The Coil (12 page)

Last night. And Shay had left a message on her machine with the news while she was out jogging and was attacked. At about the same time, Sarah was kidnapped.

Still, according to Mac, Langley had applied pressure to make the network postpone the series, but
after
Sarah had been kidnapped.
We applied pressure. Now that it's off the public stage, the threat against you may lessen. We want nothing to compromise our search for Sarah.

Someone was lying, and she doubted it was Shay. He had nothing to gain. But why would Mac lie? Or had Langley lied to him? She considered the awful possibility Langley had known in advance Sarah was going to be kidnapped.

Her throat tight, she studied him. He was breathing evenly, eyes closed, face smoothed in slumber. She waited patiently. After a half hour, she saw no sign he was faking. She crept to her feet, padded back to the business center, and quietly used the computer to log on to the Internet with the secure code Shay had arranged for her research. With it, she could erase her cyber trail.

In the unearthly glow of the monitor, she researched media baron Nicholas Inglethorpe, the man who had the ultimate power to postpone or give new life to her series. Born in Houston, Texas, he was self-made, starting with one broken-down radio station that he parlayed into a string of stations and ultimately an international empire of newspapers, books, video and music stores, a film studio, and, of course, Compass Broadcasting.

As she read the details of his methodical rise, his business slugfests, and the feelers he was putting out for a possible run for governor of California, she gave a grim smile. A man who not only craved power but knew how to use it.

A
Business Week
article mentioned charitable works. She stared, shaken. Inglethorpe was the current chairman of the Aylesworth Foundation's board of directors.
The bastard.
Her fingers again flew over the keyboard, and she searched until she found lists of past board members. She focused on February 1998, when Grey Mellencamp had questioned her. She swore under her breath. Mellencamp was chairman of the board then, and at his death Inglethorpe succeeded him—just before the foundation solicited her to apply for the chair she ultimately won. Fighting fear and anger, she searched again, easily finding more boards and organizations to which both men had belonged, often at the same time.

At last, she sat back and crossed her arms to consider coolly what she knew. On the Aylesworth board, the line was unbroken between Mellencamp and Inglethorpe. It would be no great leap to assume Inglethorpe cooperated with the CIA in business—not unknown among tycoons who sought the occasional government perk. He did their bidding on the foundation board, and he cooperated again by canceling her TV series. Perhaps he, too, reported to this Themis, whoever he was.

This information did nothing to erase her unease about Langley. If anything, she saw even less reason for Mac to lie to her. She kept herself calm. What exactly was Langley up to? Was Sarah's life really a top priority…or was Langley following some private agenda she could not see?

Zurich, Switzerland

Leafy and sedate, the legendary Bahnhofstrasse was not only one of Europe's most elite shopping boulevards, it was the beating heart of one of the nation's most lucrative and famous businesses—international banking. Despite that, few of the shoppers and tourists who stepped into the costly boutiques and elegant shops to ogle the five-thousand-dollar watches and the five-hundred-dollar socks guessed they were literally walking on a street of gold.

To the Swiss, secrecy in banking was only one example of the delicacy to be expected in the conduct of one's affairs. Seldom did anyone mention that chambers—many five stories deep—lay beneath the Bahnhofstrasse, packed with ingots and the wealth of nations. In fact, this was the world's largest gold market. The banks that faced the street or hid out on side avenues were so powerful that they not only dictated decisions in Switzerland's capital but swayed others in metropolises around the globe.

Terrill Leaming was a senior executive at the Darmond Bank AG, located in a baronial building a block off the Paradeplatz. No windows faced the street. Only the address—not the bank's name—showed on a brass plaque beside the ebony door. A guard in a dark business suit, a bowler squarely on his head and a subtle bulge beneath his armpit, stood on the marble steps. Walk-in trade was discouraged at Darmond.

Simon told the guard his name, and the guard announced him on a walkie-talkie. The guard never smiled. Simon hardly felt cheerful himself as they waited together on the steps. He had tried to block the horror of Viera's death from his mind, but as the waiting stretched, it flooded back.

After his meeting with the anonymous man in St. Martin's Cathedral, he had returned to his apartment to shower, change, and pound out his report for MI6. He left it rolled up inside a crushed Coke can at the foot of a maple near the old bridge. At the same time, he casually picked up a rumpled McDonald's hamburger sack, advertising in Slovak, of course. Traditionally, public bathrooms were the most popular location for dead drops, but he had always favored the outdoors, where he could run if he had to. Once out of sight of the drop, he removed a tightly folded sheet of paper and tossed the sack into a trash can.

At a small café in the shadow of St. Michael's Gate, he fortified himself with a fresh hard roll and strong black coffee before opening the paper. Inside was another sheet of paper. The first was a coded note from Ada, ordering him to a safe house in Florence, complete with street address and a curt message:
Viera Jozef left a statement for the world. Copy enclosed. Under no circumstances leave Florence until contacted.

His throat tight, he took a long drink of the black coffee and opened Viera's last words. He read slowly. They were a plea for the rich to give as much as they took, to practice humanity, not worship profit. It was all very biblical-sounding, although Viera had been an atheist. In the note, she asked her brother and comrades to understand, to fight on, and to forgive her. No mention of him. Odd that he was surprised; odder that he was hurt. What had he expected?

For a moment, the sight of her fiery end filled his eyes. He blinked back moistness, tore the paper into fragments, and let them drop onto the table. As he brushed them into a tiny pile like the ashes of a dead fire, he reread his orders. Nice of Ada to send him to Florence. Stunning city, full of distractions, far from the action, and where he had no intention of going. He had ripped that message into bits, too.

Now it was three o'clock in the afternoon, and he was waiting on the steps of the swank Darmond Bank. His bag was checked into a downtown locker, and his gun was holstered at the small of his back, beneath his tan sports coat. He had been able to carry it into Switzerland courtesy of his MI6 identification.

It was time to put Viera and whatever mistakes he had made with her behind him, although he did not know exactly how. As he thought that, there was a low beep from the guard's walkie-talkie.

The fellow lifted it to his ear.
“Ja?”
He listened, his morose expression unchanged, and turned as a quiet click sounded inside the bank's oversize door, indicating it was being electrically unlocked from somewhere inside.

The guard pulled it open, and Simon entered the hushed lobby. He repressed a whistle of appreciation. The lobby was three stories high, with Roman columns in white marble around the perimeter. The place was large enough for two cricket pitches and regal enough for a dinner party for the queen. A receptionist sat at a shamefully ornate desk a good twenty feet away. Above him, bankers and clerks rushed silently from office to office along open walkways lined with lacy black wrought iron. He imagined a rajah would feel right at home when he arrived to deposit his jewels and bullion.

“Simon?” To his right, a filigreed elevator door opened. Terrill Leaming walked out, grayer, more hunched, but looking sleek as an overweight otter. A worried otter.

They shook hands. “Good to see you, Terrill.”

“Wouldn't have recognized you, Simon. How long has it been?”

“Dad's funeral. Five years.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He seemed to hardly listen, his mind somewhere else. “What can I do for you?” No invitation to go up to his office, where they could converse privately.

Simon kept his voice low. “I need to talk to you about Dad's death.”

Leaming glanced nervously around, distracted, as if expecting wolves to attack.

Simon said, “It might not have been a simple suicide, Terrill. I've been told an assassin and blackmail were involved and that you have information I need.”

Leaming's knees seemed to buckle. Simon grabbed his arm to support him.

Leaming cleared his throat. “My…my afternoon's full. Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow! Come back tomorrow.”

Simon leaned close. “You're afraid of something. Mention of Dad's suicide has increased it. Talk to me, Terrill. It makes no difference to me where. Or I can make one hell of a bloody scene right here.”

The receptionist scowled, her gaze on Simon's hand, where he supported Terrill's arm. She probably spoke not only the usual German and French but also English and several other languages.

Smiling, Simon announced heartily, “A walk, Terrill? That's a splendid idea. A breath of the outdoors. Better than a stuffy office, what?”

Terrill finally looked him in the eyes. Simon saw the fear he expected but also an odd kind of acceptance and more—hope.

The banker gave an eager nod. “Yes, yes. Been cooped up here, that's true. There's a tea shop on the Paradeplatz you'll like.”

Two minutes later, they were outside and walking fast. Gleaming Citroëns, BMWs, and Rolls-Royces glided past, windows darkened. People strolled under the trees, intent on shopping. Terrill peered anxiously around, walking defensively, like a spooked deer, still expecting those wolves to attack.

“Has someone been following you? Watching you? Is that the problem?”

Terrill nodded dumbly, as if too frightened to speak.

Simon used the reflection of a boutique window to inspect the sidewalk and street. “I see no one suspicious.”

“They're here.” Terrill's voice radiated doom. He seemed to make a decision. “I've heard rumors you're MI6, Simon. Is it true?”

Simon studied the distraught banker. The first rule in intelligence was you revealed that to no one outside the life, no one at all, except your spouse, and not always to her or him. But Simon also believed there were times rules must be broken.

“Yes, it's true. But it goes no farther, understand?”

Terrill nodded anxiously. “Of course.”

“What kind of trouble are you in?”

They were approaching Paradeplatz, where Zurich's blue-and-white electric trams rimmed the square, nannies pushed prams, tourists took photos, and young lovers swung shopping bags and exchanged excited, purchase-induced kisses in the sunshine. At the edge of it, the tea shop Terrill had suggested was an oasis of peace. They chose an outdoor table and ordered tea—delicate Formosa oolong for Terrill and strong, biting Lapsang souchong for Simon—and waited for the waiter to bustle away.

“I've…I've just arranged to put my entire estate in trust,” Terrill told him. His eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted. “I'd planned to go to the police this afternoon, but you arrived first. I believe my bank has set me up, and I'll soon be arrested. Or worse.”

“Or worse?” Simon repeated sympathetically, repressing impatience. “No wonder you're worried. I'll tell you what…I'll help you reach the police safely if you'll fill me in about Dad's death.”

Terrill peered down at the lace tablecloth and nodded. “Thank you. Yes, thank you very much. What do you want to know?”

“Did he kill himself because he'd once hired an assassin and was being blackmailed for it?”

“I'm afraid that's true.” Terrill looked up. “He wasn't proud of what he'd done, you understand, but he felt it necessary. He told me he'd accept the consequences in this world and the next. When the time came…when he was being blackmailed, that's what he did. A strong man, your father.”

Simon's chest tightened. It had been
necessary
? Bullshit. Whacking a killer was a stopgap answer for an ongoing institutional problem of favoritism, irresponsibility, and dishonesty that invited heinous crimes, then covered them up.

“How is what Dad did connected to your trouble?”

They paused as their tea arrived.

As soon as the waiter left, Terrill shifted in his chair, sipped from his cup, and checked out the
Platz.
“Do you know much about the Darmond Bank?”

“Old money, old social standing, quiet power. Infamously elite. I read that a would-be client with a net worth of less than a million Swiss francs tried to make a deposit once. Apparently, your bank declined, put him in its Rolls-Royce, and drove him to a crosstown competitor.”

Terrill almost smiled. “The story's true. The Darmond Bank operates at a rarefied fiscal level. For thirty years, I worked closely with the chairman, Baron de Darmond, handling money matters for Europe's most prominent citizens.” His shoulders slumped, and he whispered, “While serving these clients…the baron, the bank, and I barely eluded being swept up in some of the shabbiest financial scandals in recent times, everything from BCCI to Banca de Tebaldi.”

“You were involved in BCCI and Tebaldi?”

“In other questionable matters as well. Some of our top Italian families wanted to evade Italy's capital controls and taxes, so the baron and I founded fake companies to hide the true ownership of their assets, and then we lied about it to the Italian courts. I'm not proud of this, but at the time it seemed to make business sense.”

“Somehow, it always does,” Simon said with barely concealed scorn. He drank tea and put down his cup. “Is that why you're afraid?”

“I wish it were only that. Do you know the name Giovanni de Tebaldi?”

“The banker found hanged to death under Blackfriars Bridge back in '82?”

Terrill took out a silk handkerchief and mopped his face. A diamond ring—at least a full two carats—glinted on his thumb. “Yes. He was a criminal. A maverick who refused to cooperate with Europe's financial community. When the baron decided he had to be eliminated, I delivered a suitcase containing a half million dollars to a professional assassin. Now Italy's tax authorities are inquiring again, and this time the prosecutor wants blood. The baron's terrified something about Tebaldi's murder will come out. I think he's setting me up to be his scapegoat.” His haunted gaze fixed on Simon. “And I'm being blackmailed about Tebaldi's murder, too, just like your father five years ago.”

So that was why Terrill had nearly collapsed at the bank—blackmail. “You both hired the same assassin,” Simon guessed.

“Yes. I told your father I was in a similar position, and he put me in touch with his man—someone named the Carnivore. I can't believe I followed through.”

The Carnivore.
Simon controlled his expression, showing no sign of the jolt that had given him. His father had retained his own brother-in-law. He wondered whether Sir Robert knew that.

Rage flashed in Terrill's eyes. “But I'm not finished. I'll confess everything and take the bloody baron, the bank—
everyone
—down with me.” He had managed to avoid all references to ethics and morality. What propelled him were fear and revenge.

“I've heard of the Carnivore,” Simon said cautiously, since Terrill seemed not to know the relationship between the Carnivore and his family. “As I recall, he was something of a legend. But he's dead now. He can't be your blackmailer.”

“True. But your father believed he kept files, and that the blackmailer had them. There was no other way anyone could have learned what Sir Robert had done.”

“And what you did.” Simon's mind moved quickly elsewhere, grappling. Christ!
The Carnivore had made a record.
That meant the highest level of names, dates, places. Perhaps not only who hired him but also the people around the targets—innocent people as well as those involved in embarrassing peccadilloes they wanted to keep private or felonies or even homicides.

Simon's voice was neutral. “So whoever has the files is the blackmailer. Did my father have any idea who that might be?”

Terrill shook his head. “No, but he thought he knew how the bastard got them.”

Simon's brows raised. “How?”

“From the Carnivore's wife. It seems your father knew who she was. She died in an accident six months before he was blackmailed.”

Aunt Melanie.
“Dad thought she'd given the files to someone?”

“No, someone else in her family might've taken them. He suspected one of her brothers, but he refused to tell me who, because he had no evidence. He said it'd change nothing, and innocent people would be hurt. As I said, he was a strong man.”