The Coil (41 page)

As Duchesne had predicted to Cronus, one of his drivers had finally spotted Sansborough and Childs—this time as they approached the place de Clichy. After that, a fresh three-man taxi team with night-vision surveillance had taken over, following as the pair rode the bus, transferred, disembarked the last time, and walked. Basil called with the news they had met some old man, gotten into his plane, and flown off.

Now Duchesne waited alone, his taxi parked in the shadow of the big top. A breeze ruffled the tent's canvas sides. Ropes clattered against poles. As he listened, his mind drifted back over the years to happier times, when he was young and powered by outrage. When he thought life would turn out far differently, and happiness was possible. A dark sadness washed through him, followed by bone-deep rage. With his usual steely will, he banished the emotions.

He sat impassive, alert. When at last the drone of a small plane sounded far away in the west, he watched the craft approach and land and roll toward the billowing tent. The pilot was alone. No Sansborough or Childs.

Duchesne remained where he was, patient, almost unfeeling. The plane stopped, and the former
maqui
climbed down, unarmed. His movements were slow, arthritic, different from the smooth agility that had been reported to Duchesne. Duchesne stepped out of the taxi and limped toward him, his right foot dragging.

In the pewter moonlight, the pilot saw Duchesne. He recoiled, and his gaze fixed on the Walther in Duchesne's hand.

Duchesne gestured at the taxi and ordered in French, “Get in.”

“And if I say no?”

“You've lived a long life already. Perhaps that's enough for you. Otherwise, we will talk. You will tell me where you took them.”

The old man's gaze remained steady, as if searching Duchesne's eyes for a clue to his will. After a moment, what he saw made his back slump. He gave a short nod and climbed into the cab.

Northumberland, England

As the minutes ticked past, Liz and Simon alternated, bringing Henry up-to-date. Clive arrived with the promised tea but forgot the sandwiches. He returned with them five minutes later. Everyone ate. With his usual astuteness, Henry asked questions until at last he fell silent, thinking. Simon wandered to the fireplace, where he leaned against the mantel. Liz paced restlessly, pulling back the drapes to stare out at the black night.

At last, Henry emerged from his trance. He shook his white head in disbelief. “I had no idea your father was the Carnivore, Liz. When I think of all the years he came up here with your mother and you…I never would've guessed. It's shocking. Utterly shocking. And he left behind a detailed record that someone's been using for blackmail? Outrageous! Of course you're determined to find the snake who has the files. He must be stopped.” He hesitated, and his voice grew thick with emotion. “And then there's Robbie. What a tragedy to lose such a fine statesman, one who did so much good. His wiping out that scum who was killing little boys was obviously the right choice.”

Liz and Simon exchanged a look of surprise.

Henry did not notice. “As for the three Titan names…alas, I have no idea. Cronus, Hyperion, and Themis—right? Sounds like a club, but whether they're related to Nautilus is far beyond my scope.”

“Is there any way you can help us figure out who they are?” Liz asked.

“I think not. I've never been good at that sort of data sifting. Now I'm going to change the subject. Give you a little history lesson…. Do you recall the tale of the Robsons and the stolen sheep?”

Liz shook her head. “Sorry.”

“North Tynedale, right?” Simon said.

“Exactly.” Henry peered off into space, as if he could see those long-ago days. “This is what my father told me…. One dark night, the Robson men sneaked across the border into Liddesdale. They were excited to find an entire flock belonging to the Grahams. So of course they brought them home to Northumberland. But what the Robsons didn't know was the sheep had scabies. It spread like wildfire into their own flocks, and they were furious. Without another thought, they stormed back to Liddesdale, grabbed seven members of the Graham family, and hanged them. Then, to make certain all of the clans got the point, they left a note. It went something like this.” With a lilting accent, he recited, “‘The neist time gentlemen com to tak the schepe, they are no te' be scabbit!'”

Simon nodded soberly. “What's mine is mine, and what's yours is mine, too. I see your point. Yes, that's what some people believe of Nautilus. They're like the Border Reivers, treating the world as if lines—whether moral or political or geographic—are irrelevant. Whatever Nautilus wants, it will manipulate, legislate, or take outright.”

“Baldly put, Simon. But yes, I've heard that, too. For years. But when people are on emotional rampages, their accusations are often hyperbolic. That was never what Nautilus was intended to be, and I doubt it is today. It's important you understand what you're so easily dismissing as a monolithic organization of too much secrecy and power. Nautilus's roots are deep…going all the way back to before World War Two, to a Polish émigré named Josef Retinger. He was a spy, but also far more.”

“Retinger?” Liz said and looked at Simon.

He shook his head. “I don't recognize the name either.”

“No reason you should. He was one of those gentlemen agents who slid in and out of the shadows. A murky character, rumored to have worked for everyone from the Freemasons to Vatican potentates, from the Mexican to the Spanish governments. No one knew what he was for or against until the war, when he came out against the Nazis. At that point, Whitehall recruited him, and he ran spies for us across Europe. Damn good at it, too. In fact, Liz, his status grew so great that all he had to do to meet with your President Truman was pick up the phone. But then, he'd been significant in the Allies' victory.”

“That's impressive,” Liz said. “But what does he have to do with Nautilus?”

“Picture this situation,” Henry told them. “Three long years after the war, in 1948, Europe was still digging out of the rubble. Hundreds of thousands wandered the streets because they had nowhere to go. It wasn't just that they were without a home, but without a country. Without a future. It was…heartbreaking. Many starved—adults and children. Anti-Americanism swept the Continent, and torrents of people joined the Communist Party. Retinger was afraid Europe would erupt in war again, but this time it'd be devastating because it'd be nuclear. So he went to top businessmen, ex–military men, and politicians—the gray eminences of postwar policy, as the press called them—and convinced them Europe's survival was at stake. A handful met for the first time in 1952, around a lowly Ping-Pong table in a small Paris apartment.”

“Secretly, I assume,” Simon said, “to keep the Communists in the dark.”

“Primarily, yes.”

Liz had been studying the nonagenarian. He held his head high against his wingback chair, and his gaze had that incisive quality she recalled. Although his hands and voice trembled with age, there was an edge to him that spoke of passion and knowledge and vision. For years, she had heard of Henry Percy's exploits, but in the most general way…adviser to British prime ministers and foreign heads of state…investments that straddled commerce and continents and kept him apprised of people's needs as well as their yearnings for life's material things. All cloaked in natural modesty. But perhaps also in deft understanding of back-room power, like Averell Harriman or David Rockefeller, who had shaped so much of modern America's political history—and Europe's, too.

Suddenly, she knew what she was sensing…why he spoke with such authority. “You were there, Henry. Weren't you? You were invited to that meeting in Paris around the ‘lowly' Ping-Pong table.”

Simon looked up quickly, staring first at her, then at Henry.

Henry gave a simple nod. His expression was somber. “Few recall how close Europe came to being another totalitarian satellite of the Soviet Union. It was a grave time. But also exciting. We knew we were at a historical turning point, and because we saw the peril, it was our duty to act. For centuries, emperors and kings had tried to unite Europe by means of war. We knew it had to be done, but with no more large wars. They're simply too expensive, too devastating, and few people profit. Along with that, we envisioned a peacefully integrated Europe…a closer cooperation with America…and the death of fascism and Communism. The meeting went well, so we held a more formal one two years later at a resort on France's north coast called L'Hôtel Nautilus.”

“So that's why the name Nautilus,” Simon said.

Liz's mind was elsewhere. “The CIA must've been part of it. Bill Donovan, too. Their primary mandate was to work with groups and individuals to stop the spread of Communism.” Wild Bill Donovan had been OSS and helped found the CIA.

“Yes, of course. He and Allen Dulles were most helpful, and the CIA became one of our top funders. But now that the Cold War's over, it plays a lesser role. As for your accusations about Nautilus today, Simon, you're looking too much on only one side of the equation. Yes, we focused on unifying the industrialized world. Globalization, as you call it. That's because history has taught us that if nations are left to their own devices, they remain territorial, and wars are inevitable.”

“I'm definitely in favor of no more war,” Liz said, “but there have been one hell of a lot of ‘small' wars in the last fifty years. Nautilus didn't stop them.”

“But perhaps Nautilus likes some of those wars,” Simon said.

Henry looked sharply at Simon. “What do you mean?”

Simon peeled away from the fireplace. He sat again, crossed his legs, and studied Henry. “Perhaps Nautilus considers little wars necessary when oil or territory or some other profit is to be gained. One of the rare exceptions was Europe's split from the United States when it attacked Iraq. But that disagreement had more to do with who'd control the spoils and wield political power in the aftermath than it did with the ethics of the invasion.”

Liz paused in her pacing. “If Nautilus has so much influence, why doesn't it stop al-Qaeda and some of these frightening terrorist states?”

“Nautilus takes the long view,” Simon theorized. “Al-Qaeda and the rest are fringe problems it'd like to solve immediately but can't because terrorist leaders are fanatics and don't respond to the usual incentives—you can't bribe them, because all they want is to kill their ‘enemies.' That means us. Besides, in the long run, fanatics don't really matter to Nautilus, because terrorists and terrorist states play only a marginal role in the globe's economy. As the planet gets more economically unified, they'll be crushed, or they'll get the right ‘religion' and turn capitalist.”

“Economically unified?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”

Henry cleared his throat. “All right, Simon, I listened politely. Now it's my turn. Two people can look at the same forest and perceive utterly different scenes. One sees grim shadows—an eerie place full of danger—while another sees bright light filtering down through the trees. Where you see shadows and darkness, I see light and hope.” He looked at Liz. “Simon's referring to the fact that one of Nautilus's first creations was the European Common Market, back in the 1950s.”

“The Common Market was a Nautilus idea?” Liz said. “The little Common Market that grew into the big European Union?”

“Our idea, and we nursed it through, with a healthy result: Europe's uniting at last, without a single shot being fired. Now there's talk of a United States of Europe, while you in North America have NAFTA. It's likely there'll be a Pacific-Asia free-trade zone in the next decade, too, with Japan or China as the base country.”

Simon scowled and explained, “Liz, this isn't altruistic. Nautilus is carving the planet into economic hemispheres because it benefits business. If what I hear is accurate, in a couple of decades, Nautilus plans to push through a single currency for the United States and Europe.”

She said instantly, “It'll never happen.”

“That's what people said about the euro ten years ago,” Simon countered. “Even five years ago. Bad prediction.”

“Simon's right,” Henry said. “In fact, the
Wall Street Journal
ran an article recently saying that if the euro could replace the French franc, the German mark, and the Italian lira, then a new world currency could easily merge the U.S. dollar, Europe's euro, and the Japanese yen. It's a sound idea. We'd have world money, a world central bank, and stability. But that will happen only when the United States shifts its focus from international military leadership to international political leadership.”

Simon said stubbornly, “If Nautilus's version of globalization is so wonderful, why has poverty increased everywhere? Why are more than half of the world's one hundred largest economies not nations but corporations? Multinationals are so global and so powerful that they manipulate government policies all the time.”

Henry spread his hands, palms up, in a gesture asking for understanding. “Don't listen to the doomsayers. Nautilus is no feuding Reiver clan. It was created to make the world a safer, better place. That's why we worked so hard to rise above nationalism. The more unified the industrialized world is, the less chance there'll be for war, disease, poverty, and illiteracy. And, yes, the more money will be made by everyone.”

“I like a lot of your goals,” Simon said. “But your methods aren't working. The IMF and World Bank are impoverishing entire—”

Liz interrupted, “We're not going to resolve this tonight.” She hurried around the settee to stand between the two men. “You're looking tired, Henry. Besides, Simon and I have more work to do. We told you earlier we think the blackmailer's planning some new deal that'll climax at Dreftbury. Can you give us some insight into it?”

“I remember now.” Henry's voice was fading, but his gaze remained alert. “As a matter of fact, at about the time Robbie died, the chancellor of Germany resigned over some minor slush fund. Also, I think there were a number of U.S. congressmen from the left and right who announced they wouldn't run for reelection around then, too. You say Robbie was being blackmailed for his vote on some trade issue. Whatever it was, the others might have had some clout in it as well.”

“What about lately?” Liz asked eagerly. “Have you seen anything unusual happening with someone who's in a high enough position to make a difference?”

Henry rubbed his chin. “I think so. A month, perhaps two months ago, EU Competition Commissioner Franco Peri died suddenly of a heart attack in Brussels. What was odd was that he'd had no history of cardiac problems.”

“That's right,” Simon said. “He was young, early forties. Very unexpected. Was there anything unusual about the person who succeeded him?”

“On the contrary,” Henry said. “Carlo Santarosa had been talked about for some time as the best choice when Peri's term ended. Since no one else was obvious, and Santarosa was amenable, the process was orderly and swift. He's taken over smoothly.”

They fell silent. Suddenly Liz understood. “Maybe that's it!”

Simon scowled. “What?”

“Yes, what?” Henry said.

“Don't you see?” Liz said, excited. “The blackmailer could've counted on the obvious candidate getting the job!”

“Bloody damn, you're right,” Simon said. “If the blackmailer has something on Santarosa, and his deal has to go through the EU Competition Commission to be approved—” he stopped. “Does Santarosa have that kind of power, Henry?”

Henry folded his hands. “Actually, yes. His people research and make recommendations, but he decides. The EU Commission is still rubber-stamping him.”