The Coil (50 page)

If Malko had come this way, he must be inside one of them. The office seemed most likely. She fervently hoped he was there with his boss, and that she would either recognize him or hear something to identify him. She padded forward, tight with tension. At the exercise room, she peered carefully through the glass windows. Empty. And stepped toward the steam room. There was a glass oval in the door. She looked through. The steam was not on; the air clear. The wood benches were deserted.

That left the office. She gripped the doorknob and turned.
Locked. Where—?

“How nice we should meet again.” It was Malko, behind her.

She froze, listening to the door of the steam room swing back into place. Cursing herself, she realized he must have been hiding directly beneath the glass oval, where she would not spot him—unless she opened the door.

She thought all this in a flash, heard his voice, and reacted.

“Put down your weap—” he began.

She whirled, stepped forward, and slashed up her foot in another
mae-geri
kick aimed at his chin. He dodged, rebalanced, and shot a side-thrust kick into her shoulder that sent her spinning across the floor and told her she was greatly outmatched.

He ran after and swept up her weapon. She jumped back up. Too late. He kicked again, this time connecting with her chin as a blinding flash of lightning illuminated the pool and a loud burst of thunder cracked the air.

Her neck snapped. Black pain radiated through her entire body. She pitched sideways into the cold hard softness of water. Enveloping her. Choking blackness surrounding her as thunder rolled and exploded again, sundering the heavens.

 

The summer rainsquall poured down as Asher crouched in the thick cover of the topiary bush. Soaked, he glanced at his watch, wondering what was taking Sarah so long, worrying about her.

Three times, he had been forced to burrow deeper into cover as private security passed uncomfortably close. Now as the thunder and lightning split the boiling black clouds, the noise from the protesters suddenly seemed to turn ugly. Asher peered cautiously out from the sodden topiary elephant and down at the distant road. The giant fuchsia balloon in the shape of a pig whipped and twisted in the wind, looking more like a feeble, frightened piglet. Despite wrapping themselves in sheets of plastic, the activists were drenched, and their faces were taking on an angrier look.

According to snippets of conversation he had overheard, it must have been a discouraging day for them. They had not breached the police ranks, nor had they stopped a single person from entering, despite having thousands of protesters in attendance. What had begun as triumph was turning into bitter defeat. Asher could almost feel their frustration escalate and their mood darken, although the rain had stopped.

Then he saw provocation: Counter-protesters had arrived.

A car drove slowly, almost arrogantly, along the long line of wet, aggravated activists. Its driver and passengers made obscene gestures. A second car followed at the same stately pace. Its occupants repeated the gestures and shouted slogans of their own so loudly that they floated up to the hotel.

“Go home, assholes!”

“Losers! Losers! Losers!”

That car was followed by another.

It was too much. A bolt of indignation seemed to shoot through the throngs. With a mighty roar, the thousands of agitators seemed to rise up together and charge, slamming into all three cars, heaving them up, and hurling them onto their sides as easily as if they were toys. Then the crowd rolled in a tidal wave toward the police and private guards.

Convinced the threat was over, the security forces were so surprised that they were overwhelmed before they could reach any weapons except truncheons. Their lines broken, they fell back in splintered groups as the triumphant protesters stormed through the gates and over the walls like a conquering army assaulting a hated castle.

Everywhere on the grounds, security guards, staff security, and police abandoned their posts and barreled down the slope as protesters battled the first ranks of regrouped but completely outnumbered police, pushing them upward.

Asher slid back out of sight, waiting for security to pass. When he reemerged, he was completely alone. With a pang of fear, he wondered again where Sarah was, but at the same time his cool gaze came to rest on the rows of limos and tradesmen's vehicles in the parking lot. Statistically, there had to be at least one cell in there somewhere. Considering the popularity of car phones these days, maybe there were a dozen. He ordered his feet to move faster than his wound wanted. Grabbing his side, he decided he would give himself a few minutes to investigate. Then if Sarah were not back, he would go find her.

As Liz hurried into the lobby, she was surprised to see guests picking up their drinks and rushing to the tall French windows to peer down the hill. Anxious voices in a variety of languages sounded throughout the room. Security people in street clothes and uniforms seemed to emerge from everywhere, pulling out weapons as they converged on the doors. The stream of humanity moving in a single direction said something momentous had happened, but with so many people at the windows, there was no way Liz could look, too.

She changed directions and sprinted out through the passage between the bar and gift shop to the veranda. A few last raindrops fell noisily and ricocheted up, dampening her trousers. She edged in between two women at the balustrade. One held a hand to her mouth, her brows arched in horror. The other took a long drink from her glass of malt.

“They are insane,” the first decided in Italian. “Mad!”

“There are so many of them,” said a man on her other side, also in Italian, “that it doesn't matter whether they know what they're doing.”

“How many do you think?” asked the woman.

“At least five thousand,” Liz answered in Italian, her tone worried. “Perhaps more.” As the two looked at her, she pointed to her security badge and backed away before they asked questions. “Must go.”

She paused again. The river of agitators poured over the wall and started up the hill, while at the same time the vastly outnumbered security forces with their dogs and weapons flooded out to intercept them. Liz felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Unless a miracle happened, she could see no good outcome for anyone.

And what would this mean for the blackmailer? She wondered uneasily whether he would ignore his meeting with Santarosa and fade into dangerous anonymity again. No, she decided. He had no choice now. He must go ahead. For him, the deal was so critical he had already risked his place in the Coil and killed for it. Whatever its rewards, he expected them to endure far beyond the events of this weekend.

With a sense of renewed urgency, she ran inside, crossed the echoing lobby, where even the registration clerks were craning to see out the windows, and hurtled into the north wing. Office doors were standing open, the desks inside deserted, as if a wind had blown through—or word of the demonstrators' assault on Dreftbury.

But the farther she ran, the less impact she saw. Soon phones rang and voices answered behind closed doors. A man in a phone booth cooed to his girlfriend. Another stepped from an elevator, straightening his suit. He wore an orange staff badge.

The Alloway and Tam o'Shanter rooms were in the tangle of side corridors near the end, on the outside of the wing. She sped into the maze, reading room numbers, recalling Simon's directions. Prints of Scotland hung on the walls, and heather stood in tall vases on narrow tables. She turned two corners and stopped at the Tam o'Shanter. As she reached for the knob, a wave of nervous excitement rushed through her.

EU Competition Commissioner Carlo Santarosa had arrived from the other direction and was advancing on the Alloway. His dusky face showed sharp irritation.

Without a glance at her, he knocked once, pulled open the door, and announced, “I can give you ten minutes, no more. There's trouble with the demonstrators—a riot! And I must return to my people. What is this vital evidence you claim will convince me?” The door closed abruptly.

Smiling grimly, eager to hear from Simon who the blackmailer was, she opened the door to the Tam o'Shanter and hurried inside. And stopped. Her breath solid in her chest. Her blood icy with fear.

“Simon!” He lay on the floor, eyes blinking as he struggled back toward consciousness. A bruise was purpling on his cheek. She looked up, enraged, eyes burning, and stared across the room.

Malko was aiming an Uzi at her heart. “Congratulations, Sansborough. You've found me.”

 

EU Competition Commissioner Carlo Santarosa felt ill. He sank into the chair in front of the computer screen.

“So, Commissioner, have you seen enough?”

Santarosa could barely speak. “Where did you get that information?” His voice was wispy with fear.

“Your onetime employee, the Carnivore, kept business records, and I managed to acquire them. Fully detailed records, I might add, with names, dates, all parties involved, and payment details. You'd be amazed at his clients, who engaged him often for quite good and moral reasons. Still, it's murder for hire, isn't it? Your career and reputation won't survive such a revelation. But then, I can't imagine anyone's would.”

Santarosa wiped a shaky hand across his forehead. His face felt greasy with sweat. “Just because I approve your merger doesn't mean the commission will agree.”

“Of course it will. This is in your hands. Not only my future but yours.”

Santarosa hunched over as if his stomach hurt. “You give me no choice. I can't bring shame to my wife, my family, my—”

 

In the room next door, Gino Malko rose from his chair, Simon's gym bag in his hand. He set it on the table beside him. Behind him, French doors framed a flagstone walk. In the distance, the sea was an angry swatch of muddy brown and green. Black thunderheads still billowed. There was a faint rumble of sound, as if from many voices.

“Your cousin had an unfortunate loss of memory,” Malko told her. “He seemed to think you were still in Paris. Hand over my Glock. I've missed it.”

Liz stared at him. “You bastard. How did you find us?”

“The Glock.” His face was impassive. “Finding you was no trouble. I have access to every security camera in the hotel, since my employer owns it. You look surprised. Didn't see the cameras, did you? High-tech, the size of pinheads, and buried in the molding where the walls meet the ceilings. As for your disguises, they're good, of course. But since I've studied both of you now, it's impossible you'd get past me for long.”

Inwardly, Liz swore as she desperately tried to think of a ruse, some quick move, a clever trick that could reverse the situation. At the same time, her mind was working over something he had said…something that was important….

“Throw me the gun,” Malko ordered. “Or I'll kill him. By now, you know I mean that. Glocks don't go off on their own. I want it far away from you.”

Liz tossed the Glock to the floor, where it landed between Simon and Malko. She hoped Simon was alert enough to roll over and grab it. But Malko kicked it away. His Uzi swung between her and Simon, covering them, as he squatted, retrieved the Glock, and stood again. He knew exactly what he was doing, a janitor of skill, always protecting himself with distance. He dropped the pistol into the gym bag and grabbed the handles.

He gestured with the Uzi. “Help him up. He's ready.”

“Where to?” She took three quick steps and knelt beside Simon. She would bide her time, wait and watch. She would figure out something. She must.

“Just get him on his feet.”

“Simon? Can you hear me?”

“Get him up!”

She tugged at Simon's arm. He swore. She stood and pulled. He shook his head and swore again, but his eyes opened.

“I've got to quit doing this,” he muttered. “Bloody Christ.”

Malko had moved around them, Uzi unwavering. Passing the French doors, he went to a connecting door and knocked.

A voice inside said, “Yes?”

Malko opened it. “Are you finished, sir? I have them. They're unarmed.”

“Santarosa's gone. Bring them in.”

Liz tugged Simon's arm over her shoulder and lifted. He stood up, his feet gaining firmness as they moved slowly to the open doorway. As she helped him, her mind was far away, trying to remember something Malko had said…something about his employer owning the hotel. It was important.

With a jolt, she suddenly knew. Of course. Her jaw clenched, and unconsciously she held Simon tighter. She remembered something he had told her…. Yes, if she were right, the blackmailer not only owned Dreftbury but also a vast chain of other resorts and hotels, many built originally to house his construction workers. She knew now who he was. The deal he wanted Santarosa to approve was worth more than the annual budgets of most nations, as large as the gross national product of Hungary.

 

Sir Anthony Brookshire and César Duchesne rushed down the hallway, rage in every step Brookshire took. The two men were almost identical in size and age, both just under six feet. Still, where Sir Anthony had a large head with a full head of silvery hair and was slightly muscular, his security man had a shaved head and was solid-looking and athletic. Sir Anthony wore his classic jacket, while Duchesne's tweed hung loosely, as if it had been fitted on an overweight plumber. The difference between class and breed, Sir Anthony decided. He wondered how Duchesne had hurt his leg. It dragged slightly as he walked. A disfigurement.

“You're sure Santarosa's in the Alloway?” Sir Anthony demanded. As he thought about the blackmailer again, his gorge rose, livid at how the traitor's arrogance had threatened the Coil. He could take no chance it would happen again.

“As we agreed, I dropped a tracking device into Santarosa's pocket when he arrived. I was able to do that with Prometheus and Ocean, too, but Themis and Atlas sent their assistants to register, and I never saw them. After Santarosa checked in, he circulated through the lobby and stopped briefly in the bar. Then he went to his room. He left a little while ago and went directly to the Alloway. Neither Prometheus nor Ocean is there, so either Themis or Atlas is the blackmailer. That's when I called you.”

“So the bastard is finally cornered,” Sir Anthony growled. “He'll have the Zip disc with him, since he may need it to ‘convince' Santarosa. Take it from him immediately and give it to me.”

“And if he won't turn it over?”

“He must. You understand.”

Duchesne inclined his head. “What will you do with the disc?”

“That's none of your goddamned bloody business.”

They turned into another corridor. “There's the room,” Duchesne said.

 

As Liz supported Simon, she looked desperately around, trying to see something that would help them escape. But Malko had their weapons, and he stayed out of range. Although he was walking better, Simon was still not himself.

She listened as ice clinked into a glass in the other room. “Gregory Gilmartin,” she called. “You have my father's files.”

“Yes, I do.”

In his cheap suit, the engineer appeared in the doorway, thin and lanky, with the intense expression of the driven. His analytical gaze took in the situation with a single sweep. He turned back into the room and drank from the highball glass as Liz helped Simon to the door.

“But we're going to make it appear as if not only do you have the files but you're willing to kill and die for them.” He waved a hand, beckoning them in. “Don't bother to hope Santarosa will say anything later. He has far too much to lose.” He took out a green Zip disc and tossed it onto the table, then he sat in front of a top-of-the-line IBM ThinkPad, whose monitor was divided into four windows, each displaying views of the hall outside the room. Two figures stood there. He closed the top and drank again.

Liz's gaze returned quickly to the disc. She stared at it hungrily. “Is that it?” she asked before she could stop herself.

He gave a cool smile. “You're a fool if you think I'd ever let it get beyond my reach, particularly here.” He ejected a Zip disc with the same green label from the computer and put it inside his jacket pocket. “Malko, they're here. Let them in. Carefully. Do you have a weapon for me?”

Malko handed him Simon's Beretta. As Gilmartin aimed it at them, Malko hurried to the door.