The Coil (47 page)

Her voice faded and suddenly rose. “Stand aside, young man. We are Edinburgh radio. You are
not
the police. How dare you! You really
can't
stop us. Mister! Mister!” They could hear someone tapping on glass. “
Roll down your window so we can talk!
”

Liz lowered the volume as Simon braked. They were approaching the tangle of traffic that crawled in front of the Dreftbury resort.

“At least we've reached the stone wall,” she said.

“Look inside that stand of trees.”

As the Land Rover rolled forward, bumper-to-bumper with the car ahead, she studied the dense timber edging Dreftbury's grounds. A leashed German shepherd stepped out, head high, quickly followed by his handler, who was dressed in combat black and carried an automatic rifle. The armed man and trained dog were policing the perimeter. Soon she saw more men, more dogs.

Her rib cage tightened. “Daunting,” she said. “Private security?”

He nodded. “Thought you'd like to know.”

 

Asher seldom worried. It was not his nature. For him, worry felt more like a sense of heaviness, of uncertainty. But from the moment Sarah was kidnapped, his guts had been in twisted knots. That was how he knew he was worried. Their reunion in Paris had relieved him at first, because she was alive. After that, it was all downhill again. She was still in danger, and he was still out of commission.

Her plan could work, but the rock they needed had not materialized, although they had carefully inspected three walls and were now on the fourth. They searched for flaws and tugged at any irregular protrusion.

Then with a suddenness that stunned him, a chunk of ragged red stone about six inches wide and a foot long popped out a few inches.

With a simple tug, Asher held it in his hands.

She watched, her eyes as wide as pizzas. “You found a piece. It's perfect!”

He did not answer. He was staring into the hole.

The metallic rasp of the door's bolt being thrown made them wheel and stare.

“Take that rock over there, quick,” she said. “Get ready to pretend you're going to attack him!”

“No!
Wait.
Emergency change of plans. Go to the door and make nice. Do
not
kick or clobber him.” He jammed the rock back into the wall. Brushing sand from his hands, he hurried to the cot and collapsed. The door swung open.

She was there, waiting. “Thanks,” she told the same armed man as before.

Lack of interest had deepened on his irregular features. He still carried the rifle and wore the cell phone attached to his belt. He grunted, handed over two more bottles of water and another paper sack, and left. Again the door closed solidly and the bolt slammed home.

Asher smiled. “Nice.” It pleased him that she occasionally did what he asked.

She whirled. “Whatever you found in that wall better be a miracle.”

As soon as Sir Anthony Brookshire checked in, he went straight to his suite, disgusted by the mobs of crazed agitators who were obviously intent on ruining what should be a quiet working weekend of ideas and consensus. Dressed in his favorite corduroy jacket with the leather elbow patches, he stood at his window, hands clasped behind, gazing down into the valley, where the idiots milled and screamed.

He felt an odd numbness, as if time had sped past too quickly. Something had gone wrong somewhere. Was he no longer in step with the future?

“I've spent my life trying to understand how the world works,” he ruminated. “What makes civilization. What over-arching meaning is behind our triumphs and failures, our ability to find happiness and to endure sadness. Since we're all part of the same world, the same species, it seemed sensible that we act like it. To be against globalization is to want to turn back the clock. To believe the earth is flat. To believe in fairies and witches, and to pray to pagan gods.” He sighed.

When there was no response, he turned. He did not like where his path was heading, but he could see no way off. Standards must be upheld, and one must stay the course. In the end, endurance was perhaps the greatest virtue.

“What do these demonstrators want?” he demanded.

César Duchesne had been standing just inside the door. Dressed in a tan knit shirt and tweed jacket and brown slacks, he wore a yellow assistant's badge clipped to his front pocket, although he continued to function as Coil security.

“To re-create the IMF and World Bank,” Duchesne said. “To end all Third World debt. To put a one percent tax on speculative financial transactions worldwide in order to raise a trillion-dollar fund for underdeveloped countries to direct their own growth. To bring to a Nuremberg-style trial those they hold responsible for the new global economic disorder and vast shift of wealth from the poor and middle class to the already rich.”

“Is that all?” Brookshire said bitterly, tired of those with neither the wisdom nor experience to see the complexities involved. They worried about their own survival, not the world's. Petty and unproductive. His voice rose. “They're ignorant, and they hold on to their ignorance as if it were a talisman or some religious relic. They're bloody fanatics. If they want change, they need a realistic understanding of the modern world!” He paused, sighed. “Is there any particular reason they're harassing us right now?”

“To expose Nautilus. Force you and your guests onto the international stage. To lift the curtain, if you like. They want substantive inquiry.”

“Do they, now? They're not going to get it by acting like spoiled children. Shouting, jumping up and down. Look at them. They're having fits like two-year-olds.” He turned back from the window and sat. Gloomily, he studied his security chief. He forced himself to calm down to return to business. “Is Henry Percy dead?”

Duchesne inclined his head respectfully. “As ordered.”

“And Sansborough and Childs?”

“They escaped ahead of my people.”

“What! Duchesne, I'll—!”

Duchesne interrupted quickly. “There's more. They've deduced not only that the blackmailer was behind the death of Franco Peri a few months ago but that the execution was a ploy to speed Carlo Santarosa into taking charge of the Competition Commission. I think they're right. They believe the blackmailer needs Santarosa's approval for some action. Henry Percy told them he thought it likely Santarosa would be at Dreftbury.”

Sir Anthony placed his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepled his fingers, rested his chin on top, and studied his security chief, who remained standing, his posture seemingly relaxed. Still, Sir Anthony thought not. For the first time, he saw hints of worry, of anger.
Good.
He needed Duchesne to be fully motivated, to be more wary, more clever than ever, because Duchesne had indeed brought something useful.

Sir Anthony said, “You think they'll come here to use Santarosa to find the blackmailer. You're probably right. Once Sansborough went on the run, who could've predicted she'd get as far as she has? Of course she'll come here. I assume you've set a trap to catch both Sansborough and Childs, as well as the blackmailer.”

Duchesne described his precautions and his ambush.

Sir Anthony made a few modifications.

As soon as he was alone, Sir Anthony pushed himself out of his chair. He had been a hunter his entire life, and he knew and enjoyed firearms. He had owned his first rifle at eight, his first shotgun at fifteen, and his first handgun at sixteen. From a bureau drawer he removed his favorite Browning.

Before he left London, he had cleaned and loaded it. He did not expect to need it, but a wise man took precautions. As he hefted the weapon, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, his thick silver hair brushed back, his large head, his cheeks baby pink and freshly shaved, his chin jutting forward, his clothes natty in the way of old money. His beefy, athletic build. And the stern look of sagacity he had spent a lifetime cultivating. Yes, he was Old World, but woven through it was both pragmatism and idealism. He remembered what Plato had told the Athenian democracy: The penalty for not participating in political affairs was to be ruled by one's inferiors.

Under the roiling gray sky, Simon grabbed his gym bag, and Liz took her new shoulder bag. They left the Land Rover parked at the side of the road and advanced through the no-man's-land between the agitators, who waved their signs and shouted, and the security forces, who clasped their weapons and glared. The air stank of ozone and sweat. It was well past five o'clock, and the long caravans waiting to enter Dreftbury had shortened. Still, it was much faster to walk in.

As they passed the service entrance, policemen used dogs to sniff vehicles while security frisked drivers and checked loads. One poured out a carton of milk; another sliced open a package of frozen peas. They were probably looking for small weapons or Semtex. At the same time, four elderly protesters scrambled under the barricades and rushed across the road toward the gate, white hair and wrinkles shining in the afternoon sun. Security clasped their weapons and raced to intercept.

“This reminds me of Bratislava the night Viera set herself on fire,” he said uneasily. “After that, people rioted.” Through his sunglasses, he scanned the crowds, assessing the tension. There were a few faces he recognized—the usual teachers and laborers, housewives and students, speaking German, Polish, Slovak, Czech, English.

“I'm not surprised.” Her gaze moved with his, her senses on high alert. “Rioters can never win, you know.”

“No way they'd believe that. Look at those old people. They're not giving up.”

Police handcuffed the elderly quartet and shoved them toward a paddy wagon. They smiled grimly, almost as if they were off to a party.

She said, “They aren't rioting. Protesters start by wanting to make things better, even if their idea of ‘better' isn't. They want a positive revolution. But rioting's not revolutionary. It's reactionary, and it always ends in defeat. The only payoff is an immediate emotional catharsis. That's followed by a sense of futility, because the coin of whatever power they felt in the beginning is spent. The next step is helpless rage.”

“Is that the wisdom of Professor Sansborough?”

“Actually, it's from Martin Luther King Jr. Of course, I'm paraphrasing. But look at the faces of the agitators and then at the cops. Look at their body language. They're mirror images of one another, seething with moral outrage.”

“So if it's really senseless, why do people riot?” Simon scanned security and the demonstrators. That was when he spotted Johann Jozef, Viera's brother. Burly, not quite six feet tall, he held aloft a placard in English:

Johann's face was twisted with anger. Sorrow showed in new crevices around his mouth. On his chest, he wore a plastic badge that displayed a photo of Viera, smiling. Simon's breath caught in his throat.

“A lot of it is herd mentality,” she said. “The power of the mob. But it's also because they feel as if they have to do
something.
It's like when some mentally ill people bang their heads against a wall or bite themselves. They desperately need to feel something, anything. The catharsis of feeling something. Naturally, people who are trying to right a wrong or improve a situation grow frustrated. And they may never get what they ask, and maybe they shouldn't. The danger comes in a situation like this, when there are so many of them. The frustration of not being heard grows, the tension multiplies, something happens, and they riot. They get their catharsis, even though it's not the way they want it. After that, there's a lull. Then the tension can build again.”

“That's depressing as hell.”

She peered up at him and adjusted her sunglasses. “What's happened? You've seen someone, haven't you?”

“Viera's brother is here.” He described Johann and turned away. To look at anyone long enough invited them to look back. He doubted Johann would recognize him in his disguise, but he could take no chance.

“He's furious,” she decided.

“Viera martyred herself, and already she's off the front pages. Maybe he's beginning to comprehend that you've got to stay alive to make a difference.”

 

As Liz and Simon approached Dreftbury's swank entrance gates, a security man inspected luggage in the trunk of a limo while another stood at the driver's open window, matching passports to a list of invitees. A Doberman pulled his handler around the car, sniffing tires and the undercarriage.

Across the road, the chants and shouts of the protesters grew louder, more urgent, and the breakouts through police lines became bolder and more frequent. Troubled, Simon studied the chaos. As if to reflect the violent mood, the threat of rain filled the air, rising above the stink of diesel fumes, the clouds burgeoning into huge thunderheads. He remembered a saying: In Scotland, it's either raining, or it's just rained, or it's about to.

“There's our man.” Liz kept her expression neutral. “You have my cell number memorized?”

“I do. You remember mine?”

She nodded, visualizing her Glock, packed at the top of her shoulder bag within easy reach. Simon wore his Beretta in a holster under his jacket, while the Uzi was zipped into the gym bag. The prepaid cells were their way to communicate.

Simon gave a single nod. As they expected, an MI5 man was inside the gate and off to the side, inconspicuous, except to those who knew the signs—the casual posture as he leaned against the gatehouse, almost out of sight; the bored look as the sunglasses observed every face and vehicle; the slightly lopsided cut of the jacket, tailored to hide the pistol under his arm; and—above all—the isolation. Security was giving him a wide berth. A mistake. The agent should have told them to act normally, chat him up as if he were one of their own or a civilian.

Liz's muscles tensed as a stout guard, Bull Pup rifle cradled in the crook of his arm, turned. He had just cleared one of the limos. As it glided away toward the hotel, she exchanged a quick look with Simon, acknowledging the movie had begun.

They readied their credentials.

“May I help you?” There was a weary politeness in the guard's voice; it had been a long day. But his gaze was sharp as it swept first Simon, then Liz.

“Indeed you may,” Liz said coolly, the English accent quickly returning.

They showed their MI6 credentials low and close, where no one else could see.

“I need to speak with the chap over there,” Simon said, and nodded.

There was hesitation as the guard weighed the situation.

Liz did not like that. “Sorry we can't tell you more,” she said conspiratorially. “You understand.”

To make sure he got the point, she opened her purse, showing her Glock, as she put away the ID.

At the same time, Simon pulled back his jacket to return his credentials to an inside pocket, displaying his holstered Beretta.

That did it. The guard looked from one to the other. He blinked, waved them through, and studiously ignored them, feeling part of something big.

Liz let out a long stream of air.

Simon smiled pleasantly as they approached the MI5 man. He put on his best Oxbridge accent: “Need a chat with your chief, old man.”

MI5 kept his gaze on the gate. “The both of you?”

“You MI5 nosers need a dose of bloody reality,” Liz snapped indignantly.

MI5 stiffened just enough for her to know she had made a hairline crack in his enameled superiority. When necessary, even MI5 had to lower itself to work not only with MI6 but with women.

“Names?” he said. “Invitation numbers?”

“Kennedy, MI6,” Simon said. “This is Young, MI6. Don't be tiresome.”