The Coil (14 page)

Mac pounded after, and she scooped up her bag and followed. The fugitive cast a panicked glance behind. He was injured, and Mac was closing in. There was no way he could outrun Mac. He windmilled his hands above his head and turned into the speeding traffic. Brakes screeched and horns screamed as he bolted safely between two cars.

Frowning, Mac halted at the curb as the fellow continued his suicidal run onward into a second lane, where a black Citroën was unable to stop. The shriek of the tires and the sickening thud of the impact echoed through the summer air. Cars slewed and skidded to avoid where the man lay in the street, but two more ran over him before all of the traffic came to a shuddering halt.

Mac and Liz stood far apart on the curb, silent witnesses to the chaos. People jumped out of cars and converged from both sidewalks to help. Soon a man broke free of the crowd in the street and looked across the halted cars at Mac. He shook his head, clearly signaling Mac that the attacker was dead.

As police Klaxons wailed and an ambulance alarm screeched, the spotter slipped away into the crowd.

Mac hurried to Liz. “We'd better get out of here. Separately.”

“What happened? Who was he?”

In answer, Mac opened his hand. On his large palm lay a cigarette lighter. He flipped open the cap. Instead of a flame, a miniature hypodermic syringe appeared. “This was in his hand. He was about to inject you with something. Probably poison. I'll have the lab analyze it.”

Her heart thundered. “My God. How did you know?”

“I didn't, not for certain. But he was watching you while pretending not to. When you stopped to get a taxi, he closed in. That's when I acted. It might have been nothing, but after Santa Barbara, I was taking no chances.”

She could feel the sweat trickling under her clothes. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“You're welcome. Nice job with your bag. If he hadn't hurt his knee, he might've gotten away to try again.”

“I'd rather have been able to interrogate him.”

“Me, too.” He lifted his head and turned toward the sound of the ambulance. Its siren was screaming as it bulled its way through the stalled traffic. The police would be close behind.

“We'd better separate and disappear.” He walked away.

It was then she saw a woman she had noted earlier. When Liz had left the hospital, the woman was holding a Galeries Lafayette shopping bag and standing near the hospital's door, as if waiting for someone. She was still alone but apparently had given up waiting. She had an aristocratic nose with a small bump in the center and a light dusting of powder to even out the color of her skin. Her lipstick was a faded red, almost brown. There was a middle-class look about her, from her simple haircut to her button-down shirt tucked into inexpensive trousers. She also wore a loose, lightweight jacket in the warm sun, when nearly everyone else was in shirtsleeves or simple summer dresses.

What made Liz notice her was that she seemed connected to Mac, too, another spotter. The woman glanced at him and wound off among the stopped cars. Her movements were light, adroit, despite her heavy size. She had been trained. Liz studied her as she disappeared into the throngs still gawking at the fatal accident. There was more than clothes beneath her unseasonable jacket.

Liz hailed a taxi, climbed into the back, and told the taxi-man to drive away.

“But where, madame?” he asked in French.

She kept her voice neutral. “Just drive.”

She was supposed to go to the Hôtel Valhalla to check Sarah and Asher's room. Instead, her mind raced as she grappled with the power of the person with the files. First, he—or she—had sent people to kill her in Santa Barbara. The problem was, that person had also arranged to have another attacker waiting in Paris.

Only Langley knew she was flying to Paris. Only Langley knew when she would arrive and that she would go straight to the American Hospital to visit Asher. She felt a sudden chill. How could anyone else—even the person with the files—have found out she was here, unless Langley had a leak, a traitor?

Call to Brussels, Belgium

“What did Flores and Sansborough talk about? Why do you sound amused?”

“She took him a radio and turned up the volume so high I couldn't hear. Whether she knows it or not, she's getting back her chops.”

“I suppose it doesn't matter what they said. If Flores knew anything, he would've told us long before now. She would have, too.”

“Exactly, Cronus. In any case, that's not the reason I'm reporting. We have a new situation. Sansborough was attacked again—”

“What!”

“—after she left the hospital. Mac was waiting out front with his people. One of them noticed the man and signaled Mac. There was a struggle, and Mac took him down. He found a syringe in his hand, hidden inside a jigged cigarette lighter. Mac's sent it to the lab. We'll know by tomorrow what he was going to inject, depending on how many and what kinds of tests have to be run.”

“And the janitor?”

“Dead. He fell and injured his knee when Sansborough threw her bag to trip him. He leaped into traffic to try to escape, but he was hit and killed. One of Mac's spotters frisked his corpse, but he was carrying nothing but cash.”

“Damnation! Would've liked for you to have had a conversation with the bastard. Who have you told?”

“No one. I take my orders from you.”

“You know why I ask?”

“Of course. First Santa Barbara. Now here. He knew where she'd be.
They
knew where she'd be. That's insider information. At best, we have a leak.”

“And at worst, we have a blackmailer in our midst. Dammit all to hell! I should've guessed! Isolate Mac's unit. This information has to be contained while you and I investigate. Tell no one else about the incident. Let the bloody blackmailer wonder. We'll make him reveal himself.”

Paris, France

In Les Halles, a yellow taxi sat parked in a shadowy alley, its motor idling and the white signal light on its roof unlit, indicating it was unavailable for fares. Its windows were rolled up, and its doors locked. The driver leaned back in the draft of the air conditioner. His cap was pulled forward over his sunglasses as if he were catching a quick nap. After all, it was a hot afternoon, and a working man grew weary.

But this working man was neither weary nor sleeping. He turned off his cell and put it away, continuing to surveil. He had positioned the taxi, the taxi's mirrors, and himself so he had no blind spots. In his early sixties, he was muscular, with a quiet, untroubled expression. He had no distinguishing marks, although he was completely bald under his cap.

His name was César Duchesne, but behind his back, he was called Le Boiteux, the Cripple. To his face, no one dared call him anything but Duchesne.

When a second yellow taxi pulled into the alley and parked some distance behind, Duchesne picked up an old companion, his 9-mm Walther. It was untraceable, and so was he. He climbed out and tucked the weapon into his crossed arms. He walked with a noticeable limp, his right foot toed in.

“Come along, Guignot,” he called softly in French. “Don't waste my time.” Paris's heat clung to him like an unwelcome woman.

The second man, Guignot, stepped out into the shadowy alley, his head turning nervously as he peered around. He hurried to Duchesne.
“Bonjour, monsieur.”

“Report.”

Guignot worked to keep his voice professional. “I missed her at the airport. She queued up too quickly and got in front. I could not break into the taxi line with the police right there.” He stopped abruptly, having caught sight of the weapon in Duchesne's arms. He stepped back. “Is that for me, Monsieur Duchesne?” His voice was breathless. His dirty fingers picked at the front of his denim shirt. “
Non, non.
Trevale said you were a hard man but honorable.” He glanced back at his vehicle.

Duchesne knew the fellow was gauging the risk of running for it. “Honor can be expensive.” He stared through his sunglasses. He had learned with the years to impress upon all new employees the seriousness of their work. “Can I afford you, Guignot?” He moved his hand, and the Walther abruptly pointed at the Frenchman's heart. “Can your wife and children?”

Guignot took a step backward, his face tight with alarm. “
Oui. Absolument.
On my mother's grave!”

“Where's the woman now?”

With shaky fingers, Guignot wiped sweat from his upper lip. “At her hotel. That's the good news. There was a terrible accident at the Hôpital Américain. What a snarl! But I watched and managed to reach her when she raised her hand. At the hotel, she told the doorman she was Sarah Walker. She's staying at the Hôtel Valhalla, near the rue de Buci, as you said she would.”

Duchesne studied his new asset, who was shifting from one foot to the other, his gaze downcast.
“Bon,”
Duchesne decided at last. “I'll tell Trevale you're satisfactory, and I'll continue to require your services along with the others.” He reached into his shirt pocket and handed over a fat roll of euros. “This will help with your debt to him.”

Guignot's face spread in a brown-toothed grin. With an expert flick of his wrist, he undid the roll, fanned out the bills, and ran the tip of his little finger over them, his lips working as he toted them up.

Duchesne told him where they would meet next. “You know your assignment?”

Guignot was already heading back to his cab. “
Oui.
I will make another full report.”

 

The Hôtel Valhalla was an unpretentious but comfortable Latin Quarter establishment, boasting upper-floor bay windows with views over the intersection of two cobbled streets. A centuries-old market was nearby, from which the aromas of country cheeses and freshly baked breads perfumed the air. People sat outdoors at small café tables, where they sipped
vin ordinaire
and watched the passing parade of women in swinging skirts and men in polo shirts and trousers.

At first, Liz had been reluctant to continue with Langley's plan for her. Every time she thought about the janitor outside the hospital, she was more convinced that Langley was soiled. Was the woman she had spotted there the Judas? Maybe even Mac? Perhaps someone had paid off the pilot, and he had relayed her flight information, and then the killer had followed her from de Gaulle. It could easily be someone higher up in Langley, or another of Mac's spotters or colleagues, someone about whom he had no suspicion.

The bottom line was, she could no longer trust Mac. Even if he were not the informer, someone close to him was.

She had decided to continue with her role anyway and check into the hotel. There might be some clue in the room, and she did not want to alert the mole to her suspicions.

At the front desk, there were no messages for Sarah or Asher. Liz picked up Sarah's key from the desk clerk and headed for the elevator. The room was on the fourth floor. She entered cautiously, but the place appeared undisturbed, as if Sarah and Asher had just stepped out. She found her suitcase sitting on the large bed—Mac had seen to that. A small room, a large bed. Very French.

As she looked around, she felt like an intruder; she did not belong here in the middle of someone else's love affair. For a few seconds, she allowed herself to think about Kirk, about herself, about his betrayal, about what sorts of intimate details he had told Themis. What a damn fool she had been.

Then she put it out of her mind. She had life-and-death problems to deal with now.

She searched the room thoroughly, from the laptop on the table to the clothes in the closet, as Mac had asked, but saw nothing that hinted at Sarah's kidnapping and Asher's shooting. Satisfied, she opened her own suitcase. Waiting on top was the Sig Sauer that Mac had tried to give her on the jet. It made her smile, because it was evidence—not necessarily proof—that he was not the mole. Otherwise, he would not go to such lengths to arm her. Still, despite what both Mac and Asher had said, she would not carry it.

Again she studied the room. This time her gaze settled on the wall heater. She hid the weapon behind its metal grille. The city steamed like a teakettle; no one was going to turn on the heat.

Steeling herself, she opened Sarah's purse and found her driver's license and passport. She adjusted the strap, lengthening it so she could use it as a shoulder bag, always more efficient. She did not want to carry her own, now that it was marked by a knife's slice. She went through the remaining items in Sarah's bag, noting the pen, pencil, makeup, comb, and wallet. She checked the wallet and returned everything to the bag and added her own wallet and lipstick.

Carrying the cell Mac had given her, Liz headed toward the window, flattened against the wall, where she could not be seen easily, and peered down four stories. The view was of one side of the lively intersection. She saw no sign of Mac. Still, she knew he was there somewhere, watching. It gave her a strange feeling to be protected. It had been a very long time. And yet she could not quite trust him.

She scrutinized the pedestrians, the people sitting out at the little sidewalk tables, the two women on a bench at the bus stop, the crowds standing at the intersection waiting for the light to change…and her gaze returned to the bench, because there was that woman from the hospital again, her Galeries Lafayette shopping bag at her feet. She was sturdy and plain, very well behaved in her red-brown lipstick. It looked as if Mac had a good agent there.

At last, Liz dialed her cell. It was time to confront Kirk and wring out of him everything he knew about Themis and why she had been watched. She had a strong hunch there was more to the story than Mac had related. Besides, Kirk might know something that would point to the mole. It was after six o'clock here, which meant it was past nine in the morning in California. Kirk taught no classes Wednesday mornings.

When his answering machine picked up, she hung up and phoned his office. Again, his machine answered, and she ended the connection. She considered. There was still Dean Quentin. She dialed again.

His secretary's voice shook; she sounded near hysteria. “He's…he's
dead,
Professor Sansborough. I can't believe it.
Murdered!
A burglar broke in and killed both him and Mrs. Quentin. She had lots of beautiful jewelry, you know, and that evil bastard took all of it. But why did he have to
kill
them, too?”

Liz's chest tightened. “Murdered? My God, Chelsea. Can you tell me what—”

Chelsea's voice was tentative. “You…haven't heard about Kirk, have you?”

She struggled to breathe. “Kirk?”

“I mean, you and he were close, so maybe—”

Liz steeled herself. “Tell me.”

“It was a car accident. You know that beautiful Mustang of his? They found him in it at the bottom of a cliff near Summerland. He loved that car a lot, didn't he? Now it's like a coffin. Isn't that ghastly? People who went to the party said he'd been drinking a lot at the end, like he did sometimes. I guess no one's surprised he finally had a wreck. But on the same night as the dean and Mrs. Quentin were robbed and killed? It just makes it so much harder for everyone. We're pretty much a mess here. Will you be home soon? Kirk's sister is flying in from Hawaii. Oh, it's all so
horrible.
”

Liz closed her eyes. She had stopped listening halfway through Chelsea's lament. Both Kirk and the dean were dead. Dolores Quentin, too. She was an innocent, in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the two men had been working for Langley. There was no doubt in her mind that they had been deliberately eliminated. More dirty work from the people who had sent men to kill her.

“Professor Sansborough? Are you still there? Are you okay?”

Liz cleared her throat. “I haven't fainted or had a heart attack, but I am shocked. It seems impossible. Are the police sure it was an accident and a burglary gone bad?”

“Why?” There was an almost eager leap in Chelsea's voice. “You don't think—”

“I don't know what to think. All three of them on the same night?” They had pretended to be her friends, colleagues, all the while spying and reporting the details of her life. But at the same time, they had lived and breathed and laughed and felt pain, part of the human experiment as much as she was.

“It is…unbelievable, isn't it? Maybe—”

Liz sensed danger. Chelsea was impressionable, and the deaths were probably more disturbance and unfortunate excitement than anything she had experienced. It was not a good idea to stir up the Sheriff's Department to investigate more thoroughly.

At least not yet. “I suppose fate can't be explained,” Liz said kindly. “It simply happens, doesn't it? Right now I'm numb and a bit confused. How about you?”

“Me, too,” Chelsea said solemnly. “I feel the same way.”

“I'll try to get back for the funerals. Let me know when they're scheduled, will you? Here's where I can be reached. If I don't answer, leave a message.” She repeated her new number. “Please let Kirk's sister and the dean's family know I'm sorry.”

“I will, Professor Sansborough. Thank you.”

Liz pressed the off button and sank back against the wall and closed her eyes. A wave of fear swept through her. Her skin felt hot. Someone had not wanted her to question the two men. Kirk and the dean had paid the ultimate price for what they knew, what someone did not want her to find out. But killing them would not stop her.

More determined than ever, she put Santa Barbara from her mind and mulled what she should do first. Her mother was the one who would have been closest to the records. Still, if she would not reveal them to Liz, she certainly would have told no one else…. Except, perhaps, a brother. Yes, perhaps Mark Childs, who had died with Melanie. She could not imagine Melanie would have given up the files to anyone while alive. But in death…