But Simon was a runner, too. He was gaining, his lungs pumping air like a giant bellows. He chased him into a tangle of cramped alleys lined with stone houses that looked centuries old. The man dashed around a corner, but when Simon rounded it, the man was gone.

Four alleys met here. Breathing hard, Simon quickly took in the scene. A cat lay in an open doorway, licking its paw. Sitting next to the cat was an old man smoking a cob pipe, his feet on the cobbled intersection. Simon rushed to him, pulling out his wallet, showing euros. The solemn man did not smile. He slowly stuck out a finger, pointing up one of the alleys that disappeared around a bend.

Simon threw the money and raced off. As he wound around the curve, he spotted the assassin at last, this time a distant figure running up a picturesque street overhung by oriels—bay windows. The hill was steep, and he was slowing. But at last Simon knew the man's destination—the Lindenhof. He did not like it.

As he reached the top, the killer looked back again. His eyebrows raised in surprise over his sunglasses. Then he frowned. With renewed vigor, he leaped the last few steps over the crest and disappeared.

But at last, Simon had seen his face: long, closely shaved, sloping cheeks and medium-length dark brown hair, all dominated by military-style sunglasses.

His muscles straining, Simon tore up the hill, flagging, too, as he topped the crest. Panting, he slowed to look. The green, tree-dotted park spread before him, but he did not see the killer. Rimmed on one side with old houses, the Lindenhof overlooked the city in a vast panorama that was favored by walkers and lovers. It was also the oldest part of Zurich, where a Roman outpost once stood.

This was a workday, so few people were here. Beyond a fountain, two elderly women played chess on a gigantic board laid out on the ground. They stood, hands on hips, concentrating, staring down, inching from side to side, oblivious to everything. The kings, queens, and rooks were higher than the women's knees.

Simon was about to ask them, when he saw movement. Across the open space was a grove of linden trees, full of shadows. A dark figure was moving quietly through them and away, more a shadow than a person, cleverly blending into the grove. As police sirens began to wail, Simon took off again, running at top speed.

But when Simon reached the trees, the man was gone. At the same time, the police sirens rose in intensity, closing in on the park. Hundreds of people in the Paradeplatz would have seen Simon. Under normal circumstances, he might have gone to the police, identified himself, and let them sort it out with Whitehall. But not this time.

He did not even know for certain that Terrill had been murdered. If he were, whatever had killed him had left no blood or bruises that he could see. Probably some kind of poison, administered through the head of the cane, where a hypodermic of some kind was hidden. An old tradecraft trick.

On top of everything, Simon was supposed to be in Florence or at least on his way.

Breathing hard, frustrated, he jammed his fingers through his hair and cursed loudly. He stalked along the rim of the long hillside, noting the web of trails that crisscrossed and plunged down in blind turns and vanished back into the city. There were too many trails from which to choose, and no one to ask. Gauging where the police cars would arrive, Simon ran down the hillside and away.

Paris, France

Carrying a small box and a shoulder bag, Liz hurried along the hospital corridor, checking room numbers. It was Wednesday, a hot July afternoon, and the American Hospital had a drowsy air about it. Patients were napping, while nurses quietly filled out charts and sorted pre-dinner medication. Liz had visited friends here before. Renowned for its English-speaking staff and high standards of medicine, the hospital had treated everyone from the Duke of Windsor to Osama bin Laden's stepmother, from confused tourists to penniless college kids, especially those with ties to the United States.

There was one misfit—a man sitting outside an open door ahead, reading
Paris Match.
From his casual demeanor to the covert looks he shot out when anyone approached, he had Langley written all over him.

When she got close enough, he stood, extended his hand, and raised his voice just enough so anyone within earshot could hear. “Hello, Ms. Walker. I'm Chuck Draper. Asher's been talking about you. Glad you're feeling better.” He was in his fifties, of medium height, with rat brown hair and blue eyes that matched the color of his sports jacket, probably on purpose. He had the air of a man who liked things to be exact and was inevitably dissatisfied with the world because of it. But he knew his role, and he expected “Sarah Walker.”

“Thanks for taking such good care of my husband.”

They exchanged a glance, acknowledging they were starting a movie. From her time at the Farm, where most Langley recruits went first for training, Liz had played numerous parts, but the vast majority had been fictitious characters created to suit a political need. Sometimes they had been real, a moment stolen from someone, as Mac had done with Deputy Sheriff Harry Craine. But now she was supposed to be Sarah, whom she cared about, to whom she owed a great deal.

Liz quieted her mind and walked into the private room. She was Sarah Walker.

 

Asher Flores swam toward consciousness. Through the grogginess, he remembered:
Sarah was gone.
He swore tiredly.
Christ.
And tried to jerk upright. Instead he fell back, disoriented.

A voice said, “Dodgers won today.”

It was Liz. He opened his eyes and drank in the sight of her, feeling a little off balance because she and Sarah looked so much alike. Her voice was similar to Sarah's, too. That was what must have awakened him, he decided. For an instant, he had almost thought Sarah was back. But Liz's face was a few millimeters longer and her forehead wider. No two people were ever precisely alike, not even so-called identical twins, and not even when surgery was performed specifically to make them doubles. Still, he was one of the few people who would be able to tell them apart quickly.

“They're up another game?” he murmured. “Life's getting better again.” What crap. Life would never be good until Sarah was safe.

She was smiling. He watched as she set down the box. She had the same large dark eyes, the same generous mouth, the same standout cheekbones, and now she even had the same short hair.
God, he wished she really were Sarah.

She said, “I brought you a radio and the
Herald Tribune.
”

He nodded, but did not bother to take the newspaper.

She put it on the table beside his bed, then opened the box, set a small Philips radio next to the paper, and plugged it in. “Do you like your gift?” she asked. “I thought you might be getting tired of TV.”

She narrowed her eyes, and Asher frowned, then gave a subtle nod. He got the message: The room might be bugged, despite the CIA's precautions. The hospital was, after all, in France, and the French planted listening devices and hidden cameras even in Air France business class, hoping to pick up tidbits to pass on in the never-ending games of political, military, and economic espionage.

Asher made himself rally. “Turn it on, will you? Find me a good station.”

Soon, some kind of unrecognizable rock music shook the room. Their only standard was that it be loud enough to cover their voices.

Her expression had softened, again like Sarah's. She spoke just loudly enough to be heard above the music.

“How are you feeling, Asher?”

“Not bad. Morphine helps. You still hurt like hell, but you don't care. Has anyone got a lead?”

“I wish. They're doing everything they can to find her. A man named Angus MacIntosh is my handler. Do you know him?” When he gave a single shake of his head, she continued: “Mac's keeping me posted. How bad's your wound?”

“Went clean through. Bounced off a rib but missed anything really important.”

“Nice try. The story I heard was it also nicked your liver and intestine. You've had surgery, idiot. They had to sew you back together. Take my advice: Treat your internal organs with respect.”

She dragged a chair close and sat, dropping her shoulder bag to the floor. She leaned forward, elbows on the bed. She was less than a foot from him, hoping to lessen the chances they would be overheard.

“Chuck dusted for bugs.” He smelled her scent longingly.
Sarah.

“Just pretend I'm paranoid. Have the kidnappers called?”

“They said they'd be in touch on day four. It's psychological warfare, making us wonder what they're up to. Focusing us on Sarah's life. Ignorance enhances pressure.” It was a classic ploy that had been used before and would be again, because it worked.

She nodded. “You're actually looking pretty good.”

“That's because I am. What's going on? You've got that ‘They're all a bunch of turds' expression Sarah gets.”

She studied him, and he gazed gravely back. He liked her, and he knew she liked him. A real friendship and trust that was always there, like oxygen, between them. Not something you ever really needed to talk about.

“You must be devastated,” she told him.

“Looking at you is hard, you know? But I'm glad you're here.”

“I'm sorry. I was afraid of that.”

“Nothing to be done.” His gaze was steady. “Let's get to work. You first.”

Liz told him about the assaults on her in Santa Barbara, the theft of her assassin research, how Langley had arranged her life through the Aylesworth Foundation, and that yesterday's attacks here and in Santa Barbara had been precipitated by the publicity about the assassins show she was researching.

Asher listened in silence. There were times even he hated Langley. He hoped the damn files were real and worth the hell they had put Liz through. “Where's your gun, Liz? At your back, in your pit? On your leg?”

She returned his gaze. “You know I won't carry a gun.”

“You've got to. Without one, you're pet food.”

She smiled at his angular face, at the bushy black eyebrows and the thick black hair, curly and untamable, as he lay against the white sheets. His skin was its normal golden color. Her gaze swept over the tubes and wires attached to him, the machines that clicked and blinked behind and around, the LEDs that, in a rainbow of hues, related to the world all sorts of intimate information.

“You need a shave,” she told him.

He rubbed his chin. “Commenting on my beard-growing talent is a nice attempt at a distraction. It doesn't change the fact that to go up against people who intend to use their weapons to stop you, you're helpless to defend yourself.”

“Were Gandhi and Martin Luther King helpless?”

“No, but they were leading vast passive-resistance campaigns against governments and majorities, and a handgun was too small to make a difference. They were dealing with mass movements, but you're just an individual going up against people who have guns and want to stop you any way they can.”

“Someone has to say ‘enough' and take some risks.”

“In the long run, maybe you're right. But this is the short term, and without a weapon, you can't do your job. There's no cause here. We're not proving a great truth. You're trying to save Sarah. Dead, you can't help Langley or Sarah. You put your life at risk, and you put Sarah's, too. And I'll be pissed to lose you.”

“I'll think about it. But that's enough about me. You're in pain, you're probably ready for another nap, and I've got only one more thing to tell you. It's about Mac. He either lied to me, or Langley lied to him. That's why we've got to keep our conversations private. Turn on the radio whenever we talk, okay?” She described the inconsistency about when her TV series was canceled and what Mac had said Langley's role had been.

“If Langley's up to something, it'll become clear. They don't like to lose people, so my guess is Mac's just got it wrong. I've worked for Langley long enough to know it does a hell of a lot of good most of the time, or most of us wouldn't stick around. Tell me about the research that was stolen from your office. Was there anything useful in there about your father's files?”

She shook her head, the rock music beginning to annoy her. “No, of course not. But now I've been thinking about it. Do you remember when Grey Mellencamp died of cardiac arrest? It was just hours after he'd interrogated me. At the time, it seemed like a coincidence…a suspicious coincidence, so I looked into it. As it turned out, he had a history of heart disease, and the autopsy showed no sign of foul play. So who else would've known about the files?”

“Your mother.”

“Right. After Mellencamp died, I investigated her death, too.”

“When exactly did she die?”

“About six months before he and I met. Of course, Uncle Mark was killed then, too. Bad luck for him he was visiting Mom.”

“I remember there was an explosion. What caused it?”

“A gas line. There was a problem with it the week before. Mom told me she'd had repairmen in to fix it. So when I went back to dig around, I checked all the gas company's records, the fire-investigation report, and the autopsy reports on both Mom and Uncle Mark. There was nothing that hinted it might not have been an accident, and both bodies were conclusively identified.” She looked away, missing her mother.

They were silent, uneasy with their thoughts.

Asher considered. “Langley's got better resources to find Sarah than you do. But you've got an inside track when it comes to your parents and family.”

“You think I should look for the files. Mac said Langley also wanted me to look. Is your phone a direct line?”

On the table beside him, where she had set the radio, stood a simple black telephone. When he said it was, she told him about the cell Mac had given her. They exchanged numbers.

“Call me if you hear anything,” she said, “I'll do the same. We shouldn't trust anyone but each other until we know exactly what's going on.”

A thin smile played on his lips, and he turned away to look with yearning at the bathroom. “As soon as I can walk over to take a leak,” he vowed, “I'm blowing this joint.”

“Swell. Then you'll screw things up by putting us in the position of having to rescue you, too. Do me a favor. Don't.”

Asher tried to smile.

“Is the pain worse?” she asked.

“Naw. I'm just tired is all. And annoyed. Guess I'm not as good as I thought.”

“No one is.”

“But I should've known. I should've guessed the moment that van stopped.”

“When you get clairvoyant, holler. I'll put you on my TV show.” She patted his arm.

“Get the hell out of here, Liz. Find the files. Find her. Bring her back to me.” His husky voice broke. “Please.”

She kissed his forehead. It was moist with sweat. “Take care of yourself, and I'll take care of Sarah.”

It was a big promise, full of potential for disaster, but she had to make it. Asher needed reassurance, and she wanted desperately to repay him for what he and Sarah had done to help bring her mother and her in from the cold so many years ago.

Outside the room, she said good-bye to Asher's CIA guard, Chuck Draper, who nodded politely. She stopped at the nurses' station to leave her cell number. In French, she asked to be informed of any changes in her husband's condition.

Liz spoke far better French than Sarah did, and she could put on a British accent in the wink of an eye, but then, she had been raised in England. She also spoke Spanish, Italian, and German, and had a flair for acting, an analytical mind, and a thirst for adventure, all of which she had translated into her black work for the Company and recycled again into her academic work. Now she hoped those old skills and talents would be enough for what she had to do.

 

Leaving the hospital, Liz walked out into the afternoon heat, making plans. L'Hôpital Américain was located in the heart of leafy Neuilly, one of Paris's swankest suburbs, on the boulevard Victor-Hugo, only twelve minutes from the Arc de Triomphe. She spotted Mac about ten feet away and slowed. He gave an almost imperceptible nod from where he sat on a bench in the shade of a plane tree. It was his way to let her know he was around if she needed him.

Casually, she surveyed the grounds and street, noting other people who were walking toward and leaving the hospital—older couples, young parents with children, men in suits and sports clothes, women carrying shopping bags and infants. Nothing appeared unusual.

She walked toward the curb and stopped. As she raised her hand to hail a taxi, she heard a sharp grunt directly behind. She whirled as a small wiry man sprawled onto the sidewalk, rolled, and kicked Mac's legs out from under him.

With a curse, Mac lost his balance and fell, while Liz lunged for the kicker.

But the man turned and jumped to his feet, free. As he started to run, Liz heaved her shoulder bag. His foot slammed into it. He staggered sideways and went down hard on his left knee. The knee's impact with the concrete made a dull cracking noise. His eyes went wild with pain and fear.

As Mac scrambled up and Liz got to her feet, the man gritted his teeth, leaped up, and frantically half-ran, half-limped along the sidewalk, thrusting startled pedestrians aside.