Secret Combinations (30 page)

“Where are you taking me?” asked the agent.

“I have a friend with a small apartment in town,” said deWolfe. “He is gone for the month. You will be safe there.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes, until deWolfe spoke. “How do you know Ricci was blackmailing Lydia?” he asked.

Kenyon stared out the window. “The police found compromising footage in Ricci's recorder.”

DeWolfe pondered this for a moment, then continued. “But if Legrand killed him and made it look like a suicide, why would he not take the film?

“I don't know,” said Kenyon.

“I do.” DeWolfe slapped his hand on the steering wheel. “Because he planted it.”

“What?” said Kenyon. “Why would he do that?”

“How much do you know about Sir Rupert Ingoldsby?” asked deWolfe.

Kenyon shrugged. “Not much. He owns
TEQ
, the company that made the encryption code for the stolen virus. Other than that, he's just an old, drooling fart.”

DeWolfe shook his head. “There was a time he would have killed you for saying that. During the Second World War, he was a senior intelligence officer. He was well known for his angry temper and ruthlessness.”

“He must have been hell on his family.”

“Ilsa, worst of all.”

“He beat her?”

“No, he adored her. But she could not wed. No man would risk her hand in marriage, they all feared Sir Rupert so much.”

“Legrand did.”

“Sir Rupert bribed Legrand with a senior position in his firm,” said deWolfe. “He comes from a distinguished family, but they've been broke for years. For a penniless Frenchman, it was a dream come true: a beautiful wife and a secure job. All he had to do was wait until the old man died. Only, he could not wait.”

“What do you mean?” asked Kenyon.

“Are you aware that Legrand and Lydia were having an affair?”

“Yeah, I knew that.”

“So did Ilsa,” said deWolfe. “She was going to divorce him.”

“So?”

“Legrand was used to riches and high society. He needed a new source of wealth.”

“Are you saying he's the one trying to steal Cyberworm?” said Kenyon, incredulous. “No way. The guy's a bumbling private investigator!”

“Do not let the exterior fool you,” said deWolfe. “He is a former intelligence officer with the French military. He is quite capable of anything.”

Kenyon sat back and pondered the concept of Legrand as mastermind. “You know, it almost fits,” he said. “He'd know about the project through his wife. He could probably gain access to the encryption code somehow. All he'd have to do then is arrange for a mule to pick up Simon's end of the virus in San Francisco. He works it so that Lydia and I end up taking the fall.”

“Ingenious,” said deWolfe.

“Hang on, though. There's a problem.”

“What is that?” asked deWolfe.

“They found fifty thousand dollars with Dahg in San Francisco,” said the agent. “If Legrand was broke, where'd he get the money to pay the mule? He'd need at least one hundred thousand dollars to set this up.”

DeWolfe thought for a moment. “How much money was blackmailed from Lydia?”

“I don't know exactly, at least one hundred thousand pounds.”

“Ah. Who do you think was blackmailing Lydia, Jack?”

They drove on for a while in silence. Kenyon's head was reeling. It all tied together: the mysterious e-mail, the blackmail of Lydia. “He set it up all so perfectly,” he said.

“Not quite,” said deWolfe. “Legrand did not expect Lydia to stumble on the false
Techno 69
. He killed her before he realized she had hidden it.”

“Oh, God,” said Kenyon, aloud.

“What?” asked deWolfe.

“I know where Lydia hid it.”

“Where?” asked deWolfe.

“She hid it in her last will and testament,” replied Kenyon.

DeWolfe stared at the agent, puzzled. “I do not understand. How can you hide a painting in a document?”

“She bequeathed a suitcase to Legrand in her will,” said Kenyon. “The fake
Techno 69
must be in the suitcase.”

“Of course,” said deWolfe, understanding. “All we have to do is find the suitcase.”

“We're too late,” said Kenyon, grimly. “Legrand has it.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was the one who broke into Lydia's house the other night,” said Kenyon. “He stole something out of a hidden safe. It must have been the painting.”

“This is terrible,” said deWolfe. “We must stop him.”

“How?” asked Kenyon, bitterly. “He's got every cop in town after me.”

“Open the glove compartment,” said deWolfe.

Kenyon flipped it open to see a Luger 9mm pistol laying on top of some maps.

“We must find Legrand and take him at gunpoint to the police,” said deWolfe. “They will drop the charges and you will be free.”

The traffic began to slow. DeWolfe peered ahead. “Oh, dear,” he said.

“What's wrong?”

“There appears to be some sort of police roadblock.”

Kenyon could see the lights of a police cruiser reflecting off the buildings about a block ahead. He lifted the Luger out of the glove compartment and checked the clip; it was loaded. He tucked the gun into his pants and pulled the Virginia Tech sweater down over the butt.

“Time to bail,” he said, opening the passenger door.

DeWolfe reached over to grab Kenyon by the shoulder, but he was already out the door. “Where are you going?” shouted the evaluator at the retreating agent.

“I'll call you when I get there,” said Kenyon. He closed the car door and quickly disappeared into the stream of pedestrians on the sidewalk.

Kenyon sprinted down the street
for a block. Conscious of people staring at him as he ran, he forced himself to slow down to a more leisurely pace.

He had to get out of his running shorts and sweater. By now, the police would have sorted out the arrest of the three students and realize he was wearing a Virginia Tech sweater.

Kenyon noticed a charity shop on Old Brompton Road and stepped inside. Nodding at the clerk, he dug through a large pile of used clothes until he found a pair of baggy jeans and a black cotton T-shirt. Inside the change room, he pulled off the Virginia Tech sweater and his shorts and tried on the clothes. The waist of the trousers was a little baggy, but the pockets were large enough to conceal the Luger. Leaving his old clothes in the changing room, he paid the clerk three pounds for his new attire.

His cheap sunglasses in place, Kenyon returned to Old Brompton Road and headed toward the South Kensington station. He knew that it would be too dangerous to use the underground, but he needed to find Legrand's office. And for that, he needed to buy a map.

The South Kensington station was packed with students heading for the nearby Victoria and Albert Museum, which suited Kenyon fine. He found a kiosk with maps for sale, and bought a fold-out that showed the streets and parks in the downtown core. He paid for the map out of his dwindling resources, and thanked the clerk.

Just as Kenyon was turning to leave the station, he spotted the police. There were two of them, a man and a woman, and they were ascending the stairs that led to the underground platforms.

Kenyon knew better than to run. Instinctively, he dropped to one knee and pulled his shoelace loose. With any luck, they'd walk right by.

The pair advanced over to the kiosk, stopping to talk to the vendor. “I'll take a
Daily Express
,” said the male cop.

Kenyon glanced over at their well-polished boots. His hands began to shake as he tried to tie his shoe.

“Here, you all right?” asked the woman cop.

Kenyon turned his head slightly and spoke in a soft, Irish brogue. “Me, oh yes, ma'am, I just have a touch of
MS
.”

“Here, let me help.” She bent down and quickly tied his shoe.

“Thank you,” he said. “You're very kind.”

She smiled to him as she stood up. “Enjoy your day.”

“I will.”

The pair resumed their patrol. Kenyon, his back curled to hide his height, turned and slowly walked in the opposite direction.

Out on the street, Kenyon quickly straightened up and began to run. Just ahead, a double-decker bus was waiting at a stop. Kenyon entered onto the platform adjacent to the driver and pulled out his underground pass. “Is this good on the bus?”

The driver smiled. “Good for the whole day. Where you headed?”

“I thought I'd see some of the sights downtown,” said Kenyon.

“This bus will take you right to Big Ben.”

Kenyon made his way up the circular flight of steps to the top of the bus. There was an open seat near the front, and he made himself comfortable.

Sitting above the traffic was an unusual feeling. The agent could see far ahead down the road. It was around six in the evening and the streets were crowded with taxis. Everyone was making their way home for the weekend, he thought.

He longed to be home in San Francisco watching the Giants with Marge, or running on the pathways around the Bay, or just having a burger and a beer with the gang. With a start, he suddenly realized that he might never see his friends, or San Francisco, again. The thought depressed him. Somehow, he had to settle this mess and settle it fast.

Kenyon leaned back in his seat and turned his thoughts to Raymond Legrand. DeWolfe had said he was ruthless. He had a hard time imagining Legrand as a spy, but Kenyon had enough experience with counterespionage to know that the most innocuous people were often the most dangerous. He had already suffered a nasty bang on the head the night Legrand had broken into his home; he was lucky the man hadn't taken the time to finish him off for good.

The bus came to a stop. “End of the line,” said the driver over the intercom.

Kenyon got off. The streets were crowded with tourists gawking at the Parliament building and nearby Westminster Abbey. Kenyon headed east, toward the Thames, and found a relatively quiet park. He sat down on a bench and pulled Legrand's business card out of his wallet, the one the private investigator had given him the day he and Happy Harry had waylaid him.

The address for R.L. Investigations was for Lincoln's Inn, near Tanya's office. Looking at the map he could see it was only about a mile from where he was sitting. He could walk there in half an hour.

Map in hand, he headed north. A little after seven the traffic in central London started to ebb. The narrow streets that ran between the long rows of office buildings in the downtown core fell silent. Kenyon could see the occasional cleaner moving through a building, emptying waste baskets. He picked up his pace, worried that everyone at R.L. Investigations would be gone by the time he got there.

Lincoln's Inn Road was a wide street that skirted a spacious park. Kenyon circled the open green space, glancing at the brass plates on the buildings as he walked, until he came to R.L. Investigations.

Legrand's building was four stories tall, with a facade of red brick. White limestone trimmed the arched windows. The entrance was guarded by a black, wrought-iron gate. Kenyon noted a security camera discreetly mounted on an arm to allow a full view of the entrance.

Legrand's car was parked out front. The battered Range Rover looked just as decrepit as the last time he had seen it.

A set of tennis courts were situated right across from R.L. Investigation's office. Several people were working up a sweat on the asphalt courts. Kenyon entered the park and found a bench that faced the building, then sat down to watch the play.

The agent wondered how far he would go to make Legrand talk. The weight of the Luger in his pocket was reassuring; he'd go as far as he had to.

Kenyon sat quietly at the bench, watching the front entrance, but no one came out. By ten, night had descended, and the tennis players were gone. It was time to make a move.

Crossing the park, Kenyon stopped at a garbage can. Someone had thrown away a small brown cardboard box with a courier sticker on the side. The agent picked up the box and crossed the street toward R.L. Investigations.

As Kenyon walked up the front steps, he scratched his forehead, obscuring his face from the security camera. He hoped that nobody was manning the monitor this late at night.

There was a buzzer to the left of the main door, on the opposite side of the camera. Kenyon gave a silent thanks to the incompetent technician who had set that up as he pushed the button.

“What is it?” came a man's voice.

“Delivery for R.L. Investigations,” said Kenyon.

There was a pause. “We are closed.”

“Says here, ‘Attention Raymond Legrand. Special evening delivery.'”

There was a second pause. “Just a moment.”

Kenyon stood by the door, careful to keep his face away from the camera and the package visible.
Come on, come on baby
, he said under his breath.
Show me how dumb you really are.

There was the sound of a bolt being drawn, then the heavy door creaked open. The pale face of Raymond Legrand shone in the interior light. “Where do I sign?” he asked.

“Right here.” Kenyon drew the Luger out from under the package and shoved it in his face. “Now step inside. Move.”

Plainly shocked by the sudden appearance of the gun-wielding agent, Legrand did as he was told. Kenyon entered behind him and slammed the door shut.

The interior hallway led to a reception room decorated with dark wood wainscoting and cream walls. Kenyon glanced about, wary of taking his eyes off Legrand for long. The main floor appeared deserted.

“Anybody else here?” asked Kenyon.

“No,” said Legrand. “I am alone.”

Legrand was dressed in a dark blue, pinstripe suit and silk tie, only he had taken off the jacket. “Give me your tie,” said Kenyon.