The Coil (38 page)

She felt a sudden chill. “How do you know so much?”

He watched as the bus's door opened and people began to disembark. Either they were partners or they were not. He lowered his voice. “I've been in deep cover, penetrating Nautilus's prime opposition—the antiglobalization movement. The world's structure is shifting from the nation-state to the corporate-state, and it's being encouraged, some say driven, by Nautilus. Which makes it a prime target for the movement, especially since Nautilus meetings are ultra-secret, ultra-secure, by invitation only, never made public, and no media allowed.” He glanced uneasily at her. “You understand I shouldn't have told you. You can't breathe a mention.”

She did not hesitate. “Simon, if you think you're going to have any job at MI6 when this is over, assuming we survive, you're living in dreamland.”

Wounded, he said nothing, weighing her warning. She touched his arm and stood up. He looked around and saw they were the last two people on the bus. He stood up, too. Together they walked toward the exit.

As he followed the florist's van in his Citroën, Gino Malko seethed. He was fighting an unfamiliar sensation—humiliation. He snapped open his cell and punched
REDIAL
and made a full report without bothering to pull off the street.

He concluded by saying, “The police caught four of our people, but none knows enough to cause us an immediate problem. I phoned the lawyer. She'll bail them out and send them out of France.”

Sansborough and Childs had outwitted him damned neatly. It was not only that they had sidelined four men; it was that word of it would spread like a disease.
Malko made a mistake. Malko was outsmarted.
The grapevine always found out.

Childs and Sansborough would pay, and painfully. He could promise that.

“Then I can consider it handled? The four will never talk?”

“It'd be a fatal error,” Malko assured his boss. “All have been in the business long enough to know that.”

“And Sansborough and Childs?”

“They're isolated and on the run. With the CIA and French police looking, too, something will force them into the open. When it does, I'll be there.”

“That may be unnecessary.”

His boss's unemotional delivery of surprising changes in plan always gave Malko pause. But then, the man did business with the cold heart of a shark, too. Malko admired him.

“There's a new development?” Malko asked.

“A large one.” He described the Coil's decision to terminate Sansborough and Childs. “César Duchesne and his people will take care of it.”

Malko objected: “Are you sure it's wise to pull me off? Is he really that good?” He had not met the Coil's new security chief, but he had not met the previous one either. The risk of being sniffed out as a link to the Carnivore's files was too high.

“Duchesne seems smart enough. Besides, I need you in Scotland. Cronus has tumbled. There's no other explanation for why he stopped the flow of information and told us next to nothing when we met tonight. What's good for us is that he's cut off everyone, so he's still trying to figure out which one of us has the files. My biggest risk is at Dreftbury, while I'm trying to put together the deal. If Duchesne loses Sansborough and Childs…if they stay alive long enough…it's possible they may figure out somehow that I'll be there. This is what I want you to do….”

As his employer elaborated, Malko smiled. When they severed the connection, he sat back, driving automatically as he turned the ideas over in his mind, liking them more and more. As he considered the new direction, he found himself savoring the power of the powerful engine purring in his hands. He liked the quiet strength of the black car, imagining a great hungry panther on the prowl, like the wildcats he had seen in the swamps of Florida in his youth.

Immediately, he discarded the image. Back in Jacksonville, Malko had trained himself to limit his imagination. Much better to rely on facts, not guesses; on what was, not on what might be. He had seen not only family but colleagues destroyed by too much fantasy. After enough kills, longtime enforcers began to see danger in every doorway, and then revenge. Eventually, they slid into too much drink or drugs—or both—and emptied their weapons into enough shadows that either the authorities took them out or another professional did. No one Malko knew in the business lived long enough to retire. His own mentor had died at forty-six in a hunting “accident” outside Fort Lauderdale. Malko had always suspected suicide.

Somewhere in France

As the big semi hurtled through the night, Asher's voice was businesslike. “Did you learn to pick a lock when you were trained at the Ranch?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. But I'm not sure I could still do it.” In the murky light, Sarah felt around until she found the paper sack of medical supplies under the gurney.

“Yeah, figures. Good thing I'm still a whiz. When they ditched us in here, I got a look at the door locks. They're wafer-tumbler. I know you won't object if I tell you I need that med sack anyway.”

“Why? Are you bleeding where you pulled out the needle?” She located alcohol wipes inside it. “I'm going to make sure you don't get an infection. I'll give you the sack, if you promise not to stab me.”

“That's reasonable.”

“I thought so.” She dropped it on his lap, picked up his left hand, and scrubbed.

“That'll do,” he told her, trying to hurry her along. “Thanks.”

She said nothing. Finding a stick-on bandage, she applied it, then set his hand gently back into his lap. Immediately, he sorted through the sack. She turned to the IV pole. The saline bag was almost empty, which was a good sign. They had no drinking water, but he would remain hydrated for a while. Yes, the pole's metal parts screwed into one another. At last she found the piece she thought would work.

She released the bolt that held it in place. “How are you doing?” she asked.

“I can use the needle for a pick. It doesn't curve up at the end like I'd like, but I've made a needle work before. The problem is, I need something for a tension wrench. There's nothing in the sack I can adapt for that.”

“How's this?” She handed him the small metal stick she had just unbolted. It was like a miniature flat-headed screwdriver.

“That's my Sarah. Resourceful. Thanks.” He moved his legs off the gurney and stood, clasping his hospital gown at the back. “Floor's cold.” He seemed to be gazing down at his bare feet.

She knew the truth: He was still having a hard time straightening because of the pain. She wanted to tell him to forget it, get back on the gurney, but she knew he would not do it, at least not yet.

“I'll bet the floor's cold,” she sympathized. “Dangerous, too. God knows what's gone on in here. There could be screws, bullets, broken glass, maybe metal shavings down there. I'd say you should watch your step, but it's too dark.”

“You're much too cheerful,” he grumbled. “I'm going to check out the door in front anyway. I want to know what that light's about.”

With misgivings, she grabbed a blanket and followed. They had heard no sound from the driver's compartment since being locked inside. She had tried to peer through the cracks, but they were too narrow. She folded the blanket and laid it on the floor in front of the lock. As the truck swayed into another turn, he braced his hands against the door and lowered himself.

Sarah watched as he assessed the situation. Fortunately, lock picking did not require sight. It required acute hearing and enough practice to sense when the tumblers moved into position. Wafer-tumbler locks were basic and reliable, similar to pin-and-tumbler locks, except there were no pins, just wafer-shaped tumblers that had to be tickled into place for the lock to open. Such locks were common in vehicles, filing cabinets, and lockers, as well as in many padlocks.

“It's a single wafer,” he told her. He inserted the makeshift tension wrench and pick, turned the metal stick, and felt around inside the lock with the needle.

Wafer locks were easier because the keyhole was wider. She returned to the IV pole and disassembled it. It took a while. Finally, she had the central pole free of the legs, arm, and other attachments. Carrying it, she padded back to him, pausing whenever the truck lurched.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

“Shh.”

She waited patiently, half-hoping he would fail. If he could not get the door open, maybe he would lie down again. Even if he succeeded, they still had no gun, and he would be no match for the first fist slung at him.

“That's it.” His voice was almost reverential. “I've still got the touch.” He pushed himself up, the blanket in one hand.

“It's ready to open?”

“Yup.” He stared at the pole she was holding. “What's that?”

“Our only weapon. Pathetic, isn't it? Why don't we wait until later for this insanity? When I can steal a gun, say, or you can run at least one lap. Then, too, it'd be really good if you had some clothes and shoes.”

“Hey, I stood up and peed. Don't forget the importance of that.” He grabbed the door handle and paused. Seemed to consider. His voice grew sober. “Don't worry, Sarah. I'm reasonably sure we're alone. I just want to make some progress. Maybe find something useful, or learn something that might help us later. If we're going to get out of this, you're going to have to let me work. I know you're worried, but considering the alternatives, I think we've got to take some risks. If we don't escape, the state of my health may be moot. Okay?”

Under the circumstances, she could hardly deny what he said. “Okay.”

He grinned, his white teeth flashing. She could feel him tense, coiled to act. She flattened against the wall next to the door. She nodded. He pulled it open a few inches. She took a deep breath, raised the metal pole, and stared around the corner.

“Empty,” she said with relief. She stepped inside the driver's compartment and stared. “Wow.”

“What is it?” Asher peered over her shoulder.

“Surveillance monitors. Someone left them turned on. That's where the light's been coming from. There's other surveillance gear here, too.”

Above the windshield hung a row of small monitors, alight but showing only the interior of the cavernous semi. There were gauges, dials, screens, and blinking lights.

“Hot stuff,” he agreed happily.

“Can we call or radio out?”

“Lemme see.” Someone had left a zippered sweatshirt on the front seat. He put it on, zipped it up, and sat, the blanket around his waist and legs. He studied the array.

She found a flashlight inside the glove compartment, climbed out of the panel truck, and played the beam around the semi's interior. Except for the truck, it was empty, no supplies or weapons. Terribly disappointing. She inspected the front end. There were vents, but no way into the tractor cab. She pressed her ear to the divider, but the only noise was the drone of the tires and the rumble of the engine.

She found the rear double doors locked solidly. When she shoved her shoulder into them, she could feel a crossbar on the outside, blocking them. Asher might be able to pick this lock, too, but the crossbar would make escape impossible.

She returned to the panel truck and climbed in behind the wheel. Asher had turned on the overhead light. His face was pale, his black hair wild. There was a waxen look to him, as if he were ready to collapse. Still, his fingers flicked switches, and his gaze swept the equipment.

He glanced at her. “Find anything?”

“Nothing useful. What about you?”

“Not much. The problem is, the cameras and mikes have nothing to read in the semi, so the monitors are blank”—he waved a hand at the overhead screens—“and the listening equipment is silent. There aren't any walkie-talkies or cells, so we have no way to communicate with the outside world. That's the bad news. The good news is, we've got a functioning GPS system.”

“That's a start.” She leaned around and saw a colored map with a moving arrow showing their route. “We've been traveling all over!”

He nodded. “Northeast to Reims and as far south as Troyes and Orléans, and now we're heading north again.”

“Looks as if we're going to pass just west of Paris. They're keeping us on the move so we won't be found, aren't they?”

“That's the way I figure it. But there is one more good thing—an intercom.” He flipped a switch.

The voices of two men sounded from a small speaker. They spoke in French.

“Mecca-Cola?” one asked. “
Merde.
Give me a real Coke any day. It is the only thing the Americans do well.”

“You have a kind spot for the Americans?”

As the first Frenchman gave a rough laugh, Sarah turned down the volume. “Those are our chauffeurs?”

There was a glint in Asher's eyes, but it was not from amusement. “Yup. That little exchange makes them seem harmless, but they're not. They're well armed, and they expect to kill us eventually. In fact, they seem to be looking forward to it.”

“Just what I wanted to hear. What's holding them back?”

“They're waiting for the order. They did get one call, but it wasn't on a speaker phone, so I couldn't hear the other end of the conversation.”

“Their boss?”

“Something like it. No name, naturally.”

They hunched near the radio, listening, hoping the men would say something useful. Five minutes later, they had learned only that the pair was hired recently. They wondered about the identity of the man who hired them but had decided the pay was good enough that they were not as curious as they might be.

“Is he just their boss, or is he higher up?” she asked.

“No way to know yet.”

She studied Asher. His skin color had bleached to chalk white. “You've done enough. It's my turn. I'll take the first shift.”

“You don't mind?”

“Oh, Asher. You can be such a dope. The situation's bad enough already. Get the hell back to the gurney. Rest. Take care of yourself. You're scaring me to death.”

He started to push himself out of his seat and stopped abruptly. “We're slowing.”

As he sank back down, a long stream of French oaths burst into the cabin from the speaker. “What an asshole!” one man bellowed indignantly.

The other sounded resigned. “He does what he's told, same as us.”

Silence. Sarah and Asher waited. The only sound was an occasional curse.

Finally, one of the men said, “There it is. See?”

“Big fucker, isn't it?” the other grumbled.

As the truck continued to slow, engine noises somewhere ahead grew in intensity—louder and louder, throbbing. Asher took Sarah's hand and squeezed it.

“Jet engines?” Sarah asked, worried.

“Yeah.” He looked at her. Her eyes were dark, vigilant, and trying not to show her anxiety. “Sounds like it.”