The Coil (39 page)

Paris, France

Liz and Simon transferred buses. He dozed, his head falling against her shoulder. Beyond the Périphérique, the suburb of Seine-St. Denis was dark in the long hours of early morning. Occasional lights showed in businesses where all-night cleaning crews still labored.

A mile before Le Bourget Airport, they left the bus. A cab cruised past, followed by another. The first carried a passenger, but the second was empty. It pulled alongside, offering a ride. She turned away, coughing into her hand.

“
Merci, non,
” Simon told him. As the cab drove on, he asked. “Did you recognize him?”

“Not this time.”

“Awfully convenient he showed up right here, right now.” He shook his head, angry. “We're shying at shadows, like nervous cats.”

“Be glad. It's a defense mechanism. If we stop, we're in trouble.”

A wind came up, rustling the trees and evaporating the sweat from their skin. At this hour there were no other pedestrians, and the roadsides were dark and eerily still. Periodically, they ducked into yards and side streets, where they paused to make certain they were not being followed.

Finally they continued briskly on, and Simon chuckled.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked. She liked to watch him walk, the long strides, the jaunty spring as he rolled off the pads of his feet.

“Malko, in the alley. He didn't have a chance, once you'd spotted him.”

“I'm not sure that's a compliment.”

“Sure it is. Women are underestimated most of the time. There's an advantage to that, if you use it. And you do.”

“It also gets me into trouble when I don't recognize it.”

“Are you talking about Santa Barbara? About the dean and your boyfriend?”

He felt a surge of jealousy. He wondered what Kirk Tedesco had been like. Why in God's name had she ever gone to bed with him? He did not know she had, but he suspected it. She was an adult. She was alone. We all make mistakes. Before he could stop himself, Viera's face appeared in his mind. He felt the stroke of her fingers, saw the happy glint in her gaze. He tried to banish her before he resaw her death. But the image was faster than a thought…there—the bright flames fatally swallowing her.

“That can be another trait of women—trust,” she said. “I trusted Kirk because I liked him and enjoyed his company. I never questioned his lightweight scholarship or suspected he and the dean were informing on me.” Her voice exuded irritation. “I was an idiot.”

“More likely, your controllers were very good.”

“No. I wanted an idyllic life so much that I set myself up to be taken. I'll never forget the thrill of learning I'd won the chair. It gave me a sweet excuse to stop chasing Langley, and it was like the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval for what I'd do next.”

Simon asked gently, “Do you regret getting your Ph.D.?”

She paused. “I love teaching. The TV series grew out of my interests, and I cared—care—deeply about that, too.”

“You want to go back?”

She saw Santa Barbara in her mind. Her house was secluded high up in the Santa Ynez Mountains and overlooked the city. From there, she had a breathtaking panorama of red-tiled roofs and palms that spread down to where the lush land dropped into the aqua-blue sea. The city lay across a rising plane between the ocean and mountains, as if cupped in a gentle hand. Exotic flowering plants thrived in the mild climate—hibiscus, bougainvillea, mariposa lilies, birds-of-paradise.

All of a sudden, she felt deeply lonely. A cavern opened inside her—cold, empty…familiar.

Something had been missing there. Something she could not quite describe and had managed to ignore by keeping herself busy with university work, committees, classes, the TV series, karate—even Kirk—all gifts wrapped in the town's sleepy beauty. As she recalled Kirk's good-natured laziness, loneliness swept over her, leaving her chilled, despite the summer night. She had trusted him. He had betrayed her.

She did not look at Simon. “People go to Santa Barbara to forget or to dream. I went to forget. I don't know what I'll do when this is over. What about you?”

“It's not a question I think about. I'm an MI6 lifer.”

“Saying it that way makes it sound like a prison sentence.”

He glanced at her, surprised. “That's not what I meant.”

“Here's some free advice from your resident shrink: Pay attention to people's little jokes, especially about themselves. It's that sneaky unconscious again. Those bouts of self-deprecating humor often hint at far deeper truths than we intend…or want anyone to see, especially ourselves.”

There was no hesitation. “Agreement number two: You don't psychoanalyze me, and I won't ask how, if you're so smart, you acquired a humbug boyfriend like Kirk.”

An angry retort shot to her lips, then she laughed. “Touché. I'm humbled, sir. I will close my
DSM-IV
and crawl meekly away from my lectern.”

“Good tactic.”

He smiled, she smiled back. They continued silently onward. Traffic continued to ease. Trees loomed black against the starry sky. Her mind was tumultuous, thinking ahead.

“I've been mulling what you said about Nautilus,” she told him. “It's not just the blackmailer we'll be looking for at Dreftbury; it's Themis and Cronus and anyone else with a Greek code name. If we can identify them, we'll narrow our search.”

He nodded. “Obviously, we're going to have to do without a data or statistics expert. Still, we should study the documents I photographed as soon as possible. Together, we may know more than we realize.”

“I agree. How much time do we have before Nautilus starts?”

“People will begin arriving around four or five this afternoon to check in, get drinks, play a round of golf. There's an opening banquet with a speaker around eight o'clock. The first presentations and panels start at eight
A.M
. Saturday. Tomorrow. The last are late Sunday night.”

“And security?”

“It's usually a mixture of private and public. Nautilus hires an A-list firm like Kroll or Wackenhut. Then, depending on the country, local police or military forces or both support it. We can count on the security being tight and in place by daybreak.”

“Wonderful.”

“Nautilus knows what it's doing. Right now, you can be certain the entire resort is closed to the public and that regular guests have been sent packing. It's Nautilus's routine to do that, just as they always choose each resort carefully—either owned by or somehow in the control of a member of Nautilus.”

She sighed. Then felt a surge of energy. “There's our circus.”

It had set up on the airfield's tarmac, near the parking lot. The big top billowed in the wind, a white sailing ship beneath a black sky of high, bright stars. Off to the side, the trailers of performers and roustabouts were parked, a ramshackle assemblage with an occasional newer vehicle among the dilapidated. The Cirque des Astres had never been particularly lucrative and apparently still was not.

On the other side of the tent, the buildings of Le Bourget Airport rose in the night, large and blocky. Grass and pavement extended around them. Famous as the landing site of Charles Lindbergh's historic flight across the Atlantic, the old airport was no longer a major terminus. It still handled freight and business flights, the semiannual Paris Air Show, and other exhibitions and events, including this circus.

All was quiet, somnolent. The night helped hide their goal.

It had been seven years since she last saw Gary Faust. A former French Resistance leader, he would be in his eighties now. His French mother and American father had founded the circus in their youth. Then, during World War II, Gary had used it as a front for his ring of spies and saboteurs, members of the fabled Resistance. For his brave work, he was awarded the Légion d'Honneur, the Croix de Guerre, and the Médaille de la Résistance. A hero of France.

As they rounded the tent, she saw the plane in the moonlight, ghostly, almost an apparition. It was a 1940 Westland Lysander, one of only two in the world still flying.

“Is that it?” Simon asked, staring at the high-winged monoplane. His low tone revealed his skepticism. “Can it still get off the ground?”

“Gary says she flies like a dream.” When local ordinances allowed, he took families up for free rides. The flights were good advertising, of course. But more than that, Gary loved to pilot the geriatric craft, giving others a taste of the precariousness and strange exhilaration of a long-ago war.

Simon shook his head. “Looks as if someone built it in their basement out of tinfoil and school paste. How's that going to carry us across the Channel?”

“Watch how you talk about my girl,” said a very French voice in English. “She is easily insulted. If you want her to take care of you, you must show respect.” The man who stepped out of the plane's shadows had an easy gait. He was bulky and erect, dressed in dark gray coveralls and a cap, goggles dangling from his neck.

He took Liz by both shoulders, kissed her on both cheeks, and pushed her back, still holding on as he peered through the moonlight. “So, you are well?”

“I've had a glass of wine.” She smiled. “Cheese and a baguette.”

“That is all any of us can ask, eh? Who knows what tomorrow brings?”

“I'm glad to see you, Gary.”

“And I, you. I am sorry about your mother's death. But perhaps it is just as well. She was tormented. That father of yours!” He released her and crossed himself. “I speak ill of the dead.” He crossed himself again and chuckled. “After all these years, it still seems not to have harmed me. Why do I worry?” He turned. “You are Simon? Melanie's nephew?”

They shook hands. “Good of you to help us,” Simon told him. The old fighter's hand was dry and strong. “Liz tells me you have the perfect plane for our—”

“Say no more.” Gary pressed a finger to his lips. “Decades ago, I learned it is better to not know the detail of a mission unless I am to lead it. You are young, Simon, which means you are worried. No doubt you have never seen a miracle in flight like this one.” He patted the Lysander's wing. “You must relax and trust. She and her sisters ferried your F Group people into France and sneaked many of your downed fliers home again. The Free French used her as a spotter plane, and she brought arms and supplies to us
maquis
. Why could she do all this? Because she flies slow and low to ground, and she can land and take off in the most inaccessible places. That is necessary for where we go tonight.”

Simon studied the plane suspiciously. “You have room for both of us?”

“I had her rear gun taken out and the seat enlarged forty years ago, after I bought her in a war-surplus sale. All this time, she has easily carried two passengers.”

“That would be us.” Liz climbed up on the wing.

“
Oui,
that would be you. Hurry along, Simon. I must get you there long before dawn so I can return here unseen.” He raised his face and seemed to taste the night. “We go to a field I know in Northumberland. It's on the farm of a friend from the old days. The past and our advancing ages cement those of us who survived.” As soon as Simon climbed up, Gary followed. “This is an important assignment,
hein
?”

“Very,” Liz told him.

“
Bon.
Then we fly.”

Langley, Virginia

In his office, Frank Edmunds swore into the phone. “Damn. Not a sign, then?”

“We located the Peugeot in a private parking garage in Pigalle. Sansborough and Childs must've pulled it off the street not long after you sent me to find them. Anyway, we checked the Peugeot and the garage, but there was nothing to tell us where they went. But listen to this, Frank: The street's crawling with antiterrorist forces. They stopped four guys who were trying to get away, and now they're searching everywhere. The only good thing was all the noise and fuss attracted our attention. But then they came back to search, and we had to get out fast, before they identified us. Talk about bad luck.”

Edmunds suspected luck had little to do with it. In fact, the antiterrorist raid smacked of Sansborough or Childs. It was becoming obvious that others were after them, and whoever it was could have cornered them in the garage. Reporting terrorist activity would have been a clever way for the pair to scare off the attackers and escape at the same time. At least, that was what made sense to him.

In any case, Sansborough and Childs had slipped through Langley's net again. For someone who was supposed to be loony tunes, she seemed to have a lot on the ball. More and more, he wondered whether Jaffa could be wrong. What if her report was real? What if she was sane?

There was only one way to find out. “Okay. Keep your men on it. Sansborough and Childs are probably disguised, but what are we if we can't see through a disguise? Have you traced her arrival in Paris and where she went after that?”

“Couldn't, Frank. Know why? Because there's no evidence she ever came to Paris or France at all. Not a damn trace.”

Edmunds's unease grew. “What about Asher Flores and Sarah Walker?”

“That's another weird story. Flores really was in Paris but under his own name, so it makes no damn sense that he's in black cover. Anyway, I found out through my contact in the gendarmerie that Flores and his wife are registered at the Hôtel Valhalla, paid up a week, until Sunday. But this morning, a corpse was found in their closet. This is what the cops know: Walker was in and out before that, but no one's seen her since. No one's seen Flores since Tuesday night. The cops are getting ready to issue arrest warrants, if they haven't already. That's as far as I've gotten.”

“Keep digging, Jeff.” Edmunds's stomach churned. He could feel an attack of heartburn starting. “Into all of them. Into everything! And find Sansborough, dammit.”