Secret Combinations (31 page)

“What?”

“The tie. Take it off.”

Legrand removed the tie from around his neck.

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Legrand did as he was told, and Kenyon quickly knotted the tie around his wrists.

“Now we go upstairs,” said Kenyon.

The two men ascended the stairs of the building, Kenyon close behind Legrand. At each landing, he paused and glanced quickly about, but the offices on each floor seemed to be empty.

The topmost floor had been fixed up as a living suite, with the floors covered in Persian rugs and the walls painted a pale cream. Glancing through the front window, Kenyon could see the distant spires of the Royal Courts of Justice. He took Legrand into the living room and pushed him down on a couch, glancing in at the single bedroom and bathroom. They were deserted. He came back into the living room and sat down across from his captive.

Resting on the coffee table between them was a Louis Vuitton briefcase. It was large enough to hold a small painting.

Legrand, his hands still tied behind his back, tried to shift around. “Do you mind?” he asked. “This is very uncomfortable. My hands are beginning to go numb.”

Confident that he could handle the older man, Kenyon came around and loosened his bonds. Legrand rubbed his wrists for a few moments until the circulation returned before he spoke. When he did, it was a question. “May I ask you something?”

“Go ahead,” Kenyon said.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because I know all about your scheme,” said Kenyon.

Legrand stared at him, perplexed. “What scheme?”

“Your scheme to steal the Cyberworm virus.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I didn't expect you to admit anything,” said Kenyon. “But we'll be able to prove it all in a court of law.”

“Prove what?”

“For starters, you subverted Simon at Nebula Labs, then killed him when he delivered the goods.”

“Ridiculous,” said Legrand. “I don't even know anyone named Simon.”

“Then, we'll prove you killed Lydia.

“You are truly delusional,” said Legrand. “I
loved
Lydia.”

“She was nothing to you,” said Kenyon. “Just like Ricci.”

“Ricci? Lydia's gallery manager?”

Kenyon leaned forward. “Yes, your accomplice. I
saw
you outside Bruno Ricci's apartment near Harrod's the night he was killed. You murdered him because he was going to squeal on you about
Techno 69
.”

“This is complete madness,” said Legrand.

“Is it?” Kenyon pointed to the briefcase. “Open it.”

Legrand stared at the briefcase, his face suddenly pale. “No.”

Kenyon stuck the barrel of the Luger in his face. “I said, open it.”

Legrand reluctantly drew the briefcase to himself and unlocked the clasps. He began to lift the top open.

“Stop!” said Kenyon. “Hand it here.”

Legrand pushed the partially open briefcase across the coffee table to Kenyon. Holding the Luger in his right hand, he cautiously opened the briefcase and peered inside.

The Louis Vuitton was filled with a large pile of papers and photographs. Most of the papers were newspaper clippings. All the photographs showed Kenyon.

The agent stared at the pile in disbelief. “What is
this
?”

“It is your life,” replied Legrand.

Kenyon flipped through the pile. Some of the photographs were taken when he was a young boy. “Is this some kind of surveillance file you kept on me?”

“No,” replied Legrand. “Lydia accumulated it, ever since you were a baby.”

Kenyon read some of the newspaper clippings. One was an account from a Boseman, Montana, newspaper when he had won the state football championship with his high school team. Another was the notice of his acceptance into the
FBI
.

“This is what Lydia bequeathed to you in her will?”

“Yes,” said Legrand.

“And this is what you broke into my house to steal?”

“Yes,” replied Legrand. “I am sorry if I hurt you with the door. I did not mean to do it. I panicked.”

“I just have one question,” said Kenyon. “Why would my mother bequeath this to
you
?”

Legrand stared at his hands in his lap for a long moment.

“Because I am your father,” he finally replied.

Kenyon leveled the gun at
Legrand's heart. “You're lying.”

Legrand placed his hands on his knees and slowly eased himself erect. “May I pour a drink?”

Kenyon waved the barrel of the Luger in assent.

Legrand walked slowly over to a sideboard and opened a door to reveal a well-stocked liquor cabinet. He pulled out a dark bottle of liqueur and poured a thimble into a glass, then mixed it with soda water. The smell of black currant drifted across the room.

“Cassis,” he explained, holding it up.

Legrand poured a second drink, this time a scotch. He returned to the couch and offered it to Kenyon. “I believe this is your favorite?”

“I'll pass,” said the agent. “As I said, I think you're a liar and a fraud.”

“You are perfectly correct,” he agreed. “I am both. But even a scoundrel such as myself may have an interesting story to tell.”

Legrand settled back into the couch and sipped his drink. “Let me take you back to the early 1970s,” he said. “I was a young man, just out of military service for my native country of France, and I was living the high life in England.”

Legrand tilted his head, recollecting. “You should have seen me then,” he said. “I was young and brash, so full of myself. I could conquer the world.” He nodded toward Kenyon. “When I look at you now, it is just like peering into a mirror into the past.”

Kenyon scowled, not pleased with the comparison. “Does any of this have a point?”

“I bore you?” Legrand smiled. “The impetuousness of youth. Do not worry; there is, I assure you, a point to my story.” Legrand took another sip of his drink. “As I was saying, it was the early 1970s. I began working for Sir Rupert Ingoldsby.”

“I'd hardly call it a job,” replied Kenyon. “You made a deal with him to marry Ilsa.”

“Sir Rupert drove a hard bargain,” said Legrand. “One of the conditions of my lucrative employment was the hand of his daughter in marriage.”

“It must have been tough.”

Legrand stood and went to refresh his drink. “I must confess, I found it easy, at first. Ilsa was not without her charms, and I looked forward to eventually inheriting the fruits of Sir Rupert's labors.”

“But it went sour, didn't it?”

Legrand returned to the couch. “Ilsa wanted a family badly, but it was not to be. After several years of trying, the doctors finally told us Ilsa could not have children.”

“That's not enough to ruin a marriage.”

“You are correct. It is I who ruined the marriage. When Ilsa found out that she could not have a family, she threw herself with a passion into horse jumping. She was often gone for long periods of time to competitions.”

“And you started tomcatting around.”

Legrand waved his glass in the air. “I had affairs with a tennis instructor at Wimbledon and a young model at Ascot,” he said. “They meant nothing to me. I was careful to keep my dalliances secret from Ilsa.”

“Smart move,” said Kenyon. “I've seen her shoot.”

“She has her father's volcanic temper,” agreed Legrand. “And it would have remained dormant, were it not for one mistake.”

“What was that?” asked Kenyon.

“Lydia,” replied Legrand. “It was the fall of 1977. By this time, Sir Rupert had set up this private investigation business to keep me busy.”

“I'll bet you were snooping into his business partners,” said Kenyon.

“What can I say?” replied Legrand. “The world is full of scoundrels.”

It takes one to know one, thought Kenyon. He almost smiled.

“Ilsa was in Belgium at an equestrian event,” continued Legrand. “The weather in London was very hot for that time of the year, and the streets were alive with young people. I went down to Soho one Saturday evening to a cafe. That is where I met your mother.”

“What was she like?” asked Kenyon.

“She was very pretty,” said Legrand. “Her hair was long and straight, like a golden waterfall, and she wore a tiny pair of blue granny glasses on the tip of her nose.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Oh, no. Not at first. I was too shy. I simply sat in a corner and listened to her play the guitar.”

“She played the guitar?” asked Kenyon.

“And she sang,” said Legrand. “She had a voice like an angel. I finally got up the courage to ask her to sing a song for me: ‘Lili Marlene.'”

“Did she sing it?”

“No. She only knew Joan Baez. But she did laugh at my shirt and tie. She said I looked like a fuddy-duddy.”

“What did you do?”

“I bought a pink silk shirt and came back the next night.”

Kenyon couldn't help but smile at the thought of the hapless Frenchman in such a get-up. “What did she say when she saw you?”

“She said I looked like a circus clown,” replied Legrand. “My ears burned in shame, and I turned away, but she grabbed my arm and hugged me. She said she was just
teasing
me. I did not like this teasing, but at the same time, she filled my soul with sunlight. I had never met an American girl before. She was so vibrant, so full of fun. For the first time in my life, I knew what it was like to lose my heart to another.”

Kenyon picked up the scotch and took a sip. “Tell me more.”

“I came to the cafe, night after night, and watched her perform,” said Legrand. “Then, one evening, she disappeared.”

“What happened?” asked Kenyon.

“The cafe owner told me she had gone to help some squatters take over a government warehouse by Waterloo Station. I rushed over, and there they were, hundreds of them, all trapped in the building by a ring of police.”

“Where was Lydia?”

“On the rooftop, singing songs of protest,” said Legrand. “I snuck inside through a back entrance and joined her, shouting defiance at the police”

“How long did you hold out?” asked Kenyon.

“Three glorious days,” said Legrand. “Every day, we would hurl insults at the police, and every night we would sneak out to bring food back to our comrades. It finally ended when the building burst into flames.”

“The cops set fire to it?” asked Kenyon.

“No. We were trying to roast a pig in an old steel drum and we set the floor ablaze,” said Legrand. “We all had to flee.”

Kenyon tucked the gun into his waistband. “What happened next?” he asked.

“We came back here.” Legrand waved his hand around the flat. “It was late, and we were covered with soot. We lit some candles, and climbed into the old claw-foot tub in the
salle-de-bain
. I scrubbed upon her back with a bar of soap. She turned, and held me close, and kissed me. I knew that I would love her the rest of my life.”

Both men sat quietly for a few moments. Finally, Kenyon broke the silence. “What happened?”

Legrand sighed. “Ilsa returned from her competition. I tried to keep my newly stirred passions hidden within my heart, but a woman can see right through a man. She knew that something was amiss. Then Lydia came to me with the news that she was pregnant.”

“Me?” asked Kenyon.

Legrand nodded toward the bedroom. “You were conceived here, that night. When I learned, my soul was filled with joy, and I wanted to leave my wife and run away with Lydia.

“But you didn't?”

“No. Tragedy struck.”

“Ilsa found out?” asked Legrand.

“Worse. Sir Rupert discovered my transgression.” Legrand smiled bitterly. “It seems that he kept an eye on all of his business partners, including me. He was terribly upset.”

“What business was it of his?” said Kenyon. “This was between you and Lydia and Ilsa.”

Legrand shook his head. “The old man was being considered for his knighthood, and he feared that the news would cause him to be taken off the Queen's Christmas list. He wanted to avoid a scandal, at any cost.”

“What did he do?” asked Kenyon.

“He secretly went to Lydia,” said Legrand. “He threatened to harm the child if she went through with the pregnancy. She packed her bags and fled.”

“Why didn't you follow her?” asked Kenyon.

“I had no idea what happened,” said Legrand. “The landlord of her flat said she left in a hurry, with no forwarding address.”

“Didn't you wonder about your child?”

“Every day. The torment of not knowing what had happened almost drove me mad.” Legrand gestured with his arm. “What had I said? What had I done? I thought she had left because of me.”

Kenyon thought about the birth certificate that Deaver had shown him. “She went back to Montana, where I was born,” he said. “Then she returned to London.”

Legrand stared off into the distance, and sighed. “The day I saw her walking down the street, I almost fell to my knees,” he said. “I hugged her and I wept for joy.”

“And Lydia?”

Legrand arose, and went to stand by the window. “Something in her had changed. The spark of life still burned fiercely, but the joy was gone.” He stared down into the empty street. “I asked her what had happened to our child, and she told me that she had terminated the pregnancy.” Legrand turned to Kenyon. “For most of your life, I never even knew you existed.”

Kenyon wanted to know more. “What happened between you and Lydia after she returned?”

Legrand shrugged. “We didn't speak of our passion for many years. Lydia opened a gallery and became very successful. She surrounded herself with the sparkling lights of society, including my wife. We all pretended to be happy.”