The Coil (37 page)

Paris, France

As she ran downstairs, Liz tugged Asher's beret to her ears and put on Sarah's glasses. Simon pounded after, slamming his arms into the thin black leather jacket she had found for him. He snapped on his sunglasses and pulled his hair over his forehead. The clothes on Liz were loose and long while Simon's fit him nearly perfectly.

She landed on the first floor and sprinted. He was right behind. At the front door, they hid their pistols and looked each other up and down.

“You're good,” he decided. “Can't believe you play a mouse so well.” She had that same timid, weighed-down appearance that he had seen in Waterloo Station.

“Just goes to show how little you know me. I'm a retiring creature at heart.”

“Your nose just got a foot long, Pinocchia. What about me?”

“
Lout
comes to mind,” she said approvingly. “Also
hoodlum.
I was getting tired of that preppy look that you seem to think is the real you.”

He smiled. “Thank you.” Then the smile vanished. He inched open the door and peered out through the crack.

“Well?” she said.

In answer, he pulled it wider and slid out to the step. She was on his heels. Judging by the strident noise of the sirens, an entire antiterrorist squad was on its way. As the street cleared of anyone with something to hide, a dozen of Malko's gunmen poured into the florist's van. It screeched off, tires screaming.

“My God,” she said. “This may actually work.”

“Scary, isn't it?”

With enthusiasm, they watched the last two gunmen jump into the back of the Toyota. The driver gunned the engine, and the car exploded off toward the other end of the block. The dead man in the center of the front seat fell forward and was quickly yanked upright as the driver dodged from one lane of traffic to the next.

Only bewildered tourists remained on the sidewalks. As the sirens crescendoed, the old Pigalle buildings with their tawdry fronts and tacky signs took on a desolate air.

Liz and Simon glanced at each other and set off at a steady, ground-eating pace.

He kept a close watch for trouble as she dialed his cell. Any situation could reverse in an instant. When tires suddenly screeched, he spun in time to see the Toyota's door flung open and the body of the garage attendant thud out. With another squeal of tires, the Toyota rammed through the intersection, sending cars reeling, sparks flying. Squad cars pursued, their overhead beacons flashing angrily.

In the other direction, the van full of Malko's gunmen disappeared, successful in its getaway for now.

Simon inhaled, enjoying the moment of freedom. So far, so good. His gaze settled on Liz. His heart throbbed with an odd sensation as he listened to her murmur into the cell in a tone of voice that said “old friend.” He wondered whether her plan to get to England was workable. Still, he had nothing else to suggest, and she was determined. He had an unfamiliar willingness to trust her.

When she hung up, he said, “Will Faust do it?”

“Yes, we're in luck. Any problems?”

“Not yet.”

As he described with relish how the van and Toyota had turned tail and fled, locals drifted like cemetery ghosts back onto the block. This stretch of the boulevard de Clichy between place Pigalle and place Blanche was thick with peep shows and sex shops as well as live-sex parlors.

Warily surveying the street, Simon and Liz picked up their pace. Blue light spilled out of bars, turning white clothes eerily luminescent. Prostitutes wore Day-Glo gloves and made suggestive gestures, advertising hand jobs. Others flashed knives slipped into garter belts. People queued up to watch violent porn films. The air was filled with the odors of booze and trouble and desperate sex.

With relief, Liz noted no one's attention lingered on her, appraising. With her slouched posture and glasses, she was not only unattractive but uninteresting in the charged scene. Still, she could not shake her apprehension. Alongside her, Simon advanced as if he owned the street, the city, the world. Women cast glances at him over their shoulders, and men looked away.

At the place de Clichy Noctambus stop, they bought tickets and stepped aboard. Advancing down the aisle, they casually inspected faces and sat in the rear. Simon set his gym bag on the floor between them, leaned back, and sighed as the bus ground into motion. He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it off his forehead, and removed his sunglasses and slid them into his pocket, glad to be finished with the idiotic affectation.

He found himself studying her as she gazed out at the glittering urban nightscape. Her profile was tense, her generous mouth tight. She looked uneasy, as if her mind were far away, someplace only she could know.

As the bus entered traffic, he asked in a low voice, “Is losing Sarah and Asher at the warehouse why you changed your mind and wanted Malko's Glock?”

She glanced at him, then gave a small nod of acknowledgment. He had called her back, and, for him, she had come. “Yes and no. Part of me wanted a gun from the moment I was attacked in Santa Barbara. My first instinct was to kill whoever had tried to kill me. But what does revenge get you but more injured or dead people? Your pain isn't erased. The people who've been hurt or who've died aren't healed or resurrected. Nothing's improved.
You're
not improved. You've acted like them, the evildoers you despise. I don't consider that honorable or smart. Certainly not ethical or moral.”

“I'm not sure many people would agree with you.”

“What you're saying is
you
don't agree.”

“Maybe I am,” he admitted.

“Violence has become an all-purpose remedy. I worry about what we're becoming. Where civilization's headed.”

“And yet you wanted the Glock.”

She sat back, grappling with her emotions, trying to be honest with herself, with him. “There are few people with my training. It'd be hypocritical to ask someone else to save Sarah and Asher, using the excuse that I've got the moral high ground and don't want to be sullied.” She gazed at him. “I've got to do it, because I can.”

“You hesitated with Beatrice. You weren't sure you could shoot her, were you?”

“No.”

His rugged face was kind. “Remember, you're not alone anymore.”

“I know.” She saw something in him that warmed her, made her feel comfortable. Something she had not experienced in a long time.

His eyes twinkled with a certain amusement…and perhaps challenge. “We're partners. Buddies. Pals through thick and thin.”

“Sure, the Bobbsey Twins. The Two Musketeers. A lawful Bonnie and Clyde.”

They looked away from each other. Soon they transferred buses, heading northeast. She focused on the lessening traffic, on the ubiquitous sea of taxis. Had a tail kept up with them? Found them? Impossible, she told herself, but she watched alertly.

Death was more and more her constant companion. She wondered again as she had thousands of times how her mother could have killed and gone on killing. But she knew the answer; it was just that it had never satisfied her—Melanie had assassinated for her country, for patriotism. For a calling she thought more vital than personal beliefs or squeamishness. When Melanie finally accepted that the Carnivore had been lying to her for years, that they had seldom worked for British or even U.S. intelligence, she never fired a gun again.

Liz shook off a feeling of guilt. Now she was doing what her mother had done—embarking on a path for what she considered a higher cause, this time for Sarah and Asher and to find the Carnivore's obscene files. She had become her mother, or perhaps she had been that way all along…which was why she herself had been able to do black work for Langley.

She must stop thinking about it. As the bus's tires hummed, she glanced at Simon. His face was wary as he surveyed the street. She liked the way he sat so easily, nonchalant, big shoulders comfortably back, as if he were relaxed…until one looked in his eyes and saw the sharp vigilance.

She whispered, “I've been meaning to ask about Nautilus. Before the garage attendant interrupted us, you were going to fill me in.”

He looked around and lowered his voice. “You're right. It's critical you know, especially now. Think moguls and kings, presidents and generals. Think a private alliance between Europe and America that's beyond any mere government.”

“
Mere
government?”

“You're getting the picture. All of Nautilus's chairmen have been among the world's elite—a former British prime minister, a former chancellor of West Germany, a former NATO secretary-general, and a former vice chair of the European Commission. That's a fact. The people who attend are at a similar rarefied level—bankers, tycoons, presidents, prime ministers, international statesmen, NATO commanders.”

“You need an oxygen mask to breathe at those political heights. If our blackmailer is part of Nautilus, then we really have a hell of a mountain to climb.”

“Yes, and we'd better be ready. Their security is formidable, better than most Third World nations. That's another fact.”

As the bus pulled to a stop at a red light, she asked quietly, “Just how many people are we talking about?”

“There's a permanent steering committee of about thirty—half Europeans, half Americans—and ninety guests invited to the yearly meeting. They vary, depending on who's in power and who's accomplished what over the last twelve months. There are usually future political stars, too. They're brought in as soon as possible to be educated.”

“
Educated?
I don't like the sound of that.”

“Of course you don't.” He paused. Suddenly it seemed clear that Ada had been wrong about him. In fact, he had been wrong about himself. He had not spent three long years undercover untouched, without thinking about what he saw and learned. “I've heard Tony Blair and Bill Clinton were invited a couple of years before they were elected to national office. George W. Bush apparently wasn't.”

“For brainwashing?” When he shrugged, she said, “The bottom line is, they're political and fiscal superstars. Everyone should be able to hear what Nautilus talks about.”

“They claim they can't be frank if they're in the public eye.”

She snorted with disbelief. “When people don't want you to know what they're saying, be warned. It's usually because they're being more than ‘frank.' They're talking about plans they don't want other folk like thee and me to hear.” She paused, thinking of Sarah. “I still don't understand why the media doesn't cover their meetings.”

Simon scanned the intersection as the light turned green and the bus rumbled through. “When I said tycoons, that included media tycoons. They're like everyone else—they have to pledge not to reveal what's said, who's there, or even that they've been invited. That means they pass the word down to their managers that there's no story. Reporters and freelancers have to make a living, so if their editors tell them there's nothing to write about, they tend to believe them. The only U.S. publications that seriously try to cover meetings are usually on the extreme right or extreme left. The exception is the European press, like the
Irish Times
and
Punch.
They photograph and report on those entering and leaving. I'm sure you've heard the highly sophisticated theory of management that goes like this: Shit flows downhill. This is a perfect example. It all starts at the top, and not even the top crosses Nautilus lightly.”

“But some people have? That's encouraging.”

“But not always successful. Margaret Thatcher tried in Brussels in 1988. She called the plan for a centralized Europe a nightmare and vowed Britain would never give up her sovereignty or her currency. But a European superstate is a high priority for Nautilus, and Thatcher bloody well knew it, since she attended regularly. So Nautilus worked behind the scenes, arranging for her to be attacked and her supporters coerced and her money to dwindle. Just two years later, in 1990, she was forced to resign.”

“That's politics. Hardly unusual.”

He shook his head. “Thatcher was no ordinary politico. She was PM, with all the vast dominion and resources inherent in the office, but even she couldn't stand up to them. I know you're going to ask why, so I'll just go ahead and explain. The world's changing. It's globalizing along a commercial path Nautilus has set out. The result is that politicians—including prime ministers and presidents—have less actual power in Nautilus, as well as in their own countries. In fact, two-thirds of Nautilus's core membership is now made up of bankers and financiers and businessmen, not politicians or statesmen. Whether or not you agree with Thatcher's politics, what Nautilus did by bypassing the British public and deciding her political future was despicable. The primary thrust of globalization doesn't have to be profit for the few, but that's what it's become.”

As the bus pulled into the station, she said, “It's frightening. But that's the reaction you intended me to have. What if you're wrong about Nautilus?”

He gazed at her, recalling again Ada's accusation that he had no opinions. But he had wanted none then, no problems, certainly nothing to rock the bloody boat. Just to do his job without trouble. Now the boat was capsizing, and he could no longer pretend he did not care.

“I've heard Nautilus called everything from an innocent business network, to an aristocratic think tank, to a conspiracy that runs the world,” he told her. “We both know anything that's hidden has intrinsic power. And as your J. Edgar Hoover said, there's something addictive about a secret. Nautilus works too hard to keep the secrecy and the power. If the public's ignorant about what it does that's good, you can bet we're just as ignorant about what it does that's bad.”