The Coil (19 page)

“You didn't like being a pillow?”

He grinned. “Actually, it was pleasant.”

He could not get over how much she looked like Liz. It was strange to realize that everything his memory and emotions said was wrong. Despite his tiredness, he was infused with that restless feeling he remembered from his youth, of the hormones that had controlled his life and still played a profound role. But it was more than that. Liz had been an untouchable icon, older, imbued with the wisdom of active sexuality. Utterly desirable, and completely out of reach.

He remembered the jerk she had married. Garrett something. CIA. There were rumors in the family she joined the Company to be able to spend more time with him. But then Garrett was sent to the Middle East, where terrorists nabbed and killed him. The last Simon heard, Liz was living in California and teaching at university.

He cleared his throat. “I have a confession to make.”

Liz hedged: “I'm not sure confessions are a good idea right now.” She had an uncomfortable feeling what it would be.

Simon swore silently to himself.
What was he thinking?
Guilt washed through him. She was not Liz. She was Sarah Walker, and he knew little more about her than what he had read in her dossier.

Still, he had started. “Maybe not, but you should know that if I've been acting a bit strange, it's because you remind me so much of Liz. I apologize.”

“No apology necessary.”

“No, really. I am sorry. You see…the truth is…well, I suppose I should just come right out and say it. I had a horrendous crush on Liz when I was growing up. Now you're really smiling. I'm sure you think it was complete idiocy, the age difference and all, but I worshiped her. Yes, I really did. I used to sneak around, following her, when she'd come home on holiday from Cambridge. Can you believe the bastard she married? Garrett something, wasn't it?”

“
Garrick.
Garrick Richmond. You thought he was a bastard?”

“Didn't you?”

“Never met him. But I think it's safe to say Liz eventually realized he was rotten husband material.”

“You're tactful, like her.”

“You thought Liz was tactful? My goodness, you were deluded.” Strange to be speaking of herself in the third person. “Weren't you the one who said just a few hours ago that Liz would've shoved a gun into your carotid artery? Since when is that ‘tactful'? Okay, you've made your confession, only it's Liz you should tell, not me.” Uneasily, she looked around the garage and checked her watch. “It's time to go.” She opened her shoulder bag. From it, she took out Sarah's glasses, Asher's beret, and the brown jacket.

As she put them on, Simon watched, assessing. “
That's
your disguise?”

“It'll do the job.”

He was dubious, but stopping her was like stopping a force of nature. “We'll find out soon enough.”

“I'll go first,” she told him. “We should get our tickets separately.”

“Agreed. And we'd better not sit together on the train.”

“Good idea.”

Liz climbed out of the car. Lights high on the walls glowed through the concrete gloom. She adjusted the ugly jacket and walked toward the escalator, changing her posture with each step. She felt heavy with the weight of her mother's murder. Even though her mother had escaped her clandestine life, she had still been killed because of it. Maybe no one escaped.

Simon followed, watching with surprise. Sarah appeared to be sinking into herself, growing shorter, softer, almost beaten, but defiant about it. He wanted to compliment her, to tell her he admired what she could do, but she was pulling farther ahead, scurrying like a timid mouse. By the time they entered the international terminal, he saw little in her that looked like Sarah Walker. It was a good thing, and not just because of the police. If one killer had been sent after her, others would be, too.

The lobby's vast open space rang with voices, moving feet, rolling suitcases, and announcements. Liz forgot Simon and his assumptions, because as she advanced toward the ticket counter, two helmeted bobbies appeared. Her pulse raced. She ached to turn away, but such a move might attract their attention.

She forced herself to breathe evenly as the men's gazes swept the airy lobby. Almost in unison, they settled on her. She hunched deeper into herself and continued her awkward gait, peering through Sarah's glasses, pretending desperate nearsightedness, while she watched the policemen covertly with her peripheral vision.

To her far left, Simon showed his MI6 credentials at one of the windows and disappeared behind to get clearance to carry his Beretta onto the Eurostar. That could take seconds or a very long time, if they decided to get official.

As she stepped up to another window, the policemen separated and continued their patrol.

“Gare du Nord, please.” She gave the name in which she had made her reservation—Sarah Walker.

“Your passport, ma'am.” Gray-haired and serious in his pressed uniform, the ticket agent peered at her over rimless glasses. Age lines crosshatched his forehead and cheeks.

“Yes, sir,” she said softly, maintaining her shy persona. She opened Sarah's passport.

As he bent over it, turning pages, she saw a uniformed employee step out of a door and into the long cage in which the ticket agents worked. He marched behind the agents, setting a flyer on the counter next to each. Liz gave the flyer at the elbow of her agent a sharp look. Her heart seemed to stop. The flyer was upside down from her vantage point, but she could see it was official—from Scotland Yard.

Her mouth went dry as she saw the words
Patricia Warren Childs
and
murder
and
East End.
The drawing resembled her, the potential murderess, but it was not perfect, and she looked even more different because of her glasses, beret, and timid character. But if the ticket agent were to connect the drawing and the passport photo, it would be too much of a coincidence even for a casual inspection. If he summoned the bobbies and they searched her purse, they would find two passports in two different names, but apparently with the same face on both. For that alone they would arrest her, and detention would end any chance she had to find the Carnivore's files and save Sarah. Inwardly, she cursed herself for not hiding her own passport.

The agent stopped flipping pages and studied her photo.

She had to do something quickly, before he checked the drawing. Quickly, she noted his gray hair and deeply lined face. He was at least a hard-lived sixty. That gave her an idea…. It was human nature to worry about one's health, especially as one grew older.

As he looked up from the photo to her and back down again, she shoved a hand into her shoulder bag.

“Here's my California driver's license,” she said apologetically, opening Sarah's wallet to show him and confirm she was the woman in the passport photo. “This photo and the one in my passport were taken before my macular degeneration got so bad.” She leaned forward and touched the large eyeglasses she wore and whispered, “I see you wear glasses, too. I hope you don't have anything seriously wrong with your eyes.”

Without thinking, he pushed his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. “You don't look like either of the pictures,” he accused.

“I wish I still did.” She gazed around unfocused. “I was going to ask you which direction the trains are. I'm not blind yet, so I don't need a cane, but distant signs are hard to read. Some directions would help—if you wouldn't mind.”

She hid her nervousness as she glanced at him. His severe expression had softened a fraction. Now was the time to push him, despite the risk he might balk and call in help.

“I'm going to have to give up my driver's license when I go home,” she explained. “I can't really see well enough to drive anymore. Going blind's shaken my confidence, or that's what my therapist says. I used to be pretty, don't you think?”

She smiled bravely.

His face collapsed. “Yes, very.”

Thank God for the kindness of people. “Could you please give me those directions?”

That did it. He pointed and talked. She collected her passport and driver's license and thanked him. Simon was sitting on a nearby bench, pretending to read the
Times.
He lifted his chin in an inconspicuous nod, his gaze wary. She hurried toward the trains. He stood up, folded the newspaper under his arm, and followed.

Paris, France

On the long trip from London, Liz and Simon arranged to sit within sight of each other so they could take turns sleeping and keeping watch. When they reached Paris, he rented a car, while she caught a taxi.

As soon as she settled into the backseat, she dialed Mac, but there was no answer. She left a message asking him to call, then turned her thoughts to Asher, hoping he felt better and had good news about Sarah. She wanted to tell him about London, about Tish's murder, and about Simon and MI6 and that they had learned that Melanie and Mark had been killed and the files eventually sold. Of course, she could tell none of this to Mac. To do that was to risk that whatever information she gave him would go straight to the killers who were pursuing her.

By the time she hurried into the hospital, it was early afternoon. Nurses were readying midday meds, and techs were wheeling patients to physical therapy. The hall smelled of tiredness and Lysol. As she hurried toward Asher's door, she frowned. The chair outside was gone. No sentry—CIA or otherwise—was in sight. The door was open, and she looked inside immediately.

The man asleep in the bed was balding, nearly seventy, with rolls of fat under his chin. Definitely not Asher.

She hurried back to the nurses' station. “Where has Asher Flores been moved?”

“Ah, yes, Madame Flores.” It was the same nurse as yesterday. “You were not informed?”

“Informed of what? What's happened to Asher?”

The nurse's eyes grew large. “He has been checked out. You did not know?”

“I had to go out of town.”

Why would Langley move Asher from where he was safe and getting the treatment he needed? Maybe it meant good news. Maybe Langley had found Sarah, reunited her with Asher, and they were flying home safely, under medical supervision.

But if that were true, Mac would have called. “Where did they take him?”

“We were not told, madame. It is, after all, none of our business. Once monsieur was beyond our portals, the American doctor was in complete charge.”

“An American doctor was with him? Who?”

“The one the guard brought. I am sorry. I should have said that first thing. I am sure monsieur will be excellent.”

Liz strode away, thinking hard. Even if Sarah were safe, Liz would still have to search for the blackmailer and the files, but the pressure would be off. The best way to find out what all this meant was to call Mac. Traffic droned as she listened to Mac's line ring and ring. They were supposed to stay in touch. Where was he?

At last, she hailed a taxi and climbed inside. “Hôtel Valhalla. The fastest route,
s'il vous plaît.
” She stared into the rearview mirror, catching part of the driver's face. “Did you pick me up at the Gare du Nord today?”

He wore sunglasses and a cap. His narrow face showed surprise. “
Oui, mademoiselle.
Lucky for me you left the hospital when you did. I needed another fare.”

On the trip here, he had driven with the flair and special knowledge of the best Paris drivers. “Good,” she decided. “I need to get to my hotel quickly.”

“Afternoon traffic is difficult, as you know.”

“Twenty euros if you can do it in under a half hour.”

“Ah, inspiration!”

He pumped the accelerator and sped around one of the city's ubiquitous Renault Twingos, careening inches from its front fender. She sat back as he rushed the taxi onward, weaving and dodging, pounding his horn for emphasis. Taxis dominated the city's boulevards and streets. Everywhere she looked, they cruised and rushed and wove, their rectangular signal lights rising like baguettes above the rooflines of other cars.

Again she tried Mac. Again there was no answer. Time seemed to suspend as she gazed unseeing out the window. Finally, the taxi skidded to a violent stop at her hotel. She gave the driver his promised tip and strode to the front desk. There was no message waiting there either.

She took the elevator upstairs, silently cursing its slowness, and ran to Sarah's room, unlocked the door, and entered carefully, her gaze taking it all in. Nothing was out of place. The room and bath were empty.

She bolted the door, flattened against the wall beside the bay window that overlooked the cross street, and peered down. There she was—Mac's spotter—the muscled woman with the chiseled haircut and the red-brown lipstick who had exchanged a glance with Mac outside the hospital yesterday. She was sitting on the bench at the bus stop again, but now she wore sunglasses and seemed to be gazing directly up at Liz's window. There was something different about her today, something that made Liz uneasy. Something had happened. But what?

There was no sign of Mac. Liz sighed and turned back into the room. That was when she noticed bits of plastic scattered around Sarah's notebook computer. Puzzled, she opened the machine. And froze, stunned. The interior was destroyed: the screen shattered and the keyboard in pieces.
Who—

She scrutinized the room again but could still see nothing unusual. The suitcases were where she had left them, the bed neatly made. Unslept-in, of course. Yet someone had broken in and destroyed Sarah's computer. Vandalism? No. A warning that she was not safe here.

She must tell Mac, but again he did not answer his cell. She shook her head, her chest tight with worry. In any case, it was time to change her appearance. She rechecked the door's dead bolt to make sure it was solid, then peeled off her clothes and ran into the shower.

As the warm water sluiced over her, the past two days returned with force. Was everything because of her father's files? After Sarah's kidnapping and the events in London, she had to believe so. Sarah's face appeared in her mind, and for a moment she was overcome with fear for her.

She toweled off, trying to imagine where Mac could be. She was not enthusiastic about dealing directly with the CIA again, even with the woman downstairs on the bus bench, but she might have to, to locate Mac. She dressed in black trousers and a charcoal knit top from the drawers that held Sarah's clothes—dark clothes were always better, less noticeable. She and Sarah favored them.

She opened the closet to find a fresh pair of shoes. There was a moment of hesitation, her eyes denying, her mind refusing…and then it penetrated.

She screamed. Instantly, she clamped a hand over her mouth. Bile rose into her throat. She had seen murder before, but this was somehow worse. So unexpected. Shocking. She forced herself to look again.

Mac's big body was sitting on the closet floor, leaning back against the wall, almost as if he were lounging. His clothes had been smoothed, his hair neatly combed, and his legs crossed. But a hypodermic syringe hung limply from the side of his neck, the needle buried so deeply it had disappeared. His eyes were wide open but lifeless.

She was not fully back in harness. Not yet inured to brutality. Not cool, not casual, not impersonal. For her, it was not simply part of the job, an assignment. No amount of experience or training lessened shock, but it helped control the reaction. At the Farm, you learned that everyone was vulnerable to shock. Only her scream had given her away.

She knelt beside him, closed his eyes, and listened to his chest. An empty void. She could not believe it.
Not Mac.
She sat back on her heels and told her heart to quit pounding so she could gaze at his cold marble face and remember when it had been full of both life and weary experience. He was a professional. He could take care of himself. He was so good he had been assigned to protect her.

No, she was wrong. Another thing the Farm taught was that no operative was so good that he or she was not at risk every minute. Every second.

Eyes burning, she backed up and sat on the bed. Despite her suspicion, despite his misrepresentations, she had liked Mac. A wave of anguish washed over her. Then she jumped up and ran to the window. She needed to alert the woman, warn her. But as soon as she looked down, her cell rang. Maybe it was Simon. She grabbed her purse and took out her cell and returned to the window.

“Come to me.” It was a woman's voice, a French accent.

Liz was startled. “What?”

“Come to me, and we will release Sarah Walker. Take the elevator downstairs and walk out the front door of the hotel. I will meet you. A van will arrive—the same black van that picked her up. You want her to be free, don't you?”

There was a lump in Liz's throat. She made her voice hard. “Bullshit. I've got no reason to think you have her, or, if you do, that you'd ever let her go.”

She focused on the intersection, on the woman who was her last living link to Mac. The woman was on her cell, standing now and still gazing up at Liz's window. The sense that Liz had felt earlier that something had happened remained, but now it was directed at her.

As Liz stared, the voice on her cell spoke, and the woman below mouthed the same words: “Tish Childs. Angus MacIntosh. It could be Sarah Walker next. What's the harm in talking? Come down. You want to see her, don't you?”

Liz paused, absorbing the blow. The glance the woman had shot Mac in front of the hospital had not been to alert him that she was there, his spotter. Liz had expected spotters and interpreted it wrongly.

“You killed him!” Liz accused.

“He did not have your welfare or your cousin's in his heart.”

More bullshit! “Just because he's dead doesn't mean she's alive—or that you have her. Who are you? What do you really want?”

The voice was soothing. “To save your cousin's life. I'll give you an hour to think about it. But only an hour. I know you love her—”

Liz stabbed the
OFF
button and fell to the side of the window to watch. The woman was closing her cell, her face tight with anger. There was no evidence she or her people had Sarah. In any case, from everything Liz knew, the group that wanted the files were the kidnappers, and they had Sarah. This woman did not. She worked for the blackmailer.

Enraged, Liz spun from the window, slapped on her shoes, and found the Sig Sauer still hidden behind the wall heater's grille. She checked to see whether it was loaded and strode to the door. And stopped.

What was she thinking?
She glared at the gun in her hand. And then she knew. She understood. This was what the woman wanted. The woman was provoking her. If Liz would not walk willingly into her clutches, then causing her to launch an enraged, unthinking attack was almost as good.

The woman had given her an hour. That was all.

Liz's first concerns were Sarah and the Carnivore's files. She was part of a CIA team trying to rescue her, find the files, and stop the blackmailer. Mac was her link to that team, and he was dead. She needed to reestablish the link. The fastest way was to bypass the local station chief and call Langley directly.

She set the gun on the bureau and used the scrambled cell Mac had given her to punch in a number she had memorized years ago but had never expected to use. It was a direct line for outcasts like herself.

“This is Red Jade,” she told the voice that answered. She recited her code number, and there was silence.

She dug the cell into her ear as she walked to the closet door, gazed once more at poor Mac, and closed it. She sat on the desk chair and stared down at her crooked finger. She had a vague memory of the terrible pain at the moment she fell and broke it and then of the lingering ache of healing. For some reason, she thought about Simon and gave a small smile. She vaguely recalled him as an adorable little boy. His childhood seemed a century ago. Hers even longer.

At last there was a crackle on the line, and her old Company door, to whom she had not spoken in years, said, “Red Jade?”

“Yes.”

“Your real name?”

“Liz Sansborough, Frank. For God's sakes, don't give me a hard time.” After her debriefing, Frank Edmunds had been assigned to her. Doors were special contacts for retired, semiretired, and otherwise less-than-active agents.

“Hell, Sansborough. It's been years. What did you expect?”

“I'm not going there with you, Frank. I called with bad news. Mac—Angus MacIntosh—has been killed.”

“Angus who?”

She repeated the name.

“He's one of ours?”

“Of course he's one of yours, dammit! Why the hell else would I call!”

“Okay, okay. He's not one of my bodies, so let me check.”

He put her on hold. The silence was deafening, and she wanted to scream again. At him. At Langley. At the world.

When he returned, his tone was cautious. “You're sure? MacIntosh, Angus?”

“Of course I'm sure. Why? What's going on?”

“What's going on is the last time we had someone on our roster by that name was 1963. He'd be ninety years old now. Is that your man?”

She was stunned. “You're just checking me out, right? Tell me…is Mac's operation coded top-secret, need-to-know? Because if it is, I'm part of it, too, and if anyone needs to know, it's me.”

“There's no operation. There's no one named Angus MacIntosh who's worked for us in any capacity for forty years. It's not a cover either, at least not according to the data bank. What's going on, Sansborough?”

What
was
going on? She was standing in a Paris hotel room with Mac's corpse in the closet and an unidentified female killer waiting on the street below as she tried to think of something sensible to say into a cell she did not own to a man she had not spoken to in years and whom she had never met in person.

“Sansborough?” he asked. “What are you doing? Are you freelancing?”

“No,” she said slowly, “I'm not freelancing.”

There was a brief silence. “Okay, Liz, then you need help. You must be having a flashback episode. They happen. I want you to come in and—”

She interrupted, “I need you to check two things, Frank. First, I was debriefed a second time in February 1998 in a safe house in Virginia. Grey Mellencamp himself interrogated me. Do you have access to those records, because I'd like a copy or at least to talk to someone about a transcript of the interview. Second, who at Langley arranged for me to win the Aylesworth Foundation chair?”