The Coil (8 page)

“I mean no disrespect, Ada,” he said, “but I shouldn't think it's the end of the world. I'll talk to Stanford Weaver whenever he likes. Name the time and place, and I'll be there. You know that.”

She glared from the shadows. “It's too late. He's gone.”

“Already?”

“The Americans got him out fast. But then, embarrassment's a great motivator. Viera Jozef's theatrical death is going to be the top news story at daybreak. It's duck-and-cover time for both the Yanks and the World Bank. Listen to me, Simon. Hear me clearly. Your behavior wasn't part of the plan. Tonight you were supposed to have had a very important conversation with a very powerful new ally for Britain. Not only did you basically flip him off, you created an additional mess for him and the Americans. Dressed in that tux, you stood out in that motley crowd like a robed priest at an orgy.”

There was something to her complaints, but in the high-stakes world of MI6, both in the field and in the office, you could show no weakness, reveal no doubts, or you were dead—sometimes literally.

“What I learned tonight needs attending to,” he insisted. “The police, the media, and the public always know in advance when there's going to be a big demonstration, because organizers abide by the laws and register. At the same time, they're usually so excited they can't keep their mouths shut anyway. But not last night.”

“I'm listening.”

“Somehow, more than five thousand protesters got past Slovakia's border guards. I heard not a whisper ahead of time, and neither did the authorities or anyone else. Add to that tonight's self-immolation—the first one, thank God, but you can bet it won't be the last. Viera was no religious-based extremist. No al-Qaeda killer in the making. She was a young schoolteacher who donated her free time to hospitals and soup kitchens. Her whole life was ahead of her, and she had the face of an angel. Perfect for front pages and the top of the news. She's a poster child for martyrdom.”

“There's a point to this?” Ada said coldly.

“The point is, I may not have been holding some cheeky banker's hand, but I was doing my job. I was assigned to be a penetration agent because we were worried the antiglobalization movement could breed soldiers for terrorist groups. Right?”

She shrugged. “That was one reason.”

“A bloody damn large reason. The zealousness I saw out there tonight was a wake-up call. Viera used violence to get attention for her group's grievances, and by morning, they'll see the headlines and know her sacrifice worked. It scares the piss out of me to think what would happen if every antiglobalization group figured that out and started to act on it. It wouldn't be long before they'd redirect their violence away from themselves and against the people they hold responsible for their problems. Then what happens if they actually figure out a way to work and plan together? If they unite, it could get worse than the sixties, and that almost tore apart Europe and the United States.”

She shook her head angrily. “You're exaggerating. Those people are too weak, too happy to think of themselves as victims. Besides, existing institutions like the IMF and World Bank are one hell of a lot better equipped to deal with poverty and the world's other problems than the whining adults and ignorant kids we saw screaming and yelling out there tonight. If your agitators haven't convinced me, they sure won't convince many others either. So what if they nab a few headlines? They're still singing to the choir.”

“That choir, as you call them, could explode. One should never underestimate the potential of the underdog. Especially if the underdog feels cornered.”

She turned to face him. He did not like the look in her eyes. Her voice was arctic. “You excuse what you did by bringing me information. That's all smoke screen for your fucking up. I've sent my people to check the media film that was shot tonight. It's inevitable some of the photographers and camera people recorded you. I'll have to tap my contacts, which I don't like to do on something that should never have happened in the first place.” She made a weary sound in her throat. “Even if I manage to find every scrap of film and get it scrubbed, remember you were protected only going into the embassy. It's possible somebody there saw you sneak outdoors and then co-star in the riot. With so much press coverage, any witnesses will likely wonder about you. You're sloppy, Simon.”

“I do my job.”

“That's the problem. It's just a job to you. You like to pretend your work means something, but the truth is you treat it like a shell game. You haven't a real opinion about what these people you've been informing on for the past three years are doing. You don't think they're right or wrong. You don't think our government is either. Where's the real Simon Childs? Where's he hiding?”

God, she was annoying. “I care about Britain. I should think that'd be enough for you. Do you have anything else you wish to discuss?” Thinking about loyalty and Britain brought a dull ache to his chest, the same pain he associated with his father's death. Sir Robert Childs had been almost a national institution—member of parliament, beloved leftist, and respected by the other side of the aisle. Like Viera, he had died by his own hand. Simon had investigated thoroughly at the time, but he had been unable to find even a suggestion his father's death was anything but a suicide.

He kept his face neutral as he resisted the urge to look at his watch. He did not want to be late to the meeting with the nameless person who had written that note.

Ada Jackson fired up the car's engine. “I want a full report of everything you saw and your conclusions. I'll expect it at the bridge drop by eight
A.M
. The media's going to be sniffing for details about Viera and her life—the more intimate, the more spicy and gory, the better. Tell your friend Johann that you're so distraught that you're taking some time off. He'll spread the word, and the press will pick it up. I'll have a safe house lined up for you by the time you turn in your report. I want this whole thing to die down. Blase Kusterle must vanish.”

Santa Barbara, California

The twilight traffic was heavy on the 101 as Liz sped her Toyota sports car north toward the dean's party. Tense and wired, she was caught in fight-or-flight syndrome—that atavistic survival mechanism hard-wired into the subcortical region of the human brain. She was like a car whose driver had one foot flooring the accelerator and the other slamming the brake. The orderly, peaceful world she had created over the last five years had been abruptly shattered, and she was reeling.

She had left a message for Kirk, telling him what had happened and asking him to recall everything that was said in his conversation with the Sheriff's Department. Then she went looking for anyone who might have seen a stranger break into her office, a fellow jogger push her off the cliff, or the fake deputy who had interviewed her. After learning nothing useful, she canceled her vacation to Paris and left a message of apology on Sarah's cell. She must stay in Santa Barbara until she uncovered the truth.

Already late, she had driven home to dress for the party, where she had one of those nasty turns that stopped one cold. She had been attacked. Some powerful group wanted her dead. Of course, she needed a gun so she could kill them before they killed her. She had gone directly to her wall safe, removed her old 9-mm Walther, found it clean and well oiled, and loaded it.

Her movements were effortless, filled with the solace of relentless training. But they also brought everything back: Her three years of operating in the field for Langley—the long stretches of boredom, punctuated by the sweat-inducing peaks of danger. Her helplessness when her husband was captured and murdered by the Islamic Jihad. Being a shocked witness in Lisbon to the Carnivore's last bloody wet job. Then three perilous years underground, hiding and running with her parents while trying to arrange for them to come in from the cold.

She looked down at the pistol in her hand. Part of her wanted the weapon's security, no matter how superficial it might be. Violence could be so easy, such an inviting solution. But in the end, it fed off itself, until it became a mindless, self-justifying cycle that created far more problems than it solved. Violence corrupted individuals and societies.

She gave a rough shake of her head.
No.
She did not want to be seduced again. There must be other ways to handle these attacks. She unloaded the weapon, returned it to her safe, dressed, and went out to her car once more. She would be very late, but it did not matter. She needed to put everything out of her mind for a time and relax and find a new perspective. And she needed to talk to Kirk about the man who had pretended to be Harry Craine.

 

In the last faint light of day, the blood-red bougainvillea that grew alongside Dean Derrick Quentin's front porch was a tangle of radiant color against the white paint. Carrying only her shoulder bag, Liz walked past the bougainvillea and into the party. Greeting colleagues, she ordered a large, much-needed Belvedere martini and sipped it as she circulated. Almost everyone had heard about the attack on her, and she retold the story again and again as she watched for Kirk. Several people mentioned he was looking for her, too.

At last, her martini finished, she left the glass in the kitchen and pushed out through the screen door into the backyard. A dozen of the tenured and untenured stood on the deck, drinking and arguing about Freud and Jung and Rank as night settled in, but Kirk was not among them.

She walked around the porch. The martini had helped her relax, and she trailed her fingers over the bougainvillea. Tropical and lush, it climbed all the way to the three-story house's gables. As she admired it, she heard her name. Curious, she peered through the thick leaves.

Kirk and the dean were talking quietly in the side garden. Behind them, a taxi sped down the block and away, its motor purring. She strained to listen.

“I had to tell Themis about Liz first thing,” Kirk was explaining. “What else could I do? You know he wants anything unusual reported immediately.”

She frowned, puzzled. Who was Themis? Kirk was
reporting
on her?

“But lying to Liz about calling the sheriff was damned risky, Kirk,” the dean said. “She's no fool, and she could still figure it out. That'd be a disaster.”

Her rib cage contracted. Kirk had
lied
?

Kirk gave a low laugh. “She won't. She's in love with me. She trusts me completely. What really happened will never cross her mind….”

Anger shot through her. Why that smug son of a…What?
What had he said?

Kirk was still talking. “Besides, you saw how fast Themis sent that bogus deputy to interview her. The foundation obviously wanted the cops kept out of it. We don't want to shake up our arrangement with the foundation, now do we?”

She knotted her hands, keeping herself from exploding. Why were Kirk and the dean reporting on her? What in hell was going on! That bastard Kirk had betrayed her, and so had the dean. But what loomed even worse was that their boss, “Themis,” obviously had tremendous power and resources, and, as she had feared, some larger organization—“the foundation”—was somehow involved, too.

She found a wider opening in the bougainvillea. The two men were standing close together under a peppertree. Kirk's posture was fully erect—no sign of the usual drunken slouch to which he quickly descended at parties. Compared to him, the dean was small and slight, but his gaze was sharp, like a rattlesnake's, and he appeared as sober as Kirk.

Kirk continued: “God knows how the Aylesworth people would've reacted if I hadn't reported it and the police
had
gotten involved.”

“I still don't like it. Damned worrisome. Until now, our arrangement has worked so well. Everybody won, especially Liz. Five years ago, her credentials were short to be awarded such a prestigious chair.”

Bastards! All of them! So it was the Aylesworth Foundation behind it—whatever “it” was. Yes, her credentials had been short, but her proposal…Liz stopped herself from justifying being awarded the chair. Right now, that was the least of her problems.

Worried and furious, she leaned closer. She did not want to miss a word.

“
We
won, that's for sure.” Kirk's laugh was self-congratulatory. “I don't kid myself. I'd never have rated a cushy job at a big university if Themis hadn't hired me to watch Liz twenty-four seven.”

The dean ruminated. “You're right. Two funded chairs didn't hurt me with the regents either, or with the departmental budget, for that matter. Still, I'd like to know why he wanted her here. I can't help but think this sudden assault on her and the theft from her filing cabinet are connected to our arrangement.” He pursed his lips, frowning. “I'm concerned we might've been used for some dangerous purpose we haven't a notion about, and it's going to boomerang back and hurt us.”

A string of oaths flooded her mind. Her funded chair, her special position at the university, her work—all had been arranged by this Themis, whoever the hell he was, and the Aylesworth Foundation. Not because her insights into violence and her work were worthy and important, but because some code-named asshole wanted to know where she was and what she was doing.

Outraged, she turned toward the flight of steps that led down to the garden. Words, sentences, whole paragraphs of disgust flooded her. After she told them exactly how despicable they were, she would find out everything they knew. Everything they had been told.
Everything.
What was Themis's real name? Had they ever met him? There must be at least a telephone number they had called to make their reports.

She stopped. Barely breathing, she stayed in the shelter of the bougainvillea, and her gaze shifted. Something had changed out on the sidewalk—a shadow had drifted when there was no cause for it. She traced it back to the silhouette of a man crouching behind a tree near the white picket fence that surrounded the yard. She glanced down again at Kirk and the dean. They were watching the house, not the street.

The shadow moved along the sidewalk, using the picket fence for cover as he studied the garden and house. The fence's upright slats made it almost impossible to see his whole face. But there was something familiar. With a jolt, she recognized him—the “deputy sheriff” who had taken her statement this afternoon.

Riveted, she made a decision. The pathetic duo in the garden could wait. The half-hidden man on the shadowy street came directly from Themis. He was the one who could lead her to Themis and perhaps to why she had been attacked. She turned and padded back the way she had come, continuing on around the long porch to the opposite side of the house, where she would have the best chance of being unseen. She slung the strap of her shoulder bag across her chest, so the bag hung off her back, where it would not be in her way in case she had to run. She kept her tread light.

At the front corner of the house, she peered around. The long purple shadows of early evening flowed across the Quentins' front lawn and out to the residential street, where old jacaranda trees lined both sides. There were a dozen cars in sight, but no sign of the sham deputy.

Liz sprinted down the steps and over the long walk to the picket gate, where she sat on her heels to watch again. Still nothing. She quieted her mind so she could hear more acutely. Behind her, laughter and conversation sounded faintly from the party. Then she heard a car door open and close softly from the left…somewhere up the street. She recognized another sound—an automatic car window was being raised or lowered.

She pulled open the gate and moved toward it. She passed a jacaranda tree and two cars, studying the shadows under the street lamps. A wind was rising, rustling leaves but leaving branches motionless, as if in limbo. The pungent scent of freshly cut grass infused the air.

She gazed back at the house, which was nearly out of sight now, and around at the deserted sidewalk and the quiet street that curled up into the rolling foothills. From somewhere high above came the sharp yips of a coyote.

Where had the man gone? She continued to prowl uphill, her gaze moving. And slowed, listening, feeling…. It seemed almost as if softly running feet reverberated through the sidewalk and into her consciousness. She whirled in time to see the bright flash of a knife in the left hand of a dark-clothed figure who wore a ski mask.

He was jumping silently toward her, intending to attack from behind.

Adrenaline shot through her. She dodged and turned to escape into the street, where the lighting was better, but her foot struck a tree root and twisted. She stumbled, her purse thudding against her back.

He was beside her in an instant. He locked his right arm across her throat and yanked her backward into the tree's shadow. He was the same size as the man who had thrown her off the cliff. Gasping for air, she reacted poorly, doing just what a trained attacker would expect: She grabbed at his arm with both hands and twisted and struggled, trying to pry it loose. Her one advantage was her years of athleticism. She was strong and flexible. She could feel him strain to maintain his balance.

But his arm continued to crush her throat. She breathed in raw rasps, repressing the urge to keep tearing at him. Instead, she slammed back with both elbows in
ushiro empiuchi
strikes. One elbow connected to his side, and she felt more than heard him bite off a grunt.

The grip on her neck loosened a moment. She tried to scream, but he quickly squeezed again. She fought harder, jerking and bending through the deepening night, battling for air. Lack of oxygen was making her light-headed.

When she saw the knife move and catch the light of the street lamp again, she had a brief moment of utter terror. He was going to stab up into her heart from the left side. If his aim was poor, her death would be slow and painful. She would bleed out. On the other hand, if his aim was good, she would die in seconds.

Inwardly, she cursed. Then she realized there was a small hope: His attention had shifted to the knife, and she had a weapon, too—her shoulder bag, still slung over her back.

Gauging carefully, straining to breathe, she watched him pull the knife back, ready to plunge. She must time her maneuver just right and take advantage of his concentration on the knife….

Suddenly, he slammed it toward her. She gave an abrupt lurch to the right and threw all of her weight into wrenching around. For a second, she was free, and her shoulder bag swung.

With the impact of a hurtling fist, the knife rammed the bag and went all the way through. She flinched, but the point only nicked her. The arm across her throat loosened as the attacker cursed and tried to pull out his weapon.

Immediately, she reached up again with both hands. But instead of trying to pry away his arm as she had before, she gave a mighty push, raising it, and sank her teeth through cloth, biting into flesh. Blood spurted and dripped into her mouth.

He grunted and tried to shake loose.

Sweating, lungs burning, she hung on with her teeth, a pit bull at her enemy's throat. When his arm gave a tremble of weakness, she released him and spun free. At the same instant, his knife tore loose from her handbag.

He reeled, off balance. This was her chance. Maybe her only one.

She leaned back and slashed a foot up at his chin. His eyes widened in his ski mask as her blow landed. She had caught him at the right instant, when he was vulnerable, and he knew it. A glint of rage showed, then his head snapped back. He rotated helplessly on one heel and fell hard, facedown, onto the grass beside the sidewalk. His body lay twisted, showing the motion of his fall. He did not move.

She stood over him, panting, looking around for the knife. She massaged her throat and swallowed.
Where was the knife?

And then she knew. Stunned, she focused on the downed man. His hips were at an angle, the left one raised, one foot under the other leg, and one hand under his torso. But his chest lay flat on the grass.