The Coil (34 page)

As Simon peered down at the carnival atmosphere of Pigalle, four men stood in a huddle beneath his window, smoothing their jackets, as if assuring themselves they had their pistols. Two more emerged from the garage, carrying automatic rifles close to their sides, where they would be less noticeable. A Citroën sedan filled the garage's opening. It reminded him of the one that passed him as he had sped away from the baron's château.

He described for Liz what he saw. Legs crossed in a lotus position, she studied the three big photos. She looked like a college girl, auburn head bent, intense.

“Find anything?” he asked.

“It's amazing the people the baron consorted with. Everyone from Maria Callas and Aristotle Onassis to George and Laura Bush. Parties, yachting, official occasions, political events, coronations. There's almost fifty years of photos here, and he's in every one. Considering his companions' star quality, my guess is he was showing restraint. He probably could've hung ten times this many.” She looked up, her face somber. “And if Themis and Cronus are of like stature—”

“Exactly. Their photos and the blackmailer's may be there, too. But which ones?”

“Good question.” She resumed her scrutiny, muttering to herself.

Simon reported, “Malko's just joined the crew. He's giving instructions. Wish I could lip-read. I thought I recognized that Citroën. He's getting in it and driving off.”

Liz's mind was elsewhere. “Both your father and Grey Mellencamp were prominent politicians. If we're right that your father was blackmailed for his vote, and Grey Mellencamp was probably blackmailed for something similar, since he was secretary of state at the time, then the man with the files isn't after just money. That's confirmed by his blackmailing Terrill Leaming, making him take the fall for the baron.”

“He wants something else. The ‘deal' he was talking to the baron about.”

She looked up and considered Simon's profile, the good chin, the determined mouth, then moved her mind back to business. “You wondered at one point whether something besides the publicity for my new shows had made this situation erupt. What if you're right? What if the blackmailer is choosy and blackmails only when he needs some action to make one of his deals succeed?”

“As with the baron? Of course, his attempt there failed miserably, and it failed with Grey Mellencamp and with my father. Three deaths. What we don't know is how many times he's succeeded.”

“Exactly. If we're right and he's a Titan, he won't stop easily. He'll still try to put this deal together.”

“I agree, but let's not get too far ahead of ourselves. Our main problem's escape. You're dirty enough to have been dragged down a muddy road.” As she bristled, he said quickly, “And I probably look as if I've been on a three-week bender. The last thing we need is to draw attention to ourselves. Let's clean up, eat whatever's here, and get out.” He headed into the bathroom and closed the door.

“Get out how?” she asked. But he did not answer.

As water rushed in the bathroom, Liz strode to the window. A delivery van with a florist's logo had backed into the driveway, blocking it, while eight men jumped out of the side door. Her stomach knotted. Reinforcements had arrived. Two pairs deployed up and down the block, while another ran into the garage, and the fourth crossed the street. She surveyed the area, viscerally aware Simon and she were the intended prey of a squad of armed hunters who gave every appearance of being well trained, well disciplined, and thoroughly determined.

At the same time, raucous life on the street went on, absorbing the quiet killers into the crowds. On the corner ahead, a mime in whiteface pretended to be a windup tin soldier, while another, sporting a bulbous red nose, nimbly juggled four oversize dildos. Each dildo was a different brilliant color. A throng had gathered, laughing.

But what held her attention were the mimes' white faces. They transported her back to when she was negotiating the coming-in of the Carnivore—in Avignon—disguised as a countrywoman, calling out her wares. When a traveling circus paraded up the street, she joined the crowd to watch as the clowns arrived—tumbling and stopping for exaggerated handshakes. Excited, she pushed her bike closer and clapped her hands. Released, the bike slammed into a white-faced clown dressed like a roly-poly sailor. She smiled at the memory. Almost instantly, the smile turned to grief.

She had no time for that.

In a closet, she found lightweight trousers a little too large, a pullover shirt that was also too big, and a jacket that would do. Everything was black—good for the night. She dressed quickly, wondering about their hostess. She looked through the bureau until she found the answer. She shook her head, smiling wryly at herself, and sat on the floor again with the three big prints. With a yellow Magic Marker from her shoulder bag, she circled the three photos of the baron with Grey Mellencamp. One had been taken within the last decade, and the second looked as if it were from two decades ago, while the third appeared to be even older. She studied the last one, contemplating.

When Simon emerged with a clean face and hands, his jacket slung over his arm, she said, “I have a question for you.”

“Let's hear it.” He threw his jacket onto the bed, rolled up his sleeves, and went into the kitchen. “Keep talking. I can hear you from here.”

“You remember us at Childs Hall?”

Whenever her mother and father were away on “business,” she had stayed at Childs Hall in Belgravia, where Simon, their grandparents, his parents, and his stepbrother, Michael—Mick—resided in generational family magnificence. Simon had been a baby when his mother and Sir Robert married. Now that their grandparents and Simon's parents were dead, Mick and his family lived there alone.

“How could I forget? That monstrosity of a dining room table is still there. Might as well be glued to the floor. Never get that whale out the door.”

“What about the eucalyptus logs Grandpa imported from North Africa?”

“Every September, several cords still arrive, faithful as a bad debt. Mick's a great believer in tradition. Remember the playroom upstairs?”

“How could I forget?”

“Your dolls are still in residency. Barbie and the whole blasted lot. They're in your cupboard, as if you were going to turn up tomorrow to torment Mick and me. Next thing you know, new chaps'll be queuing up to peer in your windows again, too.”

“They didn't!”

“They did, you know.” He emerged from the kitchen carrying a long piece of baguette topped by yellow cheese, along with a glass of red wine. He handed both to her. “I made an embarrassment of quid off them. ‘Here, boy, go away.' And my absolute favorite: ‘Have you seen her naked?'” He smiled. “I sacrificed my youth for you.”

“Is that why you kept loitering outside my door? You were hoping to see me undress?” She took a bite of bread and cheese.

“I had become an entrepreneur. I had responsibilities to fulfill.”

“You were on your way to being a pimp…or a spy.” She found herself smiling. “We had a lot of fun. Those were good times.”

They paused, catching each other's gazes, and Simon said quietly, “Why'd you think of that now?” He returned to the kitchen.

“I'm coming to that.” She eyed the photo thoughtfully. “If we're right that the blackmailer's working on some deal that's not only significant but urgent, then the baron's bank was probably only one piece of it. The deal could involve another company or organization, or a raft of them. It could mean not just funding but meeting government regulations, lining up subsidiaries, all kinds of things.”

“You're thinking that there could've been earlier events related to the ‘deal.'”

“Yes, more blackmailings that failed. It would've been with someone in a position to cast a vote, or approve a course of action, or make a decision that would've immediately affected the deal. He or she died, or unexpectedly quit, or committed suicide, or voted in a completely out-of-character way, seeming to defy reason.” She drank the wine—good
vin ordinaire
—and wolfed down the food.

“What are you getting at?” He reappeared with his own bread, cheese, and wine and resumed his post at the window.

She dusted her fingers, gulped the last of her wine, and joined him, carrying the oldest of the prints. “Do you recognize any of these men?” She pointed to the photo she had circled with the yellow Magic Marker.

He stared. “When was that taken?” He bit off a piece of bread.

“Your youth is showing. I'd say the early sixties, around the time I was born. I'll admit I didn't recognize the three at first either.”

Simon studied the photo. “Well, that's the baron and Grey Mellencamp and…damn! That's Uncle Henry.” Simon stuffed bread and cheese into his mouth.

“That's what I thought.” Henry, Lord Percy, had been Sir Robert's mentor. Not a true uncle to either Simon or her, but a beloved grandfatherly figure who had shared Christmases at the Childses' house in London and who often invited the whole family up to his estate in Northumberland for winter ice-skating and summer boating. With his own private petting zoo and hundreds of acres for exploring, horseback riding, and picnicking, visiting Uncle Henry's place was always an exciting event for a child.

“I shouldn't be surprised,” Simon said. “Henry moved in the highest circles.”

“Maybe higher than we knew. Is he still alive?”

“Yes, but he's in his mid-nineties at least.”

“His estate can't be more than two hundred miles from Dreftbury, so it's convenient. As I recall, he used to read three newspapers a day and never saw a newsmagazine he didn't like.”

Simon nodded. “He kept his finger on the political pulse. Knew everyone, too.”

“He might be able to help us figure out what the blackmailer's really after.”

“True. But he may not be home. And even if he is, his memory could be dust.”

“Call the house. If Clive answers, we'll know Henry's there. Do you remember the number?”

“Of course. Engraved in my brainstem.” Simon took out his cell. “I won't say anything, so as not to alarm them. We'll just have to take our chances with the rest.”

As he punched in numbers, she studied the street, trying to figure out a way to escape.

Abruptly, Simon broke the connection and grimaced. “Poor Clive. I woke him up. Sounded mad as a hornet, too.”

“Good. Clive hasn't changed. With luck, neither has Henry. But we still have the problem of getting out of here intact. How about through the garage?”

“Not unless you want to tackle three well-armed Goliaths. Every once in a while, their cigarette smoke trails out, so I know they're still there. We're cornered. Unless, of course, you've developed an appetite for a shoot-out.”

Her stomach clutched. “Some other night. Besides, it's better to get away quietly, so we can go to Henry without dragging trouble with us.”

“Being cornered makes that tough.” He froze, his eyes wary, his body tense.

She looked down. Two men half-carried, half-dragged a limp man from the garage. Someone had thrown a jacket over the face and torso, but she could see the crisp uniform trousers of the garage attendant. As the pair hurried to a Toyota, the jacket slipped off, revealing his face and a bloody belly wound.

“Dead,” Simon observed unnecessarily, his voice brittle.

One of the gunmen snapped up the jacket and draped it over the corpse again. They dumped him into the Toyota's front seat and climbed in on either side, propping him up between them. They closed their doors.

“That's the answer!” Simon dialed his cell again. “This is why one must never give up observing. Situations change.”

She surveyed the street. “What answer? What situation?”

Simon pressed his fingers to his lips. In panicked French, his voice spilling with worry and fear, he yelled into the cell, “
Mon Dieu!
It is terrorists! They are shooting!”

In Pigalle, the police occasionally overlooked questionable activities, but not a murdered man, especially when a citizen reported it as terrorism. As Simon described the Toyota and the florist's van in high alarm, Liz rushed to the closet and pulled out black jeans, a shirt, and a jacket. With luck, they would escape in minutes.

As soon as he hung up, she tossed him the clothes. “Well done! You'd better change fast.” She packed the portfolio back into his gym bag and laid the Uzi on its side, completely out of sight. They must not be caught in a police dragnet.

His face was flushed with triumph, but he shook his head. “Our hostess won't have anything to fit me.”

“You're in for a surprise.” She crossed to the bureau, pulled open a side drawer, and handed him a pair of framed photos attached by tiny hinges. “I found them when I was looking for something to wear.”

He angled them toward the street's light. One showed a man dressed in a suit and tie; the other a woman in a long gown. The man was handsome; the woman ravishing.

“Come on, Sherlock,” she said. “Tell me what you see.”

“You're sure?”

“You bet I am. I've found the clothes to prove it—boy's and girl's. All the same size. Feel like an idiot?”

He studied the photos—the same narrow, straight nose, flat cheekbones, and cleft chin. “They could be brother and sister,” he tried.

She hooted. “He's a she. Or she's a he. Talk about sexism. We did this to ourselves. Did my dad ever tell you about the word
assume
?”

He kicked off his shoes. “No, but I have a feeling you will.”

As he stripped off his slacks, she printed the word in the dust on the windowsill. “He used to divide it like this.”
ASS/U.ME
. “He'd say, ‘Never assume. When you do, you make an
ass
out of
u
and
me.'
”