The Coil (20 page)

“I can answer the last myself. I worked on your debriefing, the first one anyway, and I never heard of that foundation until you got that award. When we cut you loose, we cut you loose.”

She felt stiff and cold, as if someone had drenched her in ice water. “You considered me totally compromised as an operative and of no more use?”

“We prefer to think of it as being returned whole to civilian life. You have no idea how many ex–field operatives we can't do that with. Of course, I checked on you occasionally, so I knew you won that appointment out in California. If there was anything hinky about it inside the Company, like a payoff, I would've found out. No, you were doing fine. We were glad for you, Sansborough.”

“Doing fine” was code for not doing anything to cause Langley trouble. But she knew different. The foundation had to have been working with Langley, even if Frank was out of the loop. The foundation people were damn good at hiding their tracks.

“Thanks for the information, Frank. Now will you check about the debriefing with Mellencamp?”

He put her on hold again. When he returned this time, there was more than caution in his voice; there was suspicion. “Liz, there's no record of a second debriefing, certainly not with Grey Mellencamp. Hell, he was secretary of state back then, and I can't see him bothering to debrief anyone, or us allowing him to, for that matter.”

“No
record
?” What was he talking about? “They took me to a safe house in Virginia. A big piece of real estate, surrounded by woods…”

Frank interrupted: “Never happened. That part of your file was closed after you came in and were interrogated. If we'd taken a second go at you, there would've been a notation, even if the documentation was eyes only.”

She shivered involuntarily. Then: “Who's Themis?”

“Themis? What are you talking about? I've never heard the name.” His voice deepened with distrust. “You
are
having flashbacks. You're hallucinating. I'd better send help. Where are you?”

“Where's Asher Flores? Sarah Walker?”

“Give me a sec.” Now he was humoring her. “Here we go: Flores is on leave in Paris with his wife. They're on
vacation,
for God's sake. Listen, stay where you are, Liz. This sounds bad. We're going to locate you and get you help. Now—”

He did not know about Sarah's kidnapping or Asher's being shot.
He really did not know.

If he did not even know she was in Paris…

Did not know about Mellencamp…

Did not know about Mac or Themis…or Asher lying injured in a hospital, guarded by a CIA man, and taken away God knows where…

Then he knew none of it…and neither did Langley.

Shaken, she broke the connection. From as far back as her meeting with Grey Mellencamp years ago, nothing had been CIA. The CIA had
not
been manipulating her. Neither the CIA nor the Sûreté was searching for Sarah. The CIA was
not
taking care of Asher or her.

Asher had been fooled, too. Was Sarah's kidnapping even real? Yes, it must be. Asher's wounds were. The danger was as bad. No, worse.

She no longer knew whom she could trust, where she could go. She cut the connection. Cold sweat bathed her. She was still living in a controlled, manipulated world. But controlled and manipulated by some anonymous person or group with staggering power.

Conference call from Paris, France

“What do you mean you've heard nothing, Cronus?”

“Be patient, Themis. I meant simply that there's nothing new of momentous import. Is everyone on?”

“Atlas here. I've been waiting for a report, too.”

“Why is this taking so long? This is Prometheus.”

“Ocean here. Do we have the files yet?”

“Gentlemen, please. Is Hyperion on the line?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Very good. Sansborough is back in Paris. She's discovered that Flores is missing from the hospital and is obviously disturbed by that. The last time Duchesne and I spoke, she was taxiing to her hotel. As soon as he has something for us, I'll let you know. What's important is that the pressure on her and on the blackmailer is increasing. Keep that in mind. Also that we've never had a failed operation. Considering our united desire to have the files and our willingness to do what's necessary, I have full confidence this one will end in complete success, too. It is only a matter of time.”

 

Angry and determined, Sarah Walker threw herself onto her cot and stretched onto her back, ankles crossed. She held up her hands, frozen in a curled position, and willed them to open. With a jolt of pain, her circulation returned, and she stretched her fingers. She sighed and dropped her throbbing hands to her sides.

The room was dry and dusty and full of cobwebs, as if it had been closed for years and forgotten. Sarah stared up at the ceiling. A long crack in the plaster curled across it like the River Seine. When it reached the far wall, the crack shattered into a delta of thick streams, cockroaches slipping in and out like pelicans dive-bombing. She watched with a strange curiosity, admiring their glossy shells while wondering what diseases they carried. That was such a weird reaction. Just one more reason she had to get out of here.

Sarah jumped up and stalked across the linoleum, shaking her hands, willing them to recover so she could get back to work. She had been here two days, which she knew because she still had her watch. But she had no idea where “here” was. Not only were the two windows covered by plywood, her kidnappers always wore nylon stockings over their heads and never spoke. From the time they shot Asher, threw her into the van, and hooded her, they had been the silent enemy—unseeable, unknowable, and disorienting. They had brought her up to this room in an elevator. But blindfolded, she had not even been able to count the floors.

When she reached the wall, she whirled and resumed her anxious trek. She was afraid for Asher. He might be dead. She wanted to scream. The last time she had seen him flashed into her mind—lying like a broken doll as the rain pounded down. So much blood. Too much!

She ached to see him. To hold him. To know he was alive. That was the most important reason she must get out of here. To find him.

With an act of will, Sarah forced him from her mind. She must think clearly. At the Ranch, she had learned the fundamentals of surviving capture:

From the moment you're taken, look for a way to escape.

Grab and hide any objects that come your way. Successful evasion and escape are often based upon the ordinary.

Never show weakness.

Remember, there is always hope.

Keep your mind busy so that fear, isolation, and despair don't paralyze you.

The first job she assigned herself was to search for hidden bugs and cameras. When she found none, she inspected the only piece of furniture—her cot, which, given the trail through the dust on the linoleum, had been dragged in recently. Nothing about it struck her as useful. The same had been true of the sink and toilet.

As she flexed her fingers, she paced past a pile of bicycle tires, an empty oil can, a footlocker of used clothes, empty crates labeled
CHINA
, matchbook covers and cigarette packs someone had collected into tidy bundles, and a mountain of green plastic gardening flats and pots. She could particularize them all, because she had investigated thoroughly. According to the disarray and the moved piles of dust, her captors had checked everything before deciding to lock her in here. But they had missed a prize.

Back at her cot, she picked up a man's work shirt and slipped her hands into the sleeves for protection. Gingerly, she took her treasure from where she had dropped it on the floor—thorn cutters. They were thin and small. She had found them and some forgotten packets of rose food between two gardening flats that were stuck together.

She looked up at the window. A sheet of plywood was nailed into the frame, sealing off light and darkness and escape. She had hacked around three of the nails on the right side, starting at the top, where the guards would be least likely to notice. She had stood on the cot to do it. Now she was working on the bottom corner, at shoulder height.

Sarah listened. Whenever she heard noise, she ran to the door to meet her kidnappers. The routine was they would step inside, give a cursory inspection to the room through their stocking masks, and leave a tray of food…or take it away. So far, none had bothered to come far enough inside to notice the gashes she had made in the wood. After all, she was hardly dangerous, just an ordinary female journalist.

When she heard no one approach, she gripped the clipper in one hand, wrapped the other hand around it for support, and jammed the point into the plywood. Again and again, grimacing, she hacked, the point sinking in, the point pulling out. Chips and splinters flew. Every few minutes, she stopped to sweep the debris close to the wall.

Chantilly, France

The Château de Darmond spread over rolling green hills near the picturesque village of Chantilly, some twenty-five miles north of Paris. In his rented Peugeot, Simon cruised toward it. The turrets and arched arcades of the impressive château rose above a high stone wall on which wire was strung almost invisibly, probably electrified or equipped with motion sensors.

As he approached the front, carved wooden gates swung open, and a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce glided out—a beautiful old Silver Cloud. In the back sat the baroness. She looked just like the photo he had pulled off the Internet—gray-haired and steely faced. The gatekeeper whisked off his cap. The baroness nodded. Noblesse oblige.

Simon continued around the estate, soon passing a kiosk at a second gate, this one for merchants and servants, according to the sign. He spotted sentries patrolling the perimeter. The place was well protected, difficult to breach in daylight. He would have to find another way in.

He accelerated back to the main road and continued on into Chantilly, where the baroness's Rolls was parked beside a row of picturesque shops. He hung a camera around his neck and strolled, looking in every window and taking photos of the flowers that fronted each. When at last he spotted the baroness in the patisserie, he sauntered in and admired the assortment of pastel meringues in the glass display case.

“You will deliver them to the château now,” the baroness said in French to the woman behind the counter.

“Of course, madame.” The woman had glistening pink cheeks. “With pleasure.”

This was more like it.
Back on the street, Simon checked his cell. No messages. He turned it off and took a few items from his gym bag, looking alertly around as he worked. He locked the bag in his trunk. Pulse throbbing into his ears, he kept his steps to an amble as he entered the bakery's drive. When he saw no one, he bolted down the drive and slid behind a Dumpster just as the driver stepped out of the back door, carrying a stack of pastry boxes. A slight, pretty woman of about eighteen, she slid the boxes onto shelves inside the van's rear doors and anchored them with bungee cords.

When she closed the doors and returned to the kitchen, Simon burst out, cracked a rear door open, and jumped inside. He closed it quietly and crouched beside the boxes, his muscles tense. With luck, the van would get him onto the estate. How he left was something he would have to deal with when the time came. Resourcefulness was key to any operative's survival.

At last, her footsteps returned. Since she had closed the van's doors, he expected her to get behind the wheel and drive off. Instead, she headed toward the back again. If she opened the doors, they would be almost nose-to-nose. Her footsteps were light but discernible on the asphalt. She stopped at the rear doors.

Swearing to himself, he scrambled into the front passenger seat, banging his shoulder on the dashboard, just as the girl yanked open the rear door. Cardboard slid. Bungee cord snapped. The door closed again, and he sighed and clambered back.

Before he had completely settled down, rubbing his shoulder, she jumped into the driver's seat, ground the engine to life, and shot off. She smoked Gauloises cigarettes and accelerated before every curve, making the van careen dangerously. As the bilious smoke mushroomed into the back, she gunned the engine and hurtled over a series of bumps, causing Simon to worry about not only his oxygen intake but his dental work. He held on to a door grip with both hands and braced his feet against the side of the van. No wonder she tied down the pastry boxes.

At last, she slammed to a stop at the Château de Darmond's service entrance, conversed with the guard, and drove sedately, innocently, onto the estate. Gravel crunched beneath the tires just before she parked. As soon as she jumped out, he slithered into the front.

“Monique! Good to see you!” A man's voice radiated appreciation in French.

As she answered, Simon rose up, peered out the windshield, and saw the man wore a chef's hat. It was only a matter of time until she unloaded, and Simon needed to be out of sight. He slid to the other side of the front, quietly opened the door, dropped to the ground, and pressed the door closed. Crouching, he watched their feet, which were now facing his way. At last, they turned toward the kitchen again, and he ran for it, diving behind bushes that lined the long kitchen wall.

Quickly, he took in the situation: The white van was parked at the kitchen door. The aromas of roasting meats wafted out an open window. Inside, a woman in a chef's hat worked. The area outside the kitchen was a partial courtyard that extended into a gravel parking lot hidden from the front and back of the château by the curve of the kitchen wing and a chest-high wall. Judging by the old cars that vastly outnumbered the new, this was an employee area.

He surveyed one more time and ducked low behind the bushes, working his way along the wall toward the front of the château. When three gardeners carrying clippers suddenly appeared from a woodsy path, he darted behind a buttress. For a moment, he thought he saw someone else inside the trees. Perhaps a sentry.

Finally, the gardeners disappeared, and he sped ahead, hugging the château until he could peer around another buttress. That's when he struck gold, and his smoke-clogged lungs and aching shoulder became meaningless: Not twenty feet away, two men in suits sat in a secluded patio, lunching like Eastern potentates at a linen-covered table beneath a striped umbrella, which protected them and the silver and the crystal as if from a relentless desert sun.

Simon recognized the long, wrinkled face of Baron Claude de Darmond, whose chair faced in his direction. Excellent. Having the baron occupied was an opportunity not to be missed. Somewhere inside the château, the baron would have an office, and Simon wanted to search it. He waited a few minutes longer, hoping the other man would turn. Perhaps he would recognize him, too. But the pair talked on, involved in some kind of intense discussion.

Simon gave up and backtracked. Cautiously, he opened a side door and stepped into a hall lined with antique tapestries, portraits, and miniature paintings. The air was hushed. He was sweating, pumped with adrenaline, as he hurried in the direction of the kitchen, passing a washroom and a cannery. He quickly located the male employees' staff room, where he found just what he needed—a footman's uniform that looked about his size.

It fit well enough to pass. He grabbed a silver tray from a stack beside the door, propped it onto his fingertips, wiped the sweat from his brow, and left to reconnoiter.

The formal sitting rooms were filled with antiques that glowed with the deep luster of centuries of polish. Lions' skins, stags' horns, and paintings glorifying the hunt decorated the dining room. As he padded onward, checking behind every door and looking into every archway, soft footsteps approached. He ducked inside a closet that smelled of bleach and lemon wax.

When the footsteps passed, he resumed his search, eventually heading upstairs.

That was where he found the baron's office, big enough for the
Queen Mary
and overlooking the front grounds. A Louis XIV desk and credenza stood at the far end, positioned in front of French doors. To the left was a walk-in fireplace, with large chairs arranged decoratively around. What identified this as the banker's personal haven was a wall dedicated to photos of him with various luminaries over the decades—everyone from Henry Kissinger to Maria Callas, from Arnold Schwarzenegger to former Prime Minister John Major, from both George Bushes to secretive multinational moguls.

In intelligence gathering, small was usually best. Simon had brought a miniature digital camera that looked like an English shilling. It could snap several images at a time. With it, he quickly recorded the wall of baronial photo ops. Then he hurried to the Louis XIV desk, where manila folders were stacked, waiting for the baron's attention.

There was no time to read. So Simon opened the first and went to work, photographing each page. He had reached the final file folder when voices approached out in the corridor. Quickly, he photographed the last three sheets of paper, dropped the “shilling” into his pocket with his left hand, restacked the folders with his right, while his feet backed toward the French doors.