The Coil (45 page)

“Thanks. I like to drive.” She added, “Usually.”

They sat like two automatons, the sound of the rushing stream in their ears.

At last, he said, “They'll be back, and we have to decide what to do. We can't drive out the way we'd planned. They might be waiting for us.”

“We've got one advantage—the Jeep.” She turned on the engine. “Four-wheel drive.”

He knew instantly what she had in mind. “You want to use the stream bed?”

“Why not? Unless it's changed, it's a gentle descent.”

“What the hell. I don't remember any boulders. Let me know when you want me to spell you.”

She touched the accelerator, and the vehicle rolled into the water. The tires bumped and bounced. The left front wheel landed heavily in a hole, and a wave of dark water splashed up over the fender.

As low-hanging branches scraped along the top, he saw her glance at him. Her dark eyes glowed like a feral animal's, dangerous with worry.

“What is it?” he said immediately.

“If I'm right that the man with the limp works for the Coil, then everything's changed.” She paused, her gaze on the treacherous streambed. “Up until now, the Coil's been protecting us against the blackmailer, because it wanted us to find the files for them. This attack proves they've changed their minds. Not only the blackmailer wants us dead—they do, too. And if they worked on Henry before they shot him, they'll know we're on our way to Dreftbury. They'll be waiting.”

The drive down the streambed took nearly three hours, although the distance was only a little more than a mile. They jumped out four times to roll oversize rocks out of the way. As sunrise rose in brilliant pink and gold above the treetops, Liz saw a shortcut. She drove up over the bank, across a shady meadow where grazing deer scattered like bird shot, and then back into the stream. Shortly after Simon took over the wheel, a waterfall appeared ahead. Liz got out and walked along the bank, guiding him as he maneuvered the Jeep down one jarring lip of rock to another, seven in all. Then a tire went flat.

By the time the vehicle emerged at the country highway, it was soaked, the paint was chipped, the body battered, and they felt shaken to the marrow. And they were wet. But no one had followed, and no one waited in ambush.

Jubilant, they used a blanket from the back to dry themselves and set their socks and running shoes on the backseat for the sun to dry. Once more on a real road, Liz accelerated, and the sturdy Jeep headed south. The ride felt smooth as a sheet of glass. Stands of trees towered against the morning sky. White sheep grazed in green fields. Traffic was sporadic in this sparsely populated area.

Still, her voice was tense when she asked, “Do you see anything?”

He was sitting with his back to the door, Beretta in hand. His face was craggy and determined as he watched behind. “Nothing yet,” he said.

“Yet.”

“We mustn't ever assume again we're safe from them.”

That word again—
assume.
Her jaw tightened, and she nodded. “Do you think it was through Gary that the Coil found us?”

“He's the most logical source.”

“That feeling in Paris I had of being followed, even while we were going to the airport…I must've been right. Somehow they tracked us to him. Then they made him tell where he'd flown us. I hope they didn't kill him.” Her voice sounded dead. She blinked back tears, thinking of Henry's broken body. And banished his murder and her worry about Gary Faust. “We need information about Dreftbury.”

“I've been thinking the same thing. A cybercafe would do the trick.”

“Good. We can check out the EU Web site, too, to see whether we can figure out which of the Coil members has a deal pending with Carlo Santarosa's commission.”

He gave a cold smile. “Yes. I like that.” His fist tightened on his Beretta.

She glanced at him. “How are you planning to get into Dreftbury?”

“Use one of my MI6 IDs.” Nautilus would be a magnet for foreign agents, which meant Britain's counterintelligence arm, MI5, would be there. But there was little love lost between MI5 and MI6, and the chance MI5 had been told of his new status was remote. MI6 considered MI5 drones; MI5 thought MI6 snobs. In Simon's opinion, both were right. “I'll be an expert on antiglobalization organizations and eavesdropping. MI5 will resent me like the Black Plague, but they'll be glad for me, too.”

“That might work. I'm going to need one of your MI6 IDs, too.”

With Simon navigating, his gaze never at rest, they continued on toward the small town of Hexham, where they picked up the A69 west. Liz watched the traffic and the rugged countryside as they passed red sandstone villages and castles that had once guarded the border. They were in Cumbria now, which had a history of feuds and warfare as long and violent as Northumberland's, dating back before the Romans.

At Carlisle, she took the Jeep off the highway. Once a simple outpost of Hadrian's Wall, Carlisle had grown into a city of more than 100,000.

“If you'll look into cyber cafés, I'll pump gas,” she told him.

“For you, anything.” He smiled.

She smiled back and pulled into a petrol station. While she filled the tank, he made calls at a phone kiosk. As she paid, he bought a local map, and soon they were back in the Jeep. He directed her south into the city. The café was in an area of little shops on a picturesque street. Their socks and shoes were dry. They dressed. As they left the thrashed Jeep, she adjusted Asher's beret and put on Sarah's glasses.

Breakfast odors of bangers and baked tomatoes and fried eggs wafted from a traditional diner. It was midmorning. Still, people crammed tables, gossiping.

Next to the diner stood the cybercafe—Byte Me. Simon checked the sidewalk as she opened the door. They stepped into noise and the aroma of rich espresso. The decor was hard-surfaced and techno, with a lot of chrome and white paint. Businesspeople, students, and geeks and freaks of all persuasions sat at some twenty terminals, cups and mugs at their elbows, gazes riveted to screens. Each terminal had a small printer.

In a distant corner was an espresso bar, and above it hung a wide-screen television. A BBC news program was on in full living color. Since the network had carried the story about her yesterday, it was possible it would still be broadcasting it.

Swearing under her breath, Liz tugged the beret down to her ears and hurried to the only free terminal, where she angled the chair so she could sit with her back partly to the TV. Instantly, she punched in Shay Babcock's code and went to work. She might have little time, if she were recognized. The terminals were just a few feet apart—too close.

Simon took in the situation with one troubled appraisal. At the espresso bar, he ordered two lattes and two hard buns with cream cheese. He laid his last twenty-pound note on the table. A necessary expenditure, if it worked.

“Can't break that.” The man had sleep in his eyes and irritation in his voice.

“Not a problem. Say, would you mind switching to CNN? Addicted to it, as it were.” And at this early hour, CNN would be covering world news and sports, far less likely than a UK station to run a story about the search for Liz Sansborough.

The man was staring at the cash.

“Oh,” Simon said, as if remembering, “and do feel free to keep the change.”

That did it. The fellow's eyes slitted, the money vanished, and CNN appeared. Simon watched the room. When his order was ready, he rejoined Liz. Her profile was tense. He pulled up a chair and sat close.

“Thanks,” she whispered. “Anything?” She drank the latte.

“Five copies of the
Times.
Fortunately, none look opened. We may get lucky.”

She glanced uneasily around.

“Want to go back to the Jeep?” he asked. “I can do this alone.”

Her brows shot up. “No way. My disguise has been fine so far.”

“Then let's get to work. What have you found?” He sipped his latte.

“This is the EU Web site. I'm checking the Competition Commission. Here's Santarosa. Thought you'd like to see what the commissioner looks like.”

Carlo Santarosa had a wide Mediterranean face, with dusky skin, narrow dark eyes, and the sort of mouth that could easily be sweet or cruel, depending on circumstances or whim. His hair was pepper gray, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses.

“He doesn't look as if he'll roll easily,” Simon decided.

“Our blackmailer may have a tougher time than he's anticipating.” She clicked a hyperlink. “Competition cases are posted, so we're lucky. I'm in the section on antitrust and cartels—you know, when companies collude instead of competing, and how the commission controls anticompetitive agreements. What I found almost instantly was Eisner-Moulton, in a nasty case where it's accused of illegally controlling car and truck prices throughout Europe. Christian Menchen's named specifically.”

“That sounds bad.”

“Very. His multinational's swimming in red ink and closing plants and selling off subsidiaries. The one bright spot has been European sales. If the decision goes against him, profits will plunge, which will hurt him on several fronts, including making it difficult to borrow money to offset debt. The company's huge. It'll survive. But if this continues, Menchen may be out of a job, and Germany's not known for its platinum parachutes the way the United States is.”

“Is he our blackmailer?”

She shot him a grim look. “He's a good possibility. So much depends on who he is. What he fears. What he wants. Assuming Menchen has the files, he could look at this as a chance not to be missed. All he has to do is blackmail Santarosa into deciding in Eisner-Moulton's favor, and a lot of his personal as well as business problems vanish.”

“He sounds like the blackmailer. But common sense tells me we need to make sure we haven't missed anyone.” The computer next to him was free at last. He moved over and signed on, using one of his covers.

They worked quietly, drinking their lattes.

“Here's your old nemesis—Nicholas Inglethorpe,” Simon said at last. “In the mergers section.” The Competition Commission was the one-stop shop for merger control in the EU. “The commission is weighing whether to demand his multinational divest itself of its six-billion-dollar stake in pay-TV operator SkyCall before it's allowed to buy Grossblatt of Poland, because Grossblatt owns one of Inglethorpe's biggest competitors—Polska-Storrs Media. It'd be the largest forced divestiture ever.”

“Inglethorpe's multinational is having financial problems, too. The lousy world economy's hurting everyone. I remember reading he wanted to expand into the old East bloc. If he were counting on SkyCall, and Santarosa makes him divest, he'll reel.”

“That makes two of the Coil who could be our blackmailer.”

They exchanged an uneasy look and resumed searching. Liz stayed in her chair, keeping her face in her screen, but an hour later, Simon left to buy two more lattes.

When he returned, he drank slowly. “Here's the East bloc again.” He kept his voice low. “This time it's Richmond Hornish and his flagship charity project—computers he's selling below cost to every school in Bulgaria. The commission is investigating whether he's been granted interest relief, which, it claims, distorts competition.”

“Are they saying Hornish may be taking kickbacks?”

“Basically, yes. If the report concludes he is, and Santarosa sanctions the report, the scandal will blast Hornish out of the running for the Nobel Peace Prize. He's devoted the past five years to trying to undo his reputation as a financial mercenary and prove he's worthy of it.”

“He's got a lot to lose then. He could be the blackmailer, too.”

Simon nodded, and they returned to their investigation. They had read through the entire site and were just about to quit, when Liz saw Gregory Gilmartin's name.

“I'd forgotten about Gilmartin Enterprises' merger with Tierney Aviation. But then, it's already been approved in the United States by the SEC. I had no idea the EU had to okay it, too. Both are American companies. Why is Europe involved?”

“Because both do serious business here,” he said, “so SEC approval isn't enough. Our Competition Commission isn't like your SEC—it can't break up companies that abuse their market power, and it can't force them to divest. Once a merger's approved, the commission has little recourse to stop monopoly. Its real control is beforehand, so that's why it investigates, no matter what the SEC has said. Then Santarosa decides.”

“This merger's colossal. A forty-billion-dollar coup. It's so big, it'll make Gilmartin-Tierney one of the largest multinationals in the world and skyrocket Gregory Gilmartin's reputation ahead of his father's and grandfather's. I recall reading that they were legendary, but he's been a corporate wallflower so far.”

Simon sat back and stretched. “So now we know the bad news—four of the Coil have reason to blackmail Santarosa. No clear-cut answer, dammit.”

“It's surprising so many have actions waiting for his decision. Still, I imagine it's impossible to conduct international business these days without stumbling into regulatory agencies.”

“You're right. Globalization's all about free trade, so corporations can move money, factories, and investments anywhere in the world to find the cheapest labor and materials, the most lucrative markets, and the best tax shelters. So every time they cross a border, they risk new rules and regulations. Part of the fallout from that is international trade agreements are destroying the ability of governments to govern. In fact, they're becoming subsidiaries to financial markets…to bonds and stocks and investments, not to what people need.”

“You mean food and shelter.”

“Yes, and clean water and an education. The EU's fighting to control corporations, but as long as profit is capitalism's primary goal, multinationals will keep striving for it, and they'll continue to run afoul of the Competition Commission. In the end—unless globalization becomes less about wealth—I think the multinationals will win.”

“And the public will lose. That's depressing as hell,” she said.

“The only progress we made here was to eliminate Brookshire, because he's a politician. Naturally, he's the only one with no deals pending before Santarosa.” He studied her. “You've been sitting here nearly two hours. Want to take a break while I look into Dreftbury?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

At the espresso bar, she ordered two regular coffees while a windblown CNN reporter on location in Glasgow listed the attendees expected at the G8 on Monday. When Liz returned to the terminal with the coffee, Simon had not moved, but four sheets of paper lay on the table beside him, facedown.

“Thanks.” He took his coffee. “What do you remember about Dreftbury?”

She sat. “The resort is beautiful—rolling hills, trees, and links golf courses. The hotel's on a high knoll, built on the remains of a castle. There's a long drive leading up to it, very dramatic. You can see the hotel and parts of the golf courses from the road.”

“That helps.” He turned over four printouts. Across the top of the first page was the announcement: