Read Online The Coil by Gayle Lynds - Free Book Online Page B

Blase’s neck.
    As if splashed with ice water, Blase focused. Others in the cell had heard Johann’s accusation. They stared with mounting suspicion. With both hands, Blase clamped onto Johann’s wrists, holding the distraught man away from his throat.
    â€œYou’re wrong,” Blase told him between clenched teeth. “I had a plan. I needed a tux because I was going to talk my way into the embassy and corner that bastard Stanford Weaver. It would’ve worked, too, if the protest hadn’t gotten out of hand. If Viera hadn’t—” He blinked, regrouped, talked faster. “First, I was going to wait until Weaver was surrounded by the other bastard globalizers; then I’d ask him to sign our petition. He would’ve brushed me off, of course, but I planned to keep after him until someone called in the marines. There’d have been a nasty row, and they’d have thrown me out. The press would’ve loved it. They would’ve jumped on the story like a hound on a bone. I could see the headline—‘Chief of Globe’s Richest Bank Refuses to Help Poor.’”
    For a second, Johann smiled. “The coverage would’ve been just what we want.”
    Blase dropped his hands. “It was worth a try.” His face twisted with anguish. “How could she hide her plans from both of us, Johann?”
    Johann’s shoulders slumped. “Viera could keep a secret,” he said gloomily. He collapsed back against the wall.
    The tension in the packed cell broke. Everyone watched the two men with sad sympathy. The brother and the lover.
    â€œNo one could talk Viera out of anything,” Blase decided.
    Johann nodded miserably. He peered down, flexed his fingers, then looked around as if hoping someone would explain the unexplainable, the unendurable.
    Blase heaved a sigh. As Johann turned to talk to the man on his other side, Blase saw that everyone was settling into the role of detainees, organizing themselves to take turns sitting and standing. As the sharp edge ebbed from his rage and shame, he remembered the hand that had slipped into his back pocket.
    He glanced around, reached into his pocket, pulled out a small crumpled paper, and read: “Sir Robert was murdered. If you want to know who did it, meet me.” Blase inhaled sharply. There was no signature, but the message was followed by directions into St. Martin’s Cathedral. The person would be waiting in a certain pew in a certain chapel at five A.M . The words were English, neatly printed in pencil.
    The cell door clanged open. Blase looked up alertly, shoving the note back into his pocket. Everyone turned. The tank grew ominously quiet as four uniformed police guards pushed into the throng. Three grabbed two men who had been speaking German.
    The fourth spotted Blase and advanced. “You! Yes, you. This way,” he ordered in Slovak.
    When Blase did not stand fast enough, the guard grabbed him by the lapels and hurled him toward the cell door. Hands reached out to steady Blase, keeping him on his feet until he reached the bars. The door rolled open, and the guard slammed a forearm across Blase’s back, propelling him out into the corridor. Blase landed with a thud against the opposite wall. Pain ricocheted through his body. His head swam.
    â€œZato te vl’avo,” one of the guards commanded.
    Blase and the two other prisoners turned left, as ordered. The group marched down the hall. The guard who had spoken opened a door. “In there.”
    Blase was pushed again. As he plunged inside, he heard the same guard warn one of the Germans, “Your interview room is next.”
    The door closed and locked.
    Ada Jackson, the British embassy’s law-enforcement liaison, was sitting alone at a scarred table, drumming her fingers. She glared at him. “Christ Almighty.”
    She was small and compact, with perfectly coiffed black hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Dressed in