The Coil (6 page)

Instantly, she was on her feet. In two quick strides, she crossed to the cabinet and knelt, studying the scrapes. Someone had broken into the drawers. She tried the bottom one. It was unlocked, although it should not have been. She pulled it open. Inside was her briefcase. She searched it. Nothing missing. She opened the second drawer, also unlocked, and read the file tabs. Heart sinking, she read them again. The folders that contained ideas for the future show about Cold War assassins were missing.

She remembered putting the files away just before she left to jog and locking the drawer. She hurried across the room and yanked open her office door. More scratches on that lock. Which would explain her uneasy sense that her office had been disturbed. She must have unconsciously registered seeing the marks.

Now she knew. Not only had someone tried to kill her, but at the same time, someone had broken into her office and stolen files.

She closed the door and marched back to the phone. With luck, she could catch Harry Craine at the Sheriff's Department. She remembered the calm experience in his gaze and his gravelly voice. Maybe he had learned something about the attack. When she dialed, she asked for him and listened with relief to the news that he was in.

“What can I do for you…Professor Sansborough, is it?” This voice was different. There was no sound of gravel or of experience. This man was young, high-energy, enthusiastic.

She asked, “Are you Deputy Harry Craine?” When he assured her he was, she said, “I reported an assault on me today to a sheriff's deputy. I thought it was to you. Whoever it was met me at my doctor's office in Montecito to take my statement.”

“Haven't been to Montecito in a week. You must have the wrong name. Happens sometimes. I take it you didn't get his business card?”

“No.” Dammit. She had forgotten to ask for one. Another mistake. She related the details of the assault. “At least two people may be involved,” she concluded. “The man who pushed me off the cliff, and a second person who broke into my office while the attack was going on. He stole some of my research folders.”

“I'll check our database,” he said instantly. “When there's an attempt on a life, the information's entered right away. Don't worry. I'll straighten this out.”

“Will your database tell you who took my statement, too?”

“You bet. And who the investigating officer is, if it's someone different.”

As she waited on hold, she mulled the assault and break-in. It seemed to her the two events must be connected; the coincidence was too great. But what was the link?

“Professor Sansborough?”

“Yes?”

Harry Craine's voice had changed. It was edgy, distrustful. “I phoned the university, and they say you're one of their professors all right. Then I checked the number you're dialing from, and it's from your office. So I'm going to assume you're who you claim to be. Now, when did you say someone threw you off the cliff?”

“About ten-thirty this morning. That should be in the initial call reporting the attack.” What the devil was going on?

“Right. When did you make that call?”

“I didn't. A colleague, Professor Kirk Tedesco, did. He phoned while the doctor was examining me. It would've been about eleven-thirty, perhaps quarter to twelve. After that, your detective came.”

“That's interesting. Especially since we have no record of ever receiving a call. It leaves me wondering…. Are you running some kind of psych experiment on us for your TV show or something? Is that what's going on?”

She was stunned. “You have no record of Kirk's call? Professor Kirk Tedesco?”

“No call. No record of any attack on you. Nothing—today or ever. I think it's time you leveled with me, Professor. What're you really up to?”

It took her breath away. “This is outrageous. Obviously, someone there either lost or ignored Professor Tedesco's report. Let me make this perfectly clear:
I was attacked.
If you check out my background, I think you'll agree I know an assault from an accident, and that I'm not some panicky college egghead! Talk to Professor Tedesco and to my doctor, Wendell D. Klossner.”

“Did either see you go off the cliff?” Craine asked.

“No one
saw,
except the man who threw me.”

“So all they know is that you were injured.”

“That's right.” Her voice rose. “Why would I lie about this?”

“I don't know, Professor Sansborough. Why would anyone?” His tight voice told her he was working hard to control his exasperation. “We get crank calls all the time, and not just from nuts and drugheads. Regular citizens phone in, too. Maybe they've got to create an alibi because a spouse is getting suspicious. Or they could be thinking about collecting some insurance money. I'm not saying that's true of you, but even if Professor Tedesco and Dr. Klossner confirm your injuries, that still doesn't mean someone tried to kill you.” He sighed. “I'll check into it. That's the best I can do.”

Her voice was biting. “With that kind of commitment, Deputy, I doubt you'll do anything near your best.”

There was a moment of silence. Craine said, “Say we did get the call about the alleged assault on you, and say someone lost the report or even dismissed it. Where did that fake Deputy Harry Craine come from? How did
he
know about Professor Tedesco's phone call, or about the attack itself, or even where to find you?”

Liz's hand tightened on the phone. How had he known? As an answer began to form in her mind, she felt herself go cold. She forced control into her voice and politely thanked the deputy. She hung up.

Trembling, she leaned her forehead into her palms, fighting fear. Perhaps someone in the Sheriff's Department was involved. Or maybe the killer had followed her to Klossner's office and somehow diverted Kirk's call. Either answer meant some organization was involved—a skilled, experienced, and efficient organization. One that wanted to kill her.

Bratislava, Slovakia

It was after nine
P.M
., and the hot summer night was filled with the muddy odors of the Danube River. In the distance, a lonely barge horn sounded, while a boat's searchlight swept the black sky. Dressed in a tuxedo, Blase Kusterle stood hidden in the shadow of a tree at Hviezdoslavovo Square, where protesters were massing under the street lamps in front of the American Embassy. He rotated an unlit cigar between his fingers. He wanted to smoke the damn thing, but right now he had a situation.

The embassy was alight with a glitzy reception and formal dinner party for Stanford Weaver, the rich new president of the World Bank. Blase imagined the tasteful music, the clinking champagne glasses, and the inane small talk, enlivened only by the occasional drunk who blurted something truthful or insulting or both.

Outside was a very different matter. Far more demonstrators were here than he had been told to expect. They milled around the outskirts of the embassy grounds, avoiding the U.S. Marines standing sentry. Blase watched uneasily as fresh ranks of marines suddenly burst out from around the embassy, rifles up.

But the crowd merely fell back, watching the reinforcements take their places. Then another wave of protesters arrived—men, women, and a few older children—on foot, on bicycles, and pouring out of little?

Skodas and rusty Fords and a few Yellow Express taxis that rushed away like frightened rabbits as soon as their passengers emerged.

The new arrivals called greetings to old friends in Slovak and Czech: “
Ahoj!
” and “
?

Cau!
” In German, they were more formal: “
Guten Abend.
” There was even the occasional retro American: “What's happenin', man?”

Dressed casually, they wore backpacks in which first-aid kits and plastic bottles of vinegar could sometimes be seen. A bad sign, those vinegar bottles. Anyone who carried vinegar expected trouble. They would soak their bandanas in the vinegar to offset the effects of tear gas.

The noise of their cumulative voices rose, rumbling, filling the muggy air, as they closed in on the embassy again, waving placards in many languages, but mostly in Slovak, German, and English:

 

GLOBALIZATION = STARVATION SAVE OUR FORESTS & RIVERS BUILD NATIONS. DON'T DESTROY THEM.

 

There were socialists, anarchists, and plain old-fashioned nationalists, all protesting globalization and its effects, but for different reasons. The socialists wanted a lot of state control over everything. The anarchists wanted no control at all. And the nationalists wanted their borders kept strong. Only something like globalization, which each faction considered an assault on its political beliefs, could unify them. Of course, environmentalists and unionists were here, too. But for them, party allegiance was less important than their cause.

From his hiding place, Blase spotted Tomasz and his wife, Maria. They were in their fifties, worried by the loss of Communist-era social programs in child and elder care. Tomasz was pumping up and down a sign that argued
PEOPLE NOT PROFITS
. Nearby was Lukas, in his early thirties, who had lost his job when globalization theories caused the mill where he was a machine operator to be privatized and sold. Within a year, it was bankrupt. He had found no steady work since.

Wherever he looked, Blase saw housewives, artists, writers, teachers, farmers—people he had met at antiglobalization meetings and demonstrations. Many had ardent democratic ethics and vigorous beliefs in a more perfect world. They were eager fighters for social justice and the environment.

All of this was normal, usual. What disturbed Blase were the nonlocals, at least five thousand, and still arriving. That was a shockingly large number for Bratislava, which was off the radarscope for most people—neither a top entertainment destination nor a regular site for major confrontations.

Judging by those he recognized and the conversations he overheard, these outsiders came mostly from the golden triangle of Central Europe—Vienna, Budapest, and Prague—and were organized in the usual “affinity groups” of five to fifteen people. Some were assigned to provide aid before a protest—such as finding out where anyone arrested would likely be jailed. Others were charged with helping during the protest—handing out water and snapping photos for evidence. And the rest had duties after the protest—caring for the kids, cats, dogs, and plants of those who were injured or imprisoned.

He cocked his head, listening. A quartet of youths was discussing some big “direct action” planned for tonight. The only clue was that the speaker's group had been put through refresher sessions in nonviolence and Slovakia's legal rights, which was the norm when an event might turn dirty.

As he uneasily digested this new information, Blase spotted Viera Jozef. Her silky black hair was a cloud down to her shoulders, and she carried a covered bucket in one hand and a gym bag in the other. Wearing a light summer dress that brushed the tops of her knees, she was an appealing sight as she wound through the moonlit crowd, her gaze fixed on the austere embassy ahead. There was a look of hard determination on her pretty face. She was passionately opposed to globalization. He had slept with her before and was hopeful of more romantic interludes.

Trailing Viera was her brother, Johann, a thick-armed miner, glaring at any man who smiled at her. Smart and committed, Viera and Johann Jozef were the city's chief antiglobalization organizers. Johann was talking to a man who carried a giant placard that read
NUCLEAR POWER KILLS
. Blase did not know him. The two were deep in conversation, their shoulders together as they leaned into each other's ears.

Blase's gaze swept the masses, taking a reading. Tension was mounting. As he glanced at the double doors that fronted the embassy—they were firmly closed—and then back again, a Markíza television crew arrived in a van. Two cameramen hit the ground running, their cameras on their shoulders, already filming. Two reporters chased after, notebooks and pens poised, while three techs hustled out mikes, cables, and other equipment. The private TV station had sent a large crew, which meant they expected a juicy story. Which also meant more media would follow.

A minute later, squad cars and vans screeched to stops. But when the policemen emerged, they moved slowly, lethally. Communist rule had been gone nearly fifteen years, but old East bloc cops still gave off a sense of thuggery, and the Bratislava police were no exception. Clubs in hand, they glowered with that universal cop message of “Don't irritate me, blokes, or I'll break your skulls.”

Riot police spread out methodically, trying to encircle and control, while other officers off-loaded cordoning ropes, hoses, and riot shields. A phalanx of uniforms pushed the crowds away from the embassy, back to the park.

Blase Kusterle liked none of it. Viera had told him nothing special was planned for tonight, just an ordinary demonstration against the World Bank and its wealthy new chief. Johann had confirmed that the usual small but outraged turnout was expected. If Blase needed to be someplace else, no problem.

Now he knew either they had been lying or were ignorant. If he were not wearing this damn tuxedo, which identified him as the enemy, he would be out there right now, where he belonged.

A sudden escalation of noise erupted from the edgy crowd. There had been no shouted orders, and he could see nothing to have provoked it, but, like a gathering storm, the throngs seemed to swell up into a single massive creature and sweep beneath the branching trees, around the parked cars, and toward the embassy. The noise was thunderous, frightening. The hot air seemed to crackle.

This must be the direct action, Blase decided instantly. Word must have passed mouth to mouth.

He threw away his cigar and ran. Someone near the embassy bellowed into a bullhorn at the crowds to back off. The agitators yelled back. Horns honked as the sea of demonstrators blocked cars. And just as quickly as it all had begun, those closest to the embassy abruptly braked. The rest of the crowd stopped, too, beginning at the front in a rippling effect like the deceleration of a centipede until the entire mob was uneasily stationary, angling to see what was happening.

Blase pounded around them, brushing past clumps of people until at last he stopped, panting. It was Viera. She was sprinting out into the open space between the agitators and the embassy, dress flying around her shapely legs. There was a moment of surprise: the police thinking they had stopped the crowd; the crowd transfixed by the daring young woman.

As Blase took a step forward, unsure, one of the embassy marines bawled at him in English, “Halt! Don't go any closer!”

He turned to tell the marine to bugger off. But then he saw the man's face. It was paling as he stared in the direction of Viera.

Blase whirled. He saw her lift the bucket she had been carrying, scale off the top, and pour some kind of amber liquid down over both shoulders so that her dress and body were soaked.

“Nie!”
someone called in horrified Slovak. “It's petrol!”

“Viera!” Blase roared and bolted past the guard and toward her. “What are you doing?
Stop!
”

“Petrol!” The words echoed back over the crowd, changing languages, growing in shock, the voices unbelieving.

“Gas! Make her
stop!
”

As he ran, Blase's heart thundered, and his mind tried to grasp the impossible. She looked so small and vulnerable, surrounded as she was by the demonstrators, the police, the marines, the towering embassy. But there was that look on her angelic face, that look that said, This is me. I'm right.
This
is right.

“Stop her!” Blase shouted desperately in Slovak and then in English. “Someone
stop
her!”

But there was no time. She moved swiftly, as if she had practiced often. As he and others closed in, she pulled a small blowtorch from the gym bag, pressed a button, and a tongue of fire shot out. She turned it around toward herself.

“Viera!” he screamed.

“Stop her!”
It was the frantic voice of her brother, Johann, shouldering through the crowd. “Don't let her do it! Help!
Stop her!
”

She exploded in flames. For a moment, it almost seemed like a fairy tale—the lovely princess was preserved forever-more in a glowing vase of fire. But then her skirt evaporated, a wisp of cloth turned to gas. Half-naked, she reached her hands out through the flames to the demonstrators, and her lips parted as if she were going to speak. She even cocked her head, and her face seemed puzzled.

Gray smoke burst from her open mouth, and her corpse toppled in the direction her head had tilted.

Blase was paralyzed, trying to comprehend what she had done, his mind so shocked that he did not immediately hear the noise or sense the pandemonium of the crowd's going wild.

Her body smoked. Flames licked around it. A breeze arose, carrying the awful odor of burned flesh across the demonstrators and into the sultry night.

In an instant, it was a riot. Protesters rushed the police and marines. Gunfire exploded as if shot from cannons. Riot hoses sprayed, and people shrieked in fear. One of the parked cars was toppled over, then another. Three cars were set afire, the conflagrations geysering red and yellow up toward the starry black sky.

It was the World Bank–International Monetary Fund battle in Prague all over again, but for Blase, it was far worse. Caught in the maelstrom, he tried to battle through to Viera's body.

As he pushed and shoved, Blase felt a hand slip deftly in and out of his back pocket. He grabbed the pocket and whirled, but no one stood out from the mob. Before he could think more about it, a fist flew past his ear, and a boot stomped the thin dress shoe on his right foot. Pain shot to his head.

He ducked, punched back, and pushed onward as the vision of Viera's appalling self-immolation shimmered before his eyes, erasing everything else. He had to get to her. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he had imagined it all.

A deep ache settled into his chest. He was lying to himself. More police and media descended, and he was caught in another senseless fight. Along with scores of others, he was arrested and thrown into a packed police van. Guilty, grieving, he said nothing as the van drove off into the night.