The Coil (35 page)

“Uncle Hal did have a way about him.” He took off his shirt.

She turned away. The flash of his legs, the length and breadth of his chest lingered in her mind. Sirens erupted in the distance. He dressed as they listened. It was still not definite they were heading here.

She watched the mimes on the corner, and again the memory of the Cirque des Astres returned. Her parents had used the traveling circus occasionally for cover, as they had that day in Avignon. The posters near her hotel had said the
cirque
was pitched at Le Bourget Airport this week, on the outskirts of Seine-St. Denis. It was a manageable distance—if they could escape Pigalle. At least they had a chance now.

As Simon snapped up his gym bag and rushed to the door, she told him about the circus and how Gary Faust, the owner, might fly them to Northumberland. He had been fond of her mother.

“I like it,” he said, although there was tightness around his mouth and eyes. At the door, he opened the bolt and peered out into the hallway.

She slung her bag over her shoulder and took his cell. “I'll call information for the number. Let's get downstairs!”

As they ran, she placed the call.

London, England

Under the cover of night, in fifteen-minute intervals, three gleaming black limousines arrived at a stately Georgian house near Berkeley Square. Each deposited a passenger and glided away, and each passenger was met by Cronus's man Beebee, who showed them into the smoking parlor, where the beveled windows were thrown open to the rose garden, and a gentle breeze stirred the brocade drapes.

Scented with the rich aroma of fine Havana cigars, the room was lined with eighteenth-century mahogany paneling, original to the old house. As soon as the last man entered, Beebee vanished, closing the door silently behind. Cronus—Sir Anthony Brookshire—relieved to be home, stood at the bar, serving whiskey, surrounded by his old leather easy chairs and the trophies of his ancestors. Here he felt as much contentment as his sense of urgency over who had the Carnivore's files and the resulting threat to the Coil would allow.

Earlier, when he and Themis had arrived, he had left the younger man, already out of his suit coat and tie, to light his own cigar, while he went upstairs to change into his favorite cardigan and leather slippers. Tonight, everyone was casual. They were alone among themselves, where the intimacy of relaxation was important. It was part of the long tradition of the Coil.

As he changed, he glanced at his wife, Agnes, curled up in their bed with one of her gardening books and drifting toward sleep. He felt nostalgic when he looked at the age lines of her sleepy face that he had watched etch deeper with the years. Nostalgic and a trifle sad. He was growing old. What would his legacy be? Would he be remembered as the man who had failed to protect the Coil and the world he knew from the destruction wreaked by the Carnivore's files?

By the time he was downstairs again, Prometheus and Ocean had arrived and were standing by the bar. Atlas had joined Themis in their usual seats to the right of the fireplace. All were discussing the latest energy crisis.

“Oil prices are excessive. More than thirty-four dollars a barrel,” Atlas—Gregory Gilmartin—grumbled in English, the agreed-upon language for meetings. “That's why electricity prices are sky-high, gas stations are closing, and consumers are screaming their heads off. Those OPEC assholes are lining their pockets again, compensating for all the trouble they cause in the Middle East.”

Tall and wiry, Gilmartin sat curved over his drink, his morose face radiating gloom. His father, a political as well as an engineering innovator, had turned Gilmartin Engineering into a global powerhouse by planting people high up in governments. A Gilmartin vice president became U.S. secretary of state. Another, based in London, left to head the Tory party's treasury. Similar penetrations had occurred in other world capitals. Eight years ago, when his father died and he rose to lead the closely held multinational, Greg was voted to take his father's place in the Coil.

Sir Anthony picked up his snifter of brandy and took his seat near the middle of the semicircle. Prometheus and Ocean sat to his left. No one mentioned the empty sixth chair—Hyperion's—also to his left. It was symbolic to leave it for the first gathering after a death as an act of respect. Before the next meeting, it would be put against the wall, out of the way, to be returned only when a new Hyperion was elected. Sir Anthony expected it to be Alexandre de Darmond, as Themis had suggested. No one wanted to lose the illustrious de Darmond name and vast banking empire.

He settled back, facing the small, attractive fire that had been lit to increase the room's sense of congeniality, a particularly difficult matter tonight. He could see tension embedded in their faces, and it was not only because of the escalating problems associated with the search for the files. He took a Cohiba from the humidor on the table beside him, rolled it between his fingers, clipped off the end, and lighted it.

In all the decades since the Coil was formed, no one had ever been excised from the group or had tried to leave. They were proud that they had always chosen far too carefully for that. The Coil's secrecy was fundamental, as vital as oxygen, and nothing would or could be allowed to jeopardize it. This was at the forefront of Sir Anthony's mind tonight, because one of the men in this room
had
been chosen in error and must be terminated.

He let his gaze move from face to familiar face as they talked. Which one?

Greg Gilmartin continued his tirade. “Look at what happened in California. Widespread blackouts. Hospitals operating with generators. Not to mention the shambles it made of the state's economy.” He waved his cigar like a weapon. “A lot of the poor had to choose between buying food or paying their heating bills. Do they starve, or do they freeze? No one should have to make that choice. What do you think, Richmond?”

Richmond Hornish—Prometheus—was the kingpin behind InQuox and a few other investment vehicles that, when taken together, moved a yearly average of more than $500 million a day. One of the most successful financial speculators of all times, he had just been sued by New York's attorney general. Sir Anthony found the AG's naïveté amusing. Elections were next year. Who did the fool think would finance his campaign if he aggravated a man with the bad temper and influence of Hornish?

Hornish turned his sun-leathered face to Gilmartin. His compact runner's body was taut, seldom at ease. “Oil stocks have fallen into the toilet.” His words were laced with the brisk intonations of New York. “I expect wholesale oil prices to stay high until January first.” He paused before delivering the bad news: “Even if the cost of crude settles down, we should plan for the global economy to be sluggish again after that.”

Although delivered neutrally, his prediction was grave. It made the four other men glance at one another. They would pass the information to their financial people so they could start pulling back, protecting their interests while taking advantage of market swings.

Themis's graying blond hair looked almost golden in the soft lamplight, but his expression was irritated. “Atlas is right. We've got to pay attention to energy and utilities. Oil prices have always been volatile. Fossil fuels won't last forever. We need to do some long-range thinking about stable, reliable, non-polluting sources…not just for cars, trucks, and boats. Electric power's the lifeblood of industry.” Themis—Nicholas Inglethorpe—was the youngest and most impetuous member of the Coil.

Ocean—Christian Menchen—cleared his throat and seemed to examine his cigar. “The depletion of fossil fuels has been grossly exaggerated, as has their deleterious effect on health and the environment. I, for one, expect the internal combustion engine and fossil power plants to survive my great-grandchildren.”

With his thick black hair, prominent cheekbones, Prussian nose, and proud bearing, Menchen looked as if he were a relic of the past century. Everyone knew his company, Eisner-Moulton, was going through a contraction, and that he was in mild trouble. Even wunderkinds occasionally stumbled. The enormous automotive kingdom Christian Menchen had created was sound. Besides, he had the shrewd mind of a calculator. He would survive nicely, and he was a valued member of their circle.

Gilmartin crossed his legs and sat back, his expression grim. “You build sports cars and school buses, Christian. You don't know a damn thing about energy, except what you read in the first paragraphs of boring stories buried in the back of your truck magazines. You're just worried about giving up gas engines.”

Menchen stiffened. “You're thinking only of your own interests, Greg. That's not what the Coil's about. If something's not good for the world in the long run, it's not a damn bit of good for you or your people either.”

“Gentlemen, I believe that's enough.” Sir Anthony spoke so sharply that they turned to him in surprise.

The Coil had been founded on a shared vision—that six men at the top of the planet's power elite had a unique opportunity and responsibility. That from their lofty perspective, where the levers of limitless affluence and influence were easily accessible, they could guide the world to peace and prosperity. Compassionate capitalism. Responsible industry. An expansive, wide-ranging view of history and the future, not just the narrowness of self-interest. Politicians came and went, transitory shadows across the face of civilization, but the best in business and banking endured.

The correct six men could make lasting change that would benefit the world as they saw it, and along the way husband themselves and their personal fortunes. That philosophy set them apart from Nautilus, to which all belonged, and where the Coil's original members had met and eventually formed their clandestine group, back in the late 1950s. They had seen a deep need to do more than Nautilus, which thought too often only of creating capital while giving mere lip service to the needs of humanity.

Debate within the Coil was allowed, even demanded. Personal conflict was not. And Brookshire had called this meeting for a specific purpose.

His voice was somber. “I think, gentlemen, it's time to speak of the murder of our esteemed colleague, Baron Claude de Darmond, and our search for the Carnivore's files.” He recapitulated the events so far—the murders, the disappearances of Liz Sansborough and Simon Childs, the abduction by unknown forces of Sarah Walker and Asher Flores, and the so-far-fruitless search for the assassin's records.

“Duchesne nearly caught up with Sansborough at the warehouse in Belleville,” he told them. “He now has his network out looking. Simon Childs has joined her. We're still operating on the assumption that she's our best lead to her father's files.”

There was a general shaking of heads, an atmosphere of disappointment and, perhaps, some guilt.

“Do you think Hyperion's death is connected to the files?” Gilmartin asked.

“There's no actual evidence for it,” Brookshire said slowly, “but that was my first question when I heard, too, and it would seem to stand to reason.” Since the murderer was one of the Coil, he had told no one but Duchesne that the baron had phoned to say he might be able to pass along the name of the blackmailer.

Christian Menchen frowned. “I've never liked any of this. From the moment we set Sansborough up in Santa Barbara, I've been troubled. In a way, we stole her life.”

“Or saved it,” Themis disagreed. “We gave her a prestigious appointment and an entirely new career she appears to have taken to and enjoys. Whoever has the files might have murdered her if she hadn't been buried in that university.”

“But it wasn't
her
life.
Her
choice.”

“We all have limited options.”

Menchen added soberly, “Look at all the murders since. It's what happens when one plays God. It's a slippery slope…paved with good intentions, as they say.”

“There was nothing else we could do,” Hornish argued. “The files are dangerous. We've seen their power. They must be held responsibly. That's why
we
should have the files.”

“That sounds downright Machiavellian,” Gilmartin decided. “Perhaps no one should have the files. Simply destroy them.”

“In any event, we need to find them before we can destroy them or keep them or bury them in some dark hole,” Brookshire said irritably. “We'll decide once we have them. As for Sansborough, it's too late to change her past. Our charge now is to get the situation under control again.”

“How do you propose to do that?” Gilmartin demanded. “We don't know where any of them are, for God's sakes. How good is this new man of yours anyway, Tony? This César Duchesne?”

“He was Peter d'Crispi's choice to take over the job on Peter's retirement. Duchesne's list of professional accomplishments is impressive. When poor Peter was injured in that boating accident in the Pyrenees, we needed someone right away.

Gilmartin shook his head. “Just because we trusted d'Crispi doesn't mean Duchesne is on the same level.”

As the debate continued, Sir Anthony lighted a second cigar. The smoke spiraled upward, but after a time the robust taste turned bitter in his mouth. He laid the cigar in the ashtray and waited impatiently. When at last they reached the point at which they began—regret for the way events had turned on them, but seeing no other way they could have been handled—he broke in. “So we're in agreement we must continue our search for the files along the same lines?”

He watched each one. Which one would be lukewarm, damn Sansborough's efforts with faint praise?

Inglethorpe exploded. “Dammit, we already made the decision! Why waste more time discussing it? The only question is, What do we do when we get them?”

“The files are too dangerous for anyone else to have,” Hornish repeated.

“Granted,” Sir Anthony agreed, and dropped his bombshell. “But I think, gentlemen, we must face a danger greater than the files or our blackmailer. That of danger to the Coil itself.”

There was complete silence, but Sir Anthony knew that in the back of their minds they had been thinking the same thing. That with Sansborough and Simon Childs completely out of their control and supervision, and Walker and Flores probably in the blackmailer's hands, the future of the Coil itself was in jeopardy, with all that meant for them and their plans for the world's future. For all but one, who did not care.

The Coil had not been founded to cause destruction. Far from it. In fact, one of its first members—Sir Anthony's own father—had been deeply involved in Nikita Khrushchev's rebuilding of central Moscow. When the Cuban missile crisis erupted in 1962, he insinuated himself into advising Khrushchev, eventually masterminding the letter that offered Washington a compromise and led to the Soviets' withdrawal, averting nuclear war.

The previous year, an American member of the Coil made another significant contribution by shepherding the Peace Corps to life. In the late 1970s, the three European members delivered a major strike for democracy in fascist Spain by convincing and bribing Madrid legislators to legalize political parties.