The Coil (48 page)

A long-suffering sigh. “Let's see, then.”

They displayed the IDs. After a glance, MI5 returned his attention to the gate and spoke inaudibly into his breast pocket. There was a tiny speaker in his ear.

“You'll be met at the hotel,” MI5 said, dismissing them.

Hiding her relief, Liz nodded as if thanking a doorman. They climbed the drive, passing golf links and immaculate topiary bushes. Armed guards strolled the paths.

“I thought that went well.” She brushed sweat from her forehead.

“One more to go.”

At the top, a woman with a clenched jaw was waiting, hands on hips. She wore the blue jacket and Dreftbury crest of a golf pro, but in her ear was another tiny speaker.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” she demanded, glaring.

“Antiglobalization beat,” Simon said kindly. “Wire-snooping and electronics.”

Liz explained, “HQ sent a few more of us than needed to watch the chaps down on the road. Chief thought we should offer assistance.”

“Well, well.” MI5 was pleased to take advantage of MI6's disorganization. “My lucky day. You nanny our phone and electronics setup, and I can move mine onto regular security. MI6 to the rescue, eh?”

She described the monitoring closet and handed them green badges, indicating security. Every chief of detail always needed extra agents, and no one liked to be stuck in a tiny room doing surveillance all day. They had counted on that. While Liz went to look for Santarosa, Simon would report to the wiretap center to find out Santarosa's room number as well as the room numbers of every member of the Coil.

“A tunnel?” Sarah peered into the dark space in the prison wall where Asher had pulled out the chunk of red sandstone.

“Yup. Sure looks like it,” Asher said.

There was a passage about three feet high, with a trace of dusky light far ahead. She removed the rest of the broken block and tugged out three whole ones. To annoy the guards, she stacked the heavy blocks in front of the door.

“I'll go first,” she told him. “We don't know what's ahead.”

“You've got claustrophobia.”

“That makes it all the more interesting. You're feeling better, but there's no shame in saying no. That first piece of rock you pulled out has a sharp point that'll get their attention. We can go back to my original idea.”

“I adore you, Sarah. You're the love of my life. But I don't believe in heaven, so we've got to get out of this mess alive. This is a better shot.”

She nodded, took a deep breath, and stuck her head and shoulders into the opening. The stink of dirt and mold assaulted her, and her chest tightened.
You can do this.
She crept inside, focusing on the dim light ahead, and put one hand, then the other, in front of her. As she forced herself to leave the cell behind, the rough walls of the tunnel seemed to squeeze around her.
Breathe. Crawl. Breathe. Crawl.

Within two minutes, she heard Asher follow. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Never better.” But his voice was strained.

At last, the illumination increased, the tunnel curved, and she saw a spattering of sun rays. There was a whiff of fresh ocean air. She inhaled, grateful.

Asher smelled it, too. “Maybe there
is
a heaven.”

Excited, she crawled faster. The tunnel narrowed, but the light beckoned. As she neared the end, she saw a small boulder blocked the opening, but sunshine trickled in around it, plant roots acting like sieves. She listened for voices or other sounds that would tell her someone was nearby. Birds sang. Insects buzzed.

Asher was breathing right behind her. “I'm here.”

“Pain bad?”

“It's tolerable.”

“Uh-huh. Okay, you stay where you are.”

She broke off small roots and scooped away dirt. When she had cleared an opening about six inches wide next to the boulder, she peered out. They were on a grassy slope dotted with bushes, just steep enough she did not want to risk losing control of the boulder and drawing attention to them. She hesitated, realizing that as soon as they left here, they would be on the run. Hunted. She had a hollow feeling, as if they had come full circle, back to the sort of irreconcilable danger that had brought them together in the first place.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Wonderful.”

She rotated on her butt and used her feet to push dirt until she made a hole about two feet wide and high. Immediately, she slithered out, gulping fresh air, and rose into a crouch. Dark clouds gusted across the sky, filtering ominous light down onto the land.

She was on a bank to the side and below their two barred windows. As it turned out, their cell was partially underground, probably once part of a medieval cellar. The rest of the stone walls vanished into the slope. Atop was a modern building, no more than a century old. Very large, with white walls and a red-tile roof and another wing that also jutted toward the sea on the north side, closest to the cliffs. Where they were appeared to be a little-used area of the property.

Warily, she studied the structure directly above. There was a solid line of reflecting windows on the first floor—an indoor pool? On the three floors above were regular windows that stared out like vacant eyes. Fortunately, she was so close to the wall she would be difficult to see, if anyone was looking.

“Sarah?” His questioning whisper seemed to float toward her from far away.

“You can come out now.” She moved aside and described the terrain.

He grunted and wriggled through. But he was wider than she, and his shoulder grazed the boulder. It rolled. Pulse pounding, she threw herself onto it, but it hurtled away, carrying her. She fell off, a sharp ache in her chest. Pulled by gravity, it sped down the decline, bouncing with increasing speed.

In seconds, Asher was hunched beside her. “Goddammit.” He watched as it crashed through bushes. “Sorry. You all right?”

“Fine. Just pissed that I couldn't stop it.” She pulled herself up onto her heels.

Tensed, they waited as the boulder noisily thumped and rolled. Birds stopped singing. The land fell silent. Finally, it slammed into a thicket of gorse and stopped. The sudden quiet filled her ears. They stared at each other and waited. Still, there was no sign anyone had heard or was yet aware of what they were doing.

She jumped up. “I heard car engines around to the left. I feel inspired to escape. Are you well enough to do some hot-wiring?” She offered her hand.

He took it and climbed to his feet. “Does a fox lick its paw?” He looked gravely into her eyes. “They haven't got us yet.”

“And they won't.” She hurried around the corner and onto a flagstone walk that skirted the south wing.

As she rounded another corner, she stopped, stunned, and quickly darted behind a large topiary bush shaped like an elephant. She peered out again. At a port cochere, uniformed hotel ambassadors offered white-gloved hands to passengers climbing out of backseats, while above the drive, men and women in expensive clothes, drinks in hand, peered over a balustrade. Sarah followed their gazes down to a road, where a protest was in full progress. Shouts and voices amplified by bullhorns drifted up the hill toward her.

When Asher caught up, he was holding a fist-sized rock and panting. He had that determined expression that could turn deadly in an instant. His black eyes widened as he took in the sight. “Where the hell—”

“Shh. Listen.” She pointed above them, indicating two men who had just leaned over, apparently to see the demonstration better.

“Do they have any idea what they're screaming about?” asked one. “A clue? Even half a brain?” Impatient, irritated, he spoke with a sharp Chicago accent as he slung his suit jacket over his shoulder. He drank his martini.

His companion explained, “Alas, they are deluded. To them, we are the destroyers of nations.” His accent was French. He wore a golf shirt and immaculate linen slacks and sipped from a highball glass.

The first man snorted. “Is that it? Fools. Fifty years ago, there were only seventy countries. Now there are more than two hundred. Does that sound like we're destroying nations?”

“You know what is said about leaders. When one is out in front of the herd, the view is better. The problem is, one's back is rather exposed.”

The two men laughed.

“It is good to see you, Walter,” the second said. “Must we reserve these reunions only for Nautilus?”

As the pair moved back out of range, Asher stared at Sarah.

“Nautilus?” Asher said. “Do you know about Nautilus?”

“No. Should I?”

“Oh, man. Oh, man. This is something. Really something. Serious. How did we end up here? Somebody in Nautilus must have the files!”

“What in heaven's name is Nautilus?” Sarah asked.

But Asher had already moved on. “Okay, this does make sense. We would've been brought here if the guy with the files is a player. Nautilus always meets someplace that's owned or controlled by a member or by a government friendly to Nautilus, so they can dictate security.” His head turned, studying, remembering. “According to the hotel uniforms, we're at Dreftbury. That's a hotshot resort, not a government place. And that means someone in Nautilus owns it, or one of his or her companies does.”

“I give up about Nautilus. You can explain it later. But if the files are involved, and we're here, then it seems to me something major is about to happen.”

“It won't be here,” he reminded her. “In Alloway. Remember, Malko said Alloway. That's inland, near Ayr. We need to get to Alloway.”

“You're probably right, but how? The security here is in overkill. There's no way we can steal a car. Plus, we've got no ID, and we look more like terrorists than we do like trustworthy people. No one's going to believe us.”

Dirt streaked her crumpled trousers and shirt and tailored jacket. He badly needed a shave. His beard grew in so fast that his jaw was the color of tar.

As she dusted herself off, he contemplated his grimy sweatpants.

“If we had a cell, you could call Langley,” she told him. “I'm going inside to steal one. Don't let anyone see you. The way you look, they'll arrest you in a heartbeat.”

“Yeah,” he said morosely. “You're right.” Then with a sudden movement, he pulled her close and kissed her. “Be careful. I don't want to lose you again.”

 

Enormous and elegant, the hotel lobby gave off a hushed air of privilege. As Simon vanished into the north corridor, carrying his gym bag, Liz repressed a profound sense of peril. She wiped all expression from her face, took off her sunglasses, put on Sarah's glasses, and stiffened her spine as she stepped back against a wall, hoping that the blackmailer was not already in some back room with Santarosa. And that she and Simon would not be found out either by the killers who worked for the Coil or those employed by the blackmailer.

But when people sauntered past and caught sight of her security badge, they looked through her or away from her. Good. With luck, she was now officially invisible, to attendees at least.

She surveyed the lobby. The Venetian chandeliers and French parquet floor gleamed. Registration clerks wore starched uniforms in the colors of Scotland's saltire flag, the oldest in Europe—white on azure blue. Across the expanse, guests sporting midnight blue badges lounged on settees around generous coffee tables, where drinks in handblown glasses and goblets caught the sunlight that streamed in through tall French doors, fading and brightening as dark clouds rolled past. At opposite ends of the lobby were the two corridors that extended into the north and south wings, where she remembered elevators, meeting rooms, guest rooms, banquet rooms, the spa, and assorted other opportunities for edification and relaxation—and ambush.

Oriented, she gazed at the faces around her, instantly recognizing most. There were tycoons and statesmen, presidents and generals, just as Simon had said. But no Carlo Santarosa. Excitement swept through her as she spotted Richmond Hornish, the powerful financier, and Gregory Gilmartin, the construction czar, in intimate conversation at a distant window. She waited another minute. When neither looked up, she moved to the Balmoral Café and surveyed the sprinkling of people drinking coffee and eating snacks.

“Think of this as a retreat,” Leslie Cheward, the Canadian who ran the largest shipbuilding firm in the world, was explaining to the new president of Sweden. “Nautilus provides a rare chance to exchange information and ideas without having to censor ourselves. If that seems exclusive, so be it. Would you rather we met on either side of a battlefield with automatic weapons in our hands and war on our minds?”

When she did not see Santarosa, she hurried to a hand-lettered sign that related the weekend's events. There was an opening banquet at eight o'clock tonight, with an after-dinner talk by software king Bob Lord about investing in electronics. On Saturday and Sunday, seminars began at 7:30
A.M
. and did not finish until 10:30
P.M
., with one-hour breaks for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Topics were serious—Turkey's role in the Middle East, Asia's poor economy, the effects of NATO expansion, state-sponsored terrorism versus freewheeling terrorism, that sort of thing. Whatever else they were, Nautilus attendees appeared to be here to work.

Her face neutral, she crossed the lobby to the wood-paneled Culzean Bar. Staff with orange badges hurried past on errands. Inside, drinkers complained about the demonstration. Again, no Santarosa. He was not on the veranda either or inside the gift shop. Kilts hung in the window and from display racks.

She opened the door to leave, again worrying they had missed the blackmailer's dirty work. And stepped back. For a moment, she had a sense of utter dread: Malko was skirting the lobby, walking with quiet purpose, almost unnoticeable. Mid-thirties, dressed in a gray suit, he wore a green security badge like hers.

But Malko could lead her straight to the blackmailer. She slid her hand into her bag and clutched her Glock. When he turned into the south corridor, she followed.

 

On the wall behind the registration desk hung two oval mirrors in ornate gold frames. Each offered one-way viewing. In the office on the other side, César Duchesne received reports and monitored a tracking device as he secretly observed the lobby. Liz Sansborough's disguise was good. With her gray hair brushed severely back, she looked like a guard from some high-security prison. He admired her chameleon qualities. It had taken him nearly five minutes to make her. He checked the Walther in his holster, gave a grim smile, and slipped out the door.