The Coil (9 page)

She swore and crossed her arms, hugging herself.

Almost immediately, she heard footsteps. She turned to run, then saw who it was. Ten feet away, the fake deputy emerged from between parked cars, lowering a 9-mm Sig Sauer. He nodded at her, holstered the gun, and strode to her attacker. Without a word, he rolled him faceup. The knife was buried in the man's chest, his bloody hand still gripping it.

Liz looked away. The violence and deaths of her past swirled through her mind. The attacker, a stranger to her, was dead because of her. He had tried to kill her, but she wondered whether that was really relevant. In the larger picture, his death had been as unnecessary as hers would have been.

The phony deputy looked up at her. “Nice work. Help me get him to your car.”

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Who sent you?”

Liz studied his eyes, which had seemed old and wearied in the noon sunlight. Now, in the shadows, they burned like coals. Dressed in a sports jacket, open-necked gray shirt, and tan cotton trousers, his large size loomed toward her. He had a long face, broad across the cheekbones. His forehead rose up to a thick mat of straight hair. His chin was narrow, but there was a curved dimple in the center, giving him a faintly sultry air, as if when he was twenty years younger and had more kindly thoughts about the world, he had been a heartthrob.

“You know who I am and who I work for,” he said.

“Yes.” She was suddenly exhausted. “I know.”

She supposed she really had known—at least in the back of her mind—from the moment the runner had tossed her over the cliff. Langley was back in her life—either the runner or the man she was talking to now, or both.

“We have a situation,” he said. “A critical situation. Grab his feet. Help me get him out of here before someone sees us.”

She remembered how Hughes Bremner's rogue CIA group had tricked Sarah with a faked attempt on her life, making her believe the Carnivore had sent people after her who had “killed” her guards. A small but convincing movie.

“Not yet,” she told him.

“There's no time—”

“Shut up. You wouldn't be here if you didn't need me. So just shut up while I check.” She knelt and pressed her fingertips above the man's carotid artery. There was no pulse. His chest was bloody where the knife had plunged when he fell onto it. She pressed her cheek against the chest. There was no pulse there either.

“I told you he was dead.”

She looked up. “Who trained you, sport?” She searched the man.

“I was going to check him when we got to your car. But hey, knock yourself out.” He crouched beside her.

She said nothing. There was a small pistol holstered under the man's arm, his backup weapon. Obviously, the knife was intended to keep her murder quiet. His pockets contained no ID, just cigarettes.

She lifted her head, listening. A wave of laughter rolled out toward them from the dean's house. People were standing on the porch, saying their good-byes.

“Okay, let's go.” She picked up the dead man's feet.

The man from Langley went first, lugging the shoulders. The corpse was light, perhaps 160 pounds.

“You know where I parked,” she realized.

“I had a taxi drop me off,” he told her. “When I didn't see you at the party, I went to your car to wait. I was watching for you in the rearview mirror.”

“Then you saw him attack me.”

He nodded. “Sorry I couldn't get there soon enough to help.”

“Bullshit. You had plenty of time. You wanted to see whether I could still handle myself.”

He did not deny it. She dropped the corpse's feet and unlocked her trunk. When the lid swung up, she spread the plastic grocery bags she kept there and helped him load the dead man onto them. She peeled up the stocking mask. She was not surprised—the same short nose, short brown hair, and heavy jaw.

“He's the one who threw me off the cliff,” she told him. “Do you recognize him?”

“I didn't expect to. They're not going to send anyone who's readily identifiable.”

“Who are ‘they'?”

“We'd hoped you'd know.” Scanning the neighborhood, he closed the trunk and used the heel of one big hand to press it down until it locked with a low click.

Liz was in no mood for anything less than answers. “What's your real name? What does Langley want from me?”

“Let's get into the car. We'll talk there.” He peered down the street, where couples were heading toward their vehicles. “We've been standing here too long.”

“That's not my problem. You've been in my house.”

She had surprised him. He frowned, said nothing.

She told him. “You got inside my car and lowered the window. Since the only spare keys I have are in my kitchen, it's logical you got entrepreneurial and swiped them. God knows what else you took. Let me see your ID.”

“They said you were good,” he grumbled as he slid his hand inside his jacket and handed her CIA credentials and badge. The name was Angus MacIntosh.

“Thanks.” She dropped them into her shoulder bag.

His eyebrows rose. “You can't do that.”

She ignored him, examining the knife slice in the center of her leather bag. The blade had been two-edged—thin and sharp. A stiletto. As she lowered her purse, a crumpled scrap of paper on the ground caught her attention. She snapped it up.

“What's that?” the CIA man asked.

She smoothed the paper. “Dean Quentin's address.” The address was printed in pencil, and there was an odd squiggle in the corner.

 

He looked at the note over her shoulder. “All that tells us is he didn't bother to memorize the address. Must've fallen out of his clothes. I'm surprised you missed it. Guess you're a little out of practice after all. Let's go.”

“Langley's far from my favorite former employer, MacIntosh. I don't like your sneaking around, and there's no way I'll ever work for Langley again. Get that loud and clear, and get the hell out of my life.” She jammed the paper into her purse.

He sighed. “Call me Mac. The sneaking around was just me trying to be subtle. Okay, so I'll cut to the chase. Like I said, we have a bad situation, but it's your situation, too. Your cousin Sarah Walker was kidnapped in Paris a few hours ago, and Asher Flores was shot.”

“No!” She inhaled sharply. “Did Asher survive? Have you found Sarah?”

“Flores is alive. We're looking for her. The kidnapping happened about the same time you were assaulted on the cliff.”

She worked hard to control her emotions. “Why should I believe you?”

He stuck a hand in through the open window of her car and came out with a CD player. “This recording was sent electronically from Paris.” He pressed a button, and the CD began to spin.

“
Liz, it's Asher.
” It sounded like Asher, but Langley had ways to imitate any voice. “
Some turd brains have grabbed Sarah. This is the real thing, Liz. They want the Carnivore's files. They've given us four days.
” He coughed, and when he resumed, his voice was full of anguish. “
What in hell are they talking about? What files? They're going to kill her, Liz, and I can't get my sorry ass out of bed. I'm stuck in this damn hospital. If you've got the files or know anything about them
—”

MacIntosh pushed the stop button. “That do it?”

The Carnivore's files again. Her lungs tightened. “Get in. I'll drive.”

Colorful and opinionated, Asher Flores was one of a kind. She had never heard anyone but Asher use the expression “turd brain,” and the phraseology was his, too. Plus, there was the agony in his voice, the utter frustration that he was helpless while Sarah was in mortal danger. Like all undercover CIA officers, he was a good actor, but not that good. Asher's plea was just what he would have done, what he would have said, how he would have said it.

She opened her car door, her stomach knotting with fear for Sarah. They had grown as close as sisters over the years. Because of a rogue CIA plot, Sarah had been made to look like Liz, but that was only the beginning of their link. They had discovered they thought very much alike, even had similar tastes and interests. More than that, she admired Sarah's compassion and intelligence and her bullheaded dedication to the investigative pieces she sometimes labored over for months at a time. She had won a Pulitzer for an in-depth series on nuclear power plants in California.

Nothing would stop Liz from helping Sarah. Still, she had learned her lesson about Langley. She could not trust any of them completely, not even now. Especially not now.

As MacIntosh forced his muscular bulk into the passenger seat, she settled behind the wheel. They closed their doors quietly. She turned on the engine. “I assume you've made arrangements to fly to Paris.”

“Langley sent a jet. It's waiting.”

She did a U-turn, heading the car downhill. “You broke into my house. Did you pack a suitcase for me, too?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Got your passport as well. All you have to do is drive us to the airport. My people will dispose of the body.”

“Tell me what happened.”

He described the strike. “Asher said it was over in minutes. Choreographed. The hotel had made dinner reservations at the bistro for them, so someone could've gotten the information, which would explain how the two men knew to wait in the alley. As for the van, it probably shadowed them.” He shook his head, worried. “Now, the big question—the question we all have—is: Where are the Carnivore's files?”

Her voice was grim. “I don't think there are any.”

“Then you haven't changed your mind since Grey Mellencamp debriefed you?”

“No. I looked into it afterward, but I never found a hint my father kept any sort of record at all.” As she turned the Toyota onto Mission Canyon Drive, she stopped herself. Before this went any farther, she had to find out how willing he was to tell the truth. She said, “Is Langley behind the ‘movie' here in Santa Barbara? Did they fund the Aylesworth chairs that brought Kirk and me here so they could keep tabs on me? Is one of your operatives code-named Themis?”

He gazed across at her. There was surprise in his eyes and a touch of respect. “You know about Themis?”

“Is he one of yours?” she repeated.

He nodded. “How did you find out?”

“That's beside the point. Why a movie on me?”

“If we'd heard the rumors about files, it was only a matter of time until others did, too. You'd become a natural target. Considering someone's already sent a janitor to scrub you twice today, I guess Langley was smart to be concerned. And maybe you should be grateful.”

She snorted in derision. “Langley was—and is—concerned about the possible existence of those files, not about my survival.”

His voice was apologetic. “We can't let the records fall into the wrong hands, Liz. You understand.”

“Why should I believe Langley didn't send that janitor to kill me?”

“Doesn't make sense we would. If we want the files, you're still our best bet. That hasn't changed.”

She nodded to herself. If Langley had sent the killer, they would've handled the fallout from the first attack much more smoothly. “You already must've been on your way to talk to me, or stationed close by, to get to my doctor's office so quickly.”

He leaned back in the seat and crossed his arms. The top half of his face was in shadow, making his dimple appear darker, deeper in the sun's last rays. “I work out of L.A. I was heading north for an inquiry in Thousand Oaks when we heard about Flores and Walker, and then about you. Langley arranged for me to borrow the identity of Harry Craine so we could keep the locals out of it. The ID was waiting for me here.”

“Have you covered it with the sheriff now?”

“Of course. Anyone who calls will be told Kirk's report has been found and the department is investigating thoroughly.”

But already her mind had shifted. She had almost a physical feeling, a sense of being ill, of having an abrupt fever. Sick with fear for Sarah and Asher. “I can't believe Sarah and Asher are involved.” She pressed the accelerator, speeding faster to the airport. To Paris, where they needed her.

“What did you expect? Once you let it be known you were preparing a national TV show about Cold War assassins, and the Carnivore was one of them, you were an inevitable target. Anyone who was threatened by the existence of records had already hired a killer at least once, when they hired your father. If they thought you might have evidence of what they'd done, your life wouldn't be worth an unpaid parking ticket. At the same time, anyone who wanted the files would come after you, too—any way they could. Including abducting your cousin.”

“Why didn't you tell me all of this when we first met? Why try to fool me?”

“Asher was in and out of consciousness, not always making sense. We needed to be certain what happened, and that took time. But because Langley thought the attack on them might be linked to the one on you, I was sent to stand by.”

She took a deep breath. “Did Langley order my TV series canceled?”

“We applied pressure,” he admitted. “Now that it's off the public stage, the threat against you may lessen. We want nothing to compromise our search for Sarah.”

“Or for the files.”

He shrugged. “Of course.”

She turned the Toyota onto the Mission Street ramp to the 101 and accelerated west toward the airport. “Okay, so there are two groups involved. The first is Sarah's kidnappers, who demand the files as ransom. And the second is whoever sent the guy to kill me. Either they're afraid something incriminating in the alleged files will come out, or they've
got
the files and are worried I'll help figure out who they are.”

“Yes, that's what we think.”

“What's the situation in Paris now?”

“We've got it under dark wrap. The last thing any of us wants is headlines that one of the Cold War's top assassins kept records, and that the wife of a CIA officer is being held until we cough them up. To prevent leaks, we're working closely with the Sûreté, but only with the Sûreté. No other agencies inside or outside France. The hotel staff's been told Asher was injured in an armed robbery and that Sarah's been staying with him at the hospital. At the same time, the hospital's been informed Sarah's so overwrought that she's confined to her hotel room, medicated.”

“What about the hotel employee who made the dinner reservations?”

“The concierge. We interviewed him but came up with nothing. He's being watched.”

“And my purpose?”