The Coil (10 page)

“You're going to buy us time to rescue Sarah. Since the kidnappers were good enough to sandbag Asher and snatch Sarah, we figure they're smart enough to put their people out to keep tabs, but to do it in such a way that we won't spot them. When they see you, they'll think you're there to arrange the transfer, which means we're trying to fulfill their demands. That should relieve some of their tension. A lot of the time, kidnappers kill their victims because the pressure's gotten to them, long before it's time to collect their loot. They grow antsy and fearful and start imagining the worst.”

Unfortunately, he was right. One more thing to worry about. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Visit Asher first, but pretend to be Sarah, so we can keep the cover story going. If anyone asks, you're over the terrible shock and want to visit your husband. We're hoping he'll remember more when he sees you. Then go to the hotel. You may spot a clue we missed in our search. We want you to use it as if it were your own room.”

“As Sarah?”

“As Sarah,” he confirmed. “That way, the hotel won't need any explanations. Of course, the kidnappers will know it's you.”

“What are you doing to find her?”

“Our people are out on the streets, as well as making discreet inquiries among certain contacts we or the Sûreté have found useful in the past. Part of it is, as you know, a waiting game, but of course we're leaving nothing to chance. The truth is, we could use a break. Someone who wants something from us and is willing to trade. Or a rumor we can trace to a source.”

All the usual protocols. “And the Carnivore's files?”

“We encourage you to find them.”

“I've already tried and failed, dammit. They don't exist!”

“Try harder. Langley's been looking off and on since before you talked with Grey Mellencamp, but without any luck either. Still, somebody obviously is convinced they're real, or today wouldn't have happened.” He hesitated. His voice dropped. “Of course, it's true they could be wrong.”

Her brows knitted in worry, and her gaze swept the traffic uneasily. “That would be fatal for Sarah.”

Bratislava, Slovakia

A cloying warmth settled over the dark city as night deepened toward morning. Simon was worried about the time. From the river, he rushed home on foot to his flat in Old Town, tore off his tuxedo, and threw on jeans and a loose shirt. He retrieved his 9-mm Beretta from a safe beneath his bed and checked it. He was eager to meet the person who claimed to have information about his father's death, but also wary. He holstered the gun under his shirt at the small of his back and grabbed a powerful miniature flashlight. He slid it into his jeans pocket.

But as he turned to leave, he glimpsed himself in the mirror over the bureau. For the briefest of moments, he did not recognize himself. Blase Kusterle? Simon Childs? He usually stayed in character and seldom reported to MI6 face-to-face. It helped his mental health to be just one person. But tonight everything had turned upside down, and he was abruptly, without warning, Simon Childs again.

He returned to the bureau and stared. Ada had called him handsome and cocksure, the opposite of how he thought of himself. He was a couple of inches over six feet, with wavy brown hair he kept on the long side, the way Blase Kusterle, the agitator, liked it. He needed a shave. His nose was big and lumpy. The reason for that came back to him in a painful burst, and he felt himself rock with it. Then he pushed it aside. His eyes were light blue and tired-looking, and there was something in them he did not like. He was unsure which of himselves—Blase or Simon—he had to thank for that.

He shook his head, disgusted at his self-indulgence. As he hurried out of the flat, he remembered the report he was supposed to write for MI6. It would have to wait.

Dawn was perhaps an hour away when he jogged along Kapitulská Street to St. Martin's Cathedral. The massive Gothic church, haughty and eerie, loomed just yards from the Communist-built Staromestká roadway, an elevated monstrosity that rumbled with traffic and exhaust even at this early hour. As he approached the cathedral, the area appeared deserted.

On high alert, flashlight in hand, he prowled around the grounds, checking courtyards, walls, other structures, and the adjoining Rudnayovo Square. A national treasure, St. Martin's had been the coronation church for Hungarian kings a half-millennium ago and still remained very much in use. It was kept locked at night. There was no one around, and Simon saw nothing suspicious.

Satisfied, he took out his Beretta and closed in on the door on the church's north side, which the note had told him to use. It was ajar. He inched it open. Immediately, he was assaulted by the earthy odor of dank stone. Lighted votive candles sat on wall ledges along the stone corridor ahead, although there were electric lights that could have been turned on. He listened. Pulse throbbing, he stepped inside. The air was a good ten degrees cooler here. He left the door cracked open, just the way he had found it.

The candles were set far apart, providing just enough light to guide him. He padded forward, gun sweeping from side to side. Large and confusing to newcomers, St. Martin's had a three-aisled nave, a presbytery reserved for the clergy, three Gothic chapels, an enormous Gothic narthex, and the Baroque chapel of St. John Mendicant. As he made his way to the end of the corridor, he listened to the deep silence, which seemed to emanate from the gray stone walls themselves.

As instructed, he entered the first chapel. He stood at the back, forcing himself to breathe evenly. As soon as he stopped walking, the air turned motionless. Nothing moved, not the candle flames nor the shadows they cast. The chapel appeared deserted. He studied the scattering of votive lights, the rows of pews, the old-fashioned tapestries, and the inky shadows. He wondered whether the person who had written the note was here. Whether he—or she—would appear at all. And realized he both feared that appearance and desperately wanted it.

He checked his watch. It was time. He walked to the third pew from the back and sat at the end, near an alcove. He tucked his Beretta under his right thigh, where it was easily accessible, and set the flashlight on the seat to his left.

He turned to look back at the alcove. In its shadow stood a white marble statue of the Virgin Mary that seemed to glow with otherworldly light. He found himself transfixed, remembering his days as a boy in London, when he regularly attended church with his mother, stepfather, and stepbrother. He was the younger of the two boys, the biological son of his mother, while his brother Michael—Mick—was the birth son of Robert Childs. He had loved his adopted father very much.

As he shifted to face the front of the chapel, thinking about his parents, he heard a sound so soft it seemed to come from his imagination. He started to turn.

“Stay where you are. Look forward again.” It was a command in English but with an Italian accent. The voice was a man's, low and firm. “Be patient. With luck, we will finish quickly and each be on our ways.”

Simon saw the silhouette of a man's figure but no face. “Who are you?” He turned away slowly.

The voice ignored the question. “Do you remember the Miller Street Killer? In London, when you were a boy?”

The man was a good ten feet behind, Simon judged. Out of reach, but close enough that his whispering voice carried easily in the silent chapel. Simon wanted to grab him by the throat and squeeze information from him.

Instead, he made his tone as hard as the man's: “You wrote that my father was murdered. Who did it?”

“Later.
Più tardi.
Patience. First, you must understand the beginning.” The voice belonged to a man accustomed to giving orders, not to being interrupted or questioned. He repeated, “Do you know the story of the Miller Street Killer?”

Simon thought back. “Everyone believed he was a Londoner, because he left the bodies in some of the city's most hidden spots. One of the worst killers in London's history. I think the first corpse was discovered in an alley off Miller Street. I remember not being allowed to play outside because all the mothers were afraid.”

“
Buono.
The killer was a monster. He kept the boys conscious for his
disgustoso
games, until they finally bled to death. After the eleventh mutilation and murder, the chief inspector was sure he had identified him—an aristocrat. Old money, old title. Then the evidence disappeared. Vanished. A clerk was chosen to be the scapegoat and was discharged. But at the same time, the inspector's assistant retired to the South of France with a sudden inheritance, while the inspector himself—he was the one who argued to pursue the aristocrat—was accused of gambling. When it was decided the suspect could not be charged, the gambling charges were also dropped.” The voice related all of this with little inflection, as if he were reciting a memorized role. “But when a twelfth boy died, your father intervened.”

“I remember he was outraged. Demanded a government inquiry into police methodology in handling the case. But I don't recall anyone's ever being arrested. In fact, I don't remember anything more. The serial killer must've stopped.”

“Partly true. What really happened was your father took care of it. Sir Robert had seen this sort of thing before—pressure applied, investigations dropped. But none was this serious. He felt something must be done to save other children, so he used discreet channels to hire an assassin secretly. The assassin killed the aristocrat but made it look like a motoring accident. Of course, by then, Scotland Yard was relieved. So was the family. In the end, no one bothered to look too deeply into the ‘accident.'”

Simon was silent, surprised. Then surprised again when he realized he disapproved. Sir Robert had been a fighter for human rights. The idea that he would hire a killer seemed impossible, out of character. And yet…his informant was correct about one aspect: The Miller Street Killer had been a ghoul, with an apparently insatiable appetite for torturing little boys. And at the time, Sir Robert had two young sons and a frightened wife.

“Five years ago,” the voice went on, “someone found out and tried to blackmail Sir Robert.” The voice paused, then continued methodically: “That's when he slashed his wrists. He killed himself because he would have been arrested, and his reputation ruined. His political career and the only life he knew were over. Of course, he knew the scandal would hurt his family, too.”

Simon felt his body go rigid. He said nothing while thinking that if his father had lived, his mother would have, too. She would have allowed a pacemaker to be implanted. She had died six months later. Simon knotted his hands, the old rage and sadness rushing through him. He had fought to give her a reason to go on, but in the end, her sorrow was too great. She did not want to live without the great love of her life. He had watched her grow thin, her skin yellow, her energy vanish, until she was a ghost. It was an image he carried always, no matter the name he used.

He changed the subject. “What did my father's blackmailer want?”

“His vote on a free-trade issue, which of course he would not give.”

Simon nodded to himself. “No vote of his was ever for sale. Win or lose, he always took the high ground.” He paused. That was untrue, he realized. His father was flawed after all: He had hired an assassin, and by killing himself, he had also killed his wife. Simon said gruffly, “Politics was everything to him. He would've been on knife's edge, waiting for the next time the blackmailer wanted him to change his vote. How could a blackmailer know about my father and the assassin? You said the arrangement was secret. Was the assassin himself the blackmailer?”

“Impossible. He was dead.”

“Then who was the blackmailer?”

“Have you not been listening?” For the first time, Simon heard emotion in the low voice—barely controlled rage, but it was not directed at him. “No one knows. That's why I am here. You must investigate. Discover his identity. Stop him.”

Simon's right hand was resting on the seat of the pew. He inched it toward his thigh and the Beretta hidden beneath. “Why should I believe you? Everything you've told me could be a lie. What do you
really
want?”

“Just what I said—to stop this barbarian. Nothing more or less. You were never trusting, were you, Simmy-boy?”

Simon froze.

“That was what your father called you, wasn't it? You must find the
bastardo
who provoked your parents' deaths. Man or woman, I do not know. I know too little.” Again the voice was affected by emotion—frustration. “Remember your father's friend Terrill Leaming, the Zurich banker? He can give you more. But take my advice—tell no one. Neither of us knows the power of the forces you might provoke.”

“More about what? How do you know any of this?”

There was no answer.

Simon spun around in the pew, but all he could see was wavering shadows. He jumped up and rushed out, clicking on his flashlight. He aimed the beam into every nook and recess, but the church was empty, as silent as death.

He stood motionless, thinking. At last, he walked briskly away, returning to the corridor that would take him out of the church. He considered the mysterious informer: The voice seemed that of an older man, sixties, maybe even seventies, with a light Italian accent but a sophisticated grasp of English. Simon thought about Italian friends and acquaintances from the past, but none seemed right for this anonymous messenger.

It was not just that the fellow knew his father's pet name for him—that information could have been learned from a servant or a family friend. But his claim about Sir Robert's stopping the Miller Street Killer had the ring of truth. So if the man were lying about Sir Robert, the killer, the assassin, and the blackmailer, at least he knew or had learned enough to make his story plausible.

As Simon approached the outside door, he saw it was still ajar. The scent of old stone was heavy here in the narrow corridor. He turned off his flashlight and blew out the candles. As he padded through the darkness, a sense of inevitability swept through him. Ada wanted him out of Central Europe for a while anyway. A trip to Zurich was not what she had in mind, he was fairly sure, but that was where he was going.

He flattened back against the wall and peered through the cracked doorway. The sun was rising, casting the open space around the church in pale golden light.

He looked for surveillance. For the anonymous man. The fellow was enormously skillful to have slid the note into the pocket of someone as trained as Simon without being caught. And there was something else: Simon had been working in deep cover for nearly three years, using a false name. As far as his family was concerned, he was far away and out of touch—in South America, employed by a British petroleum company. So how had the informant found out he was not only in Bratislava, but in the square last night?

Simon did not like any of it. Unsettled, wary, he slipped out into the dawn. He would write the report for Ada Jackson, and then he would fly to Zurich. For the time being, he would follow his informant's advice and say nothing.