The Coil (43 page)

As they studied the list, the room receded. The silence extended.

“The blackmailer is one of them,” she said, her tone reverent because they had reached this moment at long last. “But which one?”

Somewhere in northern Europe

In Asher's weakened condition, there had been no way they could fight their transfer from the truck to what turned out to be an anonymous Learjet. The only improvement in their situation was clothes for Asher—sweatpants, shoes, socks, and a shirt, plus the jacket he had found in the truck.

Once he was dressed, Sarah's demands that he be carried to the jet and up the stairs were ignored. By the time they were aboard, he was white as snow, drenched in sweat, and gritting his teeth. He fell into a seat, and she gave him extra pain pills.

Enraged, she stayed awake, listening. The jet sat on the tarmac two hours before finally taking off for a short flight. There were four men—two armed escorts, and the pilot and copilot, who never left the cockpit. From their occasional conversations, she learned Asher and she were being kept alive only until some important deal was closed.

In the dark hours before daybreak, the jet landed in a rainstorm so drenching she could not make out landmarks or signs. They were blindfolded and transferred again, this time to some kind of powerful sedan driven by a man named Malko, who was obviously in charge. The car plowed through driving rain and rolling thunder and a harsh wind that shook all of them. Malko swore as he fought to keep the car on the highway.

At last, the noise abruptly stopped, and so did the car. Its big engine sounded almost docile as it echoed inside some kind of shelter. Sarah found Asher's hand, but before she could squeeze it, he squeezed hers. There was comfort in a known love, and hope, despite the overwhelming odds.

The men yanked her out of the car. She could hear Asher's being pulled out, too.

“Be careful of him!” she said angrily. “He's been shot!”

“Too bad,” said a disinterested voice.

Hands hustled them down steps and into an enclosed space colder than the driving wind that had met them at the jet. The storm continued to rage outside, but there was another sound—surf?

When a heavy door clanged shut, Sarah ripped off her blindfold. “Asher?” The darkness was thick. The room stank of mold and damp stone.

“I'm here.” His voice came from somewhere to her right, sounding of pain and exhaustion and—very unlike him—not trying to hide it. Still, there was fight, too. “Wherever the hell we are, it's near the ocean. Listen to those waves pound. They're louder than the rain or the thunder,” he said.

“Big waves hitting big rocks below us. We must be on a cliff.”

As soon as her eyes adjusted, she saw they were in a small empty room. Cold sea air blasted in through two barred windows high in the wall. Asher had slumped on the floor. There was no source of heat, but two canvas cots stood side by side.

“We need to get you warmed up,” she said.

“You won't get an argument from me. I'm colder than an extra-inning night game at Candlestick.”

She took his chilly hands and pulled as he struggled up. He leaned on her and she helped him to the nearest cot.

She picked up blankets. “Three for each of us. I guess they don't want us to freeze to death, at least not yet. But they don't want us to be comfortable either.”

His breathing was labored. “I better lie down before I fall down.”

She folded two blankets and spread them on the cot. He collapsed onto them, his teeth grinding against pain. She covered him with a third blanket. With his clothes, she hoped it would be enough. Bone-weary herself, she turned to the second cot.

She prepared it the same way and crawled in. “Where do you think we are?”

“Europe still,” his shivering voice responded. “Far enough north that it's cold. Not a long-enough flight to be a summer night in San Francisco.”

She nodded into the gloom. Asher did not know how to despair or give up. “Maybe it's Elsinore,” she suggested. “Hamlet's castle in Denmark.”

This time he did not answer. She listened to his teeth chatter, worrying he was too cold and too tired and near shock. She reached out and found his shoulder. He was shivering uncontrollably. Afraid, she jumped up and spread her blankets over him.

“S-s-sorry, Sarah.”

“No need to be, darling.” She slid quickly under the blankets. “I just wanted an excuse to be close anyway.”

Worrying, she wrapped herself around him. When he said no more, she knew how badly off he was. A lump thickened her throat. She kissed his icy ear and held him. At last, his shivering ceased, and he fell asleep, his breath a ghostly mist above their faces.

Northumberland, England

Simon said, “Every time I look at Tony Brookshire's name, I feel queasy. Disgusted. He's an old friend of the family, for God's sakes. How could he keep tabs on you in Santa Barbara and kidnap Sarah?” His expression dark, he sipped his whiskey.

“If the baron's files are any indication, they do favors for one another,” Liz said. “Look at how many of the same boards they sit on. They're already working together officially, so it's not much of a leap to think they work together privately as well—consulting, informing one another, making mutually advantageous deals.”

“You're right. But there's more—Brookshire's the only one in public service. The five others run multinationals richer than most small nations, and not one of them is in the same industry. So if they've decided to cooperate, their sweep and power are vast.”

She sat up straighter. “Does that ever sound like the ancient Titans! And look what they did with
their
power…. They laid out rules, delivered punishments, and handed out rewards so the world would move in a direction they conceived and where they remained in charge.”

“I don't like the sound of that.
Their
vision.
Their
control.” Simon poured second glasses of whiskey.

“Democracy dies behind closed doors.” She repressed a shiver and packed the photo prints back into Simon's portfolio.

As Simon put logs into the stone fireplace, he said, “If Nautilus's meetings are secret, the code names indicate the Coil's are even more so.”

“Afraid so.” She turned off lamps and settled onto the sofa, watching him thoughtfully as he built a fire, enjoying his company but wishing it were under happier circumstances. Wishing Sarah and Asher were with them.

At last, the fire burning strongly, he sat beside her, crossed his legs, leaned back, and threw an arm across the back of the sofa away from her. With his other hand, he cradled his glass to his chest. The shadowy room was warm and the fireplace comforting. The aroma of burning pine drifted toward them.

Modern humans were still cave dwellers, she decided, yearning for light and heat…atavistic, especially when threatened.

In the firelight, his hair was the color of rich mahogany. His nose seemed larger and more slapdash than usual. His head rested back as he stared into the fire. She liked the way the planes of his face were almost vertical, rounding down into his square jaw. His lids looked heavy and his face worn. He was spent, drained, and allowing himself to show it.

She kept glancing at him, seeing something new each time, as if she were just discovering him. Finally, he sighed. It was not only a weary sound, but vulnerable.

It all crowded in on her—from his sudden appearance in the storage locker outside London to their flight here to visit Henry, never had he seemed vulnerable. Only headlong and impatient and often irritatingly right. She tried to see the little boy in him now but could not. No more than she could see the girl she had once been. She was an adult now, and so was this tired man weighed with responsibility. She felt drawn to him, as if she could sit here with him forever.

“I'll tell you a secret, but you'll have to tell me one, too.” He rolled his head to the side and peered at her, a quizzical expression on his face. “General's Permission.”

It was a children's game they had played, named after their great-uncle, Gen. William Augustus Childs, who had died at Dunkirk. His brooding portrait hung with others along the staircase at Childs Hall. The rules were simple: No lies, no excuses, and no dares. Always played in a closet with the lights out, where the secrets once spoken were left behind as soon as the door opened and they returned to the world.

“We're not wrapped up in blankets in the closet with Mick,” she said.

He drank. “So?”

“All right. The general gives you permission to speak.”

He sat his glass on his knee. “You asked what had happened to me since I last saw you. A few years ago, I was sent into Bosnia to extract an asset. We'd had word his cover was blown.” He paused, his voice thickened. “My legend worked fine, but I said something inadvertently…. I was young and stupid, chasing a woman I'd met on the train.”

“Let me guess. She was a Juliet agent. Under the circumstances, expected.”

He did not look at her. “Beautiful, of course. I made her instantly. The problem was, I decided to play her.”

She waited.

“My cover was as a UN agricultural expert. I had money, so I fed her on the train, got her drunk, and tried to pump her. But she slipped me a mickey. Don't know to this day what it was or how she did it. Of course, I was carrying passports for the asset and his family, a miniature camera to take their photos, and glue to paste them in. After I passed out, she found all of it in the special compartment in my carry-on, but that wasn't enough to tell her his identity and where they'd be waiting. But when I was trying to worm information out of her, I'd mentioned a bombed salt factory in Tuzla. I finally woke up when the train slammed to a stop because guerrillas had ripped up the tracks. It threw me into the seat ahead, and I busted my nose.” He shook his head, disgusted, angry. “She was gone. By the time I got to the factory, our asset was dead. So was the whole family. Executed, bullets to the head. Just lying there. Even his baby.”

She inhaled. “You felt you'd caused it.”

“Bloody damn right I did. Hubris. Fucking hubris. Why didn't I just lose her when I got to Tuzla? I could have. But no, I was going to get something from her first. The hero. Instead, she walked away clean with six British passports and enough of a clue from me that an entire family was wiped out.” Deep lines riddled his face. He looked a decade older, and the hand that held his drink trembled. He peered down at the whiskey, drained it, and stood up. “Want another?”

“I'm fine.”

She watched him stalk to the liquor cabinet and pour. He went to the window, pulled back the drape, and gazed out at the night.

At last, she spoke to his back, “You haven't forgiven yourself.”

“What I did was unforgivable.”

“And so you decided not to care anymore?”

“Of course I care. I just don't get too involved.”

“Well, you're involved now. And you might as well forgive yourself. You can't fix it. You can't bring them back. When you quit making mistakes—”

“I know. I'll be dead, too. The problem was, I knew better.”

“It changed your life. That might not be so bad. You learned something. I'll bet you've never made a mistake like that again.” She studied his rigid posture. Finally: “Your chief's furious with you. She's trying to send you to Florence. Something must've happened in Bratislava, too, didn't it?” She recalled the headlines she had seen—the demonstration that turned lethal. “That young woman who immolated herself…you were there, undercover. What was her name?”

“Viera. Viera Jozef.” He heaved a sigh and turned. His face was stricken.

“You knew her.”

“Rather well.” From across the room, he related the story. “I don't understand why she did it.”

“Or why you didn't guess and stop her. But this time you really are clear, Simon. In Tuzla, you made a tragic mistake that you'll live with the rest of your life. That's piggybacked onto all the other errors you make every day just because you're alive. All of us make them. Then Viera killed herself. That made her loss even deeper for you.”

“I don't need a psychologist.”

“No. But you could use a friend.”

He gave a brief smile. “Perhaps you're right. Partly, I feel guilty because I didn't love her. If I had, I might've seen what she was up to.”

“Now you're bringing out the old crystal ball. There's no way you can predict that. Are the murders of that family in Tuzla why you never got your nose fixed?”

“A reminder.” He rubbed a finger along it. “Every time I look in a mirror.” He turned his head away.

“Extreme, but understandable. For whatever it's worth, I forgive you.”

He glanced at her. Gave a small smile. “Believe it or not, it helps.”

She smiled in return. “Not only that, I forgive you for using me as a business, back when we were young.”

He returned to the sofa, drank deeply, and leaned back heavily. “I've never told anyone about Tuzla. Of course, MI6 knows. I was sidelined on a desk until I convinced them to send me into the antiglobalization movement. HQ needed someone, and I had the requisite skills. I suppose I was trying to redeem myself.”

“Three years is a long time to give up everyone and everything, including your own identity. I'd say you'd done something useful and fine.”

She liked the compassion she saw in Simon. Admired it. She felt vaguely guilty for having assumed he was a lightweight. She could hear her father's voice.
Never assume.
The room was filled with the warmth and fragrance of the fire and with an oddly serene sense of intimacy. There was that feeling about him again, the trust, the attraction.

“My turn,” she said.

“The general gives you permission to speak.”

“It's nothing as dramatic as yours. Did you hear how my father died?”

“Never could ferret it out. Hush-hush and all that.” He shifted on the sofa again so he could watch her. She wore no makeup, her skin scrubbed clean back at their Paris hideout. Her face was spectacular—large eyes and generous mouth, high arching brows, and of course that mole beside her lips. But now as he looked at her, each feature seemed more delicate than dramatic. The way her eyelashes brushed down when she lowered her gaze. The single silky curl that rested against her jaw. The blush of weariness on her cheeks. She had been kind to him just now. She had listened. It had been years since he had wanted to talk honestly about himself—or anyone had really wanted to hear.