The Coil by Gayle Lynds Page B

the past. Part of it is, as you know, a waiting game, but of course we’re leaving nothing to chance. The truth is, we could use a break. Someone who wants something from us and is willing to trade. Or a rumor we can trace to a source.”
    All the usual protocols. “And the Carnivore’s files?”
    â€œWe encourage you to find them.”
    â€œI’ve already tried and failed, dammit. They don’t exist!”
    â€œTry harder. Langley’s been looking off and on since before you talked with Grey Mellencamp, but without any luck either. Still, somebody obviously is convinced they’re real, or today wouldn’t have happened.” He hesitated. His voice dropped. “Of course, it’s true they could be wrong.”
    Her brows knitted in worry, and her gaze swept the traffic uneasily. “That would be fatal for Sarah.”

Eight
    Bratislava, Slovakia
    A cloying warmth settled over the dark city as night deepened toward morning. Simon was worried about the time. From the river, he rushed home on foot to his flat in Old Town, tore off his tuxedo, and threw on jeans and a loose shirt. He retrieved his 9-mm Beretta from a safe beneath his bed and checked it. He was eager to meet the person who claimed to have information about his father’s death, but also wary. He holstered the gun under his shirt at the small of his back and grabbed a powerful miniature flashlight. He slid it into his jeans pocket.
    But as he turned to leave, he glimpsed himself in the mirror over the bureau. For the briefest of moments, he did not recognize himself. Blase Kusterle? Simon Childs? He usually stayed in character and seldom reported to MI6 face-to-face. It helped his mental health to be just one person. But tonight everything had turned upside down, and he was abruptly, without warning, Simon Childs again.
    He returned to the bureau and stared. Ada had called him handsome and cocksure, the opposite of how he thought of himself. He was a couple of inches over six feet, with wavy brown hair he kept on the long side, the way Blase Kusterle, the agitator, liked it. He needed a shave. His nose was big and lumpy. The reason for that came back to him in a painful burst, and he felt himself rock with it. Then he pushed it aside. His eyes were light blue and tired-looking, and there was something in them he did not like. He was unsure which of himselves—Blase or Simon—he had to thank for that.
    He shook his head, disgusted at his self-indulgence. As he hurried out of the flat, he remembered the report he was supposed to write for MI6. It would have to wait.
    Dawn was perhaps an hour away when he jogged along Kapitulská Street to St. Martin’s Cathedral. The massive Gothic church, haughty and eerie, loomed just yards from the Communist-built Staromestká roadway, an elevated monstrosity that rumbled with traffic and exhaust even at this early hour. As he approached the cathedral, the area appeared deserted.
    On high alert, flashlight in hand, he prowled around the grounds, checking courtyards, walls, other structures, and the adjoining Rudnayovo Square. A national treasure, St. Martin’s had been the coronation church for Hungarian kings a half-millennium ago and still remained very much in use. It was kept locked at night. There was no one around, and Simon saw nothing suspicious.
    Satisfied, he took out his Beretta and closed in on the door on the church’s north side, which the note had told him to use. It was ajar. He inched it open. Immediately, he was assaulted by the earthy odor of dank stone. Lighted votive candles sat on wall ledges along the stone corridor ahead, although there were electric lights that could have been turned on. He listened. Pulse throbbing, he stepped inside. The air was a good ten degrees cooler here. He left the door cracked open, just the way he had found it.
    The candles were set far apart, providing just enough light to guide him. He padded forward,