The Coil (27 page)

From the air, the lights of nighttime Paris dazzled from horizon to horizon. Sir Anthony Brookshire admired the panorama from his window in his private jet as it circled downward toward Charles de Gaulle Airport. The sight brought back memories of the 1950s, when he was a teenager and accompanied his mother and aunt to Paris for shopping, culture, and “life,” as they enthusiastically called it. They would leave from Victoria Station, take the Newhaven–Dieppe ferry, and stay at the Ritz or the Bristol.

Often it was dinner at the Crillon, where diplomats from nearby Embassy Row bought and sold Third World countries in the elegant bar, followed by late-night drinks at any number of private homes or bistros, where affairs of state were far more important than affairs of the heart. He swam in the piscine Deligny, learned about Kronenbourg beer at a jazz cellar in Saint-Germain from streetwise older boys who thought they could take advantage of his generous allowance, and at dawn walked to the place de Clichy alone, where Paris never slept: Already street cleaners were scrubbing the streets, while people thronged the cafés for coffee.

But by the time he was twenty, everything had changed: His mother and father divorced. His aunt was dead of alcoholism—her liver finally failing. He was about to graduate from Cambridge, and he had “A Future.” There was no more time for midnight swims or to listen for the romantic call of jazz wafting across the Channel. Sir Anthony was hardly a nostalgic man, but the world pressed heavily on him tonight, just as it had then. He had not thought about Paris so sentimentally in a long time.

As the jet landed and rolled to a stop, he sat back. The business of the Carnivore's files was difficult. Still, no matter how unpleasant, he would resolve it.

“Shall I fetch you a drink, sir?” His man, Beebee, appeared at his side. Beebee's real name was Horace Bedell, but Sir Anthony's oldest child, Thomas, had been unable to say Bedell when he was a little boy.

“A brandy will do. The Cordon Bleu, I should think. Two snifters, eh?”

“Of course, sir.” The voice faded. Footsteps retreated. Soon Beebee returned. A cut-glass snifter touched the back of Sir Anthony's hand. “Here we are, sir.”

Sir Anthony picked up the snifter by the base. He sipped, savoring the fiery liquor as it warmed his throat. Beebee set the other snifter on the small table attached to the over-stuffed seat across the aisle and returned to the bar, where he resumed polishing the already-polished glasses.

As the jet's powerful Rolls-Royce engines quieted, the door opened. Sir Anthony heard the brisk footsteps of his passenger climbing the rolling staircase. He gathered himself, banishing maudlin thoughts that might interfere with hard decisions.

He stood, ran his hands down his suit jacket, and straightened his tie.

Themis stepped into the jet, and Sir Anthony walked to him. They shook hands.

“Good to see you,” Sir Anthony told him. “How was business in Paris?”

“Tolerable. How was your flight from Brussels?”

Themis—Nicholas Inglethorpe—was tall and rangy, with swept-back golden hair showing flecks of gray, a strong jaw, and an aquiline nose. Dressed in his Armani suit, the media magnate radiated charm and intelligence. Sir Anthony had known him twenty years, since he was an untidy young hotshot in jeans and sweaters, buying up radio stations in America's South and plotting to create an empire. Now he was the kingpin of InterDirections, wore designer suits, and had his nails manicured and his hair cut by “artists” in his office high above Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles.

Still, the sharpness in his gaze and the hunger in his face had only deepened with the years. Obsessed with success, he was worth billions, and although he had adopted the trappings of genteel society, he remained a pirate at heart and, as such, not completely reliable. Which was why Sir Anthony needed him now.

“The flight's been uneventful,” Sir Anthony told him, “but the drive to the airport was a bloody nightmare.”

“Always is.”

“How are Mindy and the children?”

“Out of my hair, thank God. They're at our place on Majorca for a few weeks.”

“Pleasant there this time of year.” Sir Anthony stepped back into the cabin. “Good of you to join me. Did your assistant go on ahead?”

“She'll meet me in Belgravia.” Inglethorpe maintained one of his homes in that swank London neighborhood. His assistant was one of his mistresses.

“Fine.” Sir Anthony resumed his seat and gestured. Inglethorpe sat across from him and loosened his tie. Sir Anthony watched, disapproving. That was an American for you. They tried to excuse informality for any number of reasons ranging from comfort to an expression of equality, but in truth, it was bad manners and sloth.

As the noise of the jet engines increased, Inglethorpe pulled off the tie, picked up his brandy, and inhaled appreciatively. “Always thinking ahead. Cordon Bleu.” He raised his glass in a toast. “'Preciate it, Cro—”

Cronus shook his head in warning. He turned. “Thank you, Beebee.”

He watched as his servant left the bar, headed down the aisle past them, and stepped into the cockpit, where he would stay until summoned. As Cronus turned back in his seat, he caught his reflection in the window on the other side of the jet—perfectly groomed silver-gray hair, baby pink cheeks, and a look of stern wisdom that he had cultivated into a personality trait. The contrast with Themis in age and demeanor was noticeable—two titans in their own right, but with twenty years' difference between them, one coolly representing the Old World, the other aggressively the New.

Inglethorpe said mildly, “After so many years, surely he knows about the Coil.”

“Probably, but I expect him to be discreet, even with me. Never rub an employee's nose in a secret while at the same time telling him he must not know about it. Tends to make even the most loyal resentful.”

“All these code names are a nuisance anyway.”

“They're necessary.”

“Oh, for God's sake. Our cells are scrambled. No one can listen in. The electronic age has arrived.”

Sir Anthony bristled. “The code has been an important part of our security protocols for more than fifty years. It's crucial we keep the Coil secret, now more than ever. Possibly the code
is
outdated, but it's served us well. What's that wretched expression you Americans employ?”

“If it ain't broke, don't fix it.”

Sir Anthony winced. “Yes.”

Inglethorpe shrugged and raised his glass. “To the Coil.”

“To the Coil,” Sir Anthony agreed, “and I think we can at least dispense with the code names here, don't you, Nick?”

“Ah, hell, I don't know, Tony. I kind of like them.” Nicholas Inglethorpe laughed.

Sir Anthony smiled.

They drank and eyed each other as the jet taxied toward the runway.

Inglethorpe set down his glass. “All right, there's a reason you invited me to ride with you. Let's have it.”

“You heard about Hyperion?”

“De Darmond? Yes, of course. Terrible thing. As a matter of fact, I'd just recently applied to his bank for a hefty loan for InterDirections.” Inglethorpe dusted an imaginary speck from his slacks. “It would've been a good investment for Hyperion.”

His voice was nonchalant, but Sir Anthony detected worry about where the money would come from now. He repressed a cutting remark about InterDirections. It was a media conglomerate stamped with its assembler's personality, because, in the end, Inglethorpe had done far more assembling than building. Building required years of patience—creating good products and convincing more people to buy. Mergers and acquisitions was simply mechanics—knowing how to move the money around and where the bodies were buried. One never ran out of bodies, but financing such paper growth required an endless flow of capital…or corrupt accountants. But in these days of sensitivity to corporate fraud, it was better to hire reputable accountants and borrow the cash. He had heard Inglethorpe was on a new merger spree, this time in Germany.

Sir Anthony said, “Our man Duchesne says the French police are holding back information about the murder while they investigate.”

There was a bright look in Inglethorpe's blue gaze. “It
is
high profile. Does Duchesne know what they're not saying?”

“The baron apparently had an unlogged visitor he met personally at a side entrance, lunched with on his private terrace, and escorted unseen up to his office. According to the servants, he was secretive about his most powerful clients.”

“One of the reasons the baron is—or was—in trouble with the authorities, no doubt. Did anyone see this ‘visitor'?”

“One servant—the underbutler, who served lunch. He was also killed. Nasty bit of work, that. Found stabbed to death.”

Inglethorpe stared into his glass. “Not surprising, I suppose. He would've been able to identify the killer.” He looked up. “Do the police have any evidence?”

“One small oddity. A footman stole a car at about the same time. The problem is, all of the servants were accounted for. Still, the guard at the gatehouse swears he saw a man in a footman's uniform drive away in the stolen car. It was found later in Chantilly.”

Inglethorpe sipped brandy. “The car hardly levitated there. What do you make of it? Was the thief the killer?”

Sir Anthony was about to give an incomplete answer, when the intercom announced they would take off now. He drank deeply as the engines roared and the jet sped down the runway. The wheels lifted smoothly, and the craft climbed, banking north. He gazed down again at the vast sea of glinting lights, but instead of romance, he now saw a hardworking city winding down toward exhausted sleep, a place where a lot could go wrong and did. Where the leading member of a legendary banking dynasty could be killed on his highly secure estate, while the police had few clues.

Nick Inglethorpe said, “Is there anything more about the baron's murder?”

Again Sir Anthony noted Themis's interest. Still, he must not read too much into it. After all, the baron's death also might mean the end of his best chance to secure a loan at the sort of favorable conditions one member of the Coil was inclined to give another.

“That's the only information I have,” Sir Anthony said, “except, of course, that the baroness is distraught.”

“To be expected.”

“There'll be a large funeral. A cortege the length of the Champs-Elysées, or at least that's what she hopes for. From her viewpoint, not unrealistic, considering his prominence and their two families.”

The men nodded to each other.

“We'll have to elect a replacement,” Inglethorpe said carefully. He was junior—at only five years, the most recent addition to the Coil—and had not yet participated in choosing a new member. “Have anyone in mind? Someone from Europe, of course, to keep the balance with the United States equal.”

“I have ideas. I'm certain you must, too.”

“The baron's brother comes to mind,” Inglethorpe said immediately. “He'll take over running the bank now, no doubt.”

“No doubt.” And if he were the new Hyperion, InterDirection's loan would likely be advantageously funded. Sir Anthony asked the question that had been burning in his mind: “Any thoughts about who would've wanted to kill the baron?”

Inglethorpe's blond eyebrows rose, and he looked away. “As I said, he was in trouble with the authorities. Perhaps one of his clients ordered it. It'd be smart to kill him in France, away from Zurich.” He moved his pale gaze back to study Sir Anthony. “Tell me the rest. What about the Carnivore's files? Have we found anything?”

“About the files, still nothing. But Mac's been murdered, and Liz Sansborough has discovered her cell was bugged. She's on the run, but since she met her cousin Simon Childs in London, it's likely she'll contact him.” He paused. He knew the Childs family well. “Simon Childs is MI6.”

Inglethorpe swore a long string of barbaric American oaths.

“Childs learned his father was being blackmailed,” Sir Anthony went on, “and now he's on a private crusade to find who has the files, too. This could be beneficial, if we can keep him quiet as well as track him.”

“And if he's not doing it for MI6,” Inglethorpe snapped.

“Apparently, he's not. But then there's still the CIA. Sansborough contacted her old door, because of course she thought she'd been working with the CIA.”

Inglethorpe exploded. “How could you let this get so out of hand! Sansborough's vanished, MI6 and Langley could be burning our heels any moment, and we
still
don't know where the damn files are or who has them! You're the leader of the Coil, dammit! This falls on
your
shoulders!”

Sir Anthony repressed a sharp retort. “I'm not the leader in the way you mean, Nick, and you bloody well know it. I'm simply first among equals. Remember, I have only one vote. We—all of us—decided on this plan. Once we saw the vast amount of publicity her TV series was receiving, and that she was planning a show on assassins, what else could we do? There was no way the blackmailer would risk millions of viewers knowing about the files. You concurred, or you wouldn't have canceled her show. As it turns out, we were right. Sansborough was almost killed in Santa Barbara.”

“It was a decision born of desperation,” Inglethorpe said stubbornly.

“It's a desperate situation. We must find those files!”

“Does the rest of the Coil know what's happened?”

“I'll be bringing them up-to-date. Of course, we'll have to meet tonight now.”

Inglethorpe fixed his hard gaze on Cronus. “You want something. What is it?”

It was time to make the brash American wait. Sir Anthony finished his brandy, enjoying its polish and richness and then the smooth rhythm of his jet in flight. There was no substitute for money and the quality it could buy. He set the snifter onto his table, and his cool, implacable gaze settled on young Inglethorpe. Inglethorpe was glaring, but there was nervousness around his eyes.
Good.