Secret Combinations (5 page)

“Don't worry, you'll be fine. Lydia had a housekeeper; I'll give her a call and have her pick up some groceries for you.”

“You sure it wouldn't be easier for me to get a room somewhere?”

“No. It will be good to have someone staying there. You never know when a thief might read the obituaries and try to break in.”

Kenyon hadn't thought of that. “Yeah, they do that in San Fran a lot,” he agreed. “I guess it won't hurt for a day or two.”

O'Neill returned to her desk. “I have the keys here somewhere.” She dug in the desk drawer and pulled out a large ring. “These ones marked in red are for the house in Kensington,” she explained. “The ones in blue are for the art gallery, and the rest I haven't figured out yet.” She handed Kenyon the keys. “The addresses to her home and gallery are on the top of the inventory.”

“So, where do we go from here?” asked Kenyon. “I'd like to get this cleared up as soon as possible.”

O'Neill tapped her chin with a manicured nail. “I've got the will in probate court, and I can hire a professional evaluator to start inventorying the property. There are some checks for utilities and staff that you'll need to sign, but I don't think you need to stay in London for more than a week.”

Kenyon breathed a sigh of relief. “Good, I really appreciate your help,” he said. He turned and stuck Lydia's will into an exterior pouch on his luggage. “I'd love to stay longer and all, but I really have to get back to San Francisco as quick as possible.”

“I understand,” replied O'Neill. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She lifted the alabaster vase from her desk and handed it to Kenyon. “This is for you.”

The vase was smooth, and cool to the touch. “Thanks, it's beautiful,” said Kenyon. “What is it?”

“Lydia,” replied O'Neill. “She requested that she be cremated, and her ashes scattered.”

Kenyon held the urn gingerly in his hands. He couldn't help but glance again at the nude portrait. “Did she say where?” Kenyon asked.

“She said you would know.”

Kenyon eyed the urn dubiously. It was the first time he had ever even been in the same room as Lydia, and she obviously wasn't in a talkative condition. He wondered what had ever possessed her to think he would know where she wanted her ashes scattered. He shrugged, and tucked the urn in the cradle of his left elbow. “Thanks for your help,” he said, shaking O'Neill's hand.

“It was my pleasure,” replied the solicitor. She looked at Kenyon, burdened by his luggage and Lydia's urn. “Can I call a cab for you?”

“No, I saw some sitting in the square when I got here. I don't think I'll have any trouble flagging one down.”

“Good.” O'Neill gave Kenyon's arm a warm squeeze. “Give me a ring when you get settled in.”

Kenyon wheeled his luggage out
to the sidewalk, then shifted Lydia's ashes to his other arm. It had become quite a hot day, and his white cotton shirt clung to his back under his suit. He began to regret sending the limo away.

Looking around for a cab, he spotted a taxi painted in purple and pink polka dots sitting at the curb about half a block down the street. Kenyon waved his free arm, and the cab approached.

As it pulled up, the agent noticed the picture of a chocolate bar painted on the side of the taxi. “Eat Me
!”
it screamed. Kenyon smiled, imagining how popular the cabby would be in San Francisco.

The agent leaned over and spoke into the open window. “You free?”

The cabby, a young, muscular man with short blond hair and a crooked nose, broke into a wide grin. “No, it's gonna cost you, guv,” he said, in a broad, working man's accent. “Hop in.”

As Kenyon clambered into the back of the cab, the driver glanced over the front seat at his luggage. “You here for a visit?”

“No, business.”

The cabby handed a card over the back seat. “Well, if you want to see the town, just look up 'Appy 'Arry.”

Kenyon read the card. “Happy Harry,” it said. Underneath was cell phone number, then “Chauffeur Services, Guided Tours. Don't start the party without me.”

“Thanks, I'll keep it in mind.” Kenyon tucked the card into his wallet. He wondered what “Don't start the party without me” included.

As Kenyon settled into the back of the cab, Harry glanced into the rearview mirror. “This your first time in London, guv?”

“Yep.”

“You in a big rush to get to this here address?”

Kenyon shook his head. “Not really.”

“Well, why don't I take you by some of the sights, like? Won't cost but a few quid more.”

“Go for it,” said Kenyon.

Harry turned a corner and headed south, bumping down a cobble stoned lane. The cabby pointed to a series of low, ivy-covered brownstone buildings. “This here's the Temple, where all the barristers have offices,” he said. “Dates back almost eight hundred years, it does, to the time when the Knights Templar owned it.”

The cabby drove past several historical ships docked by the bank of the Thames River, then turned down another side street. “Scotland Yard started out here in the 19th century,” he explained, pointing to a large, nondescript building. “They moved to new quarters a few years back.”

The mention of Scotland Yard reminded Kenyon that he should call the office in San Francisco. He glanced at his watch. It was almost four local time, which meant it was about eight in the morning on the west coast.

Harry entered a wide boulevard that was jammed with tour buses. Hordes of tourists crowded the sidewalks, taking pictures, and gawking at the buildings. “Look up to your left, way up,” said the cabby.

Kenyon strained his neck to look out the window. High above him stood the famous face of Big Ben, the clock that marked time over the Houses of Parliament.

The cab circled a large square. “That's Westminster Abbey on the right, where they had Diana's funeral.”

Kenyon peered at the ancient cathedral, finely decorated with statues and stained-glass windows. “It's beautiful,” he exclaimed.

“You think that's something—let me show you where Her Majesty lives.”

Harry angled his car through several side streets, before emerging beside a large park. Buckingham Palace was an immense building bordered by a high, wrought-iron gate. In front of the palace was a memorial to Queen Victoria; the gold-covered statue of the monarch sat regally on a throne, surrounded by marble acolytes.

“That's about it, guv,” said Harry. “We should be gettin' along, before the traffic builds too much.”

“Fine by me,” replied Kenyon. It was time to call San Francisco, anyway. He reached into his jacket and took out his cell phone. Within a few seconds, he was talking to the
FBI
's main switchboard. “Hey, Sally? It's Jack.”

“How's England?” asked the receptionist.

“Jolly and old. Can I speak to Marge?”

There was a pause before Sally came back on the line. “No, she's not in yet. Do you want to talk to Jasmine?”

“Yeah, put me through.”

His partner answered after two rings. “Leroi here.”

“Hey, Jazz; it's Jack.”

“Jack! How's everything going in London?”

Kenyon shifted Lydia's ashes in his arm. “Well, there's been a few surprises, but otherwise, pretty good. How's the Cyberworm investigation going?”

Leroi lowered her voice. “Not good.”

“What do you mean?”

“We couldn't hold Dahg. He walked yesterday morning.”

“Shit, what happened?”

“His lawyer gave the bail judge a blow-job. He showed that his client never received any stolen goods.”

Kenyon cursed under his breath. He'd been afraid this would happen. Deaver had forced them to go off half-cocked before they could gather sufficient evidence, and now Dahg's lawyer was sinking their case. “What about the fact his pals murdered Simon? Didn't the judge think that was important enough to keep him locked up?”

“Nothing to tie him to the murder, except for a conspiracy that was based on an anonymous tip,” said Leroi. “And it gets worse.”

“Don't tell me.”

“Dahg's lawyer found out about the e-mail you got. He says he's going to sue the state for infringement of rights.”

Kenyon sighed. “Well, one good thing,” he said.

“What's that?”

“Dahg's gonna be gunning for the guys who set him up. We got a bead on him?”

“Yeah, we got a twenty-four-hour tail. Judge won't give us a wire, though. Says we have to work up a better case.”

“We'll get it.” Jack pulled out the address Tanya O'Neill had given him and read off Lydia's phone number. “When Marge gets in, can you have her give me a call?”

“Will do. Hey, before I forget, I know there's something Marge'd love for you to bring back: a box of Cuban cigars. It's legal to buy them over there.”

“Yeah, but not to bring 'em back.”

“What are you, a boy scout?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact. Anything for you?”

“A pair of sexy French shoes. Size eight.”

Kenyon laughed. “Will do. Over and out.”

The cab had stopped at a light, and Harry glanced in the rear-view at Kenyon. “Say, you with the
CIA
, or something?”

“No,
FBI
.”

The light turned green, and Harry shifted the car into gear. “That explains it, then.”

“What?”

“The guy what's been following us.” Harry pulled his sun visor down, then tilted the mirror attached underneath until Kenyon could see out the back. “You see that Range Rover, about three cars back, next lane over? Friend a' yours?”

Kenyon leaned forward and peered at the mirror. He could see the large, black 4X4 amid the traffic. The side was dented, and mud had sprayed up from the wheel wells, covering the fenders. The driver was the lone occupant and appeared to be a man, but it was too far back for Kenyon to make out any more details. “How long's he been tailing us?”

“He was parked near me in New Square,” replied the cabbie. “He's been followin' us since I picked you up.”

“You sure it's not a coincidence?”

“Only one way to find out.” Harry turned sharply to the right, cutting across traffic and racing up a side lane. Behind them, they could hear the honking of horns as someone tried to follow across the crowded road.

They reached the far end of the lane, and waited. A few seconds later, the Rover entered the side lane.

“What do you think?” asked Harry.

“We got a tail, all right,” agreed Kenyon. “Can you shake him?”

“Course I can, guv.” Harry accelerated the cab. “Don't you want to know who it is, though?”

“Yeah, but how are we going to find out?”

“Well, there's two of us lads and, as far as I can see, only one of him.”

“So?”

“So, we find a nice, quiet spot, and ask him real polite like, why he's tailin' your arse.” Harry grinned widely. Kenyon noticed several of his front teeth had been replaced with gold crowns.

“What's your plan?” asked Kenyon.

Harry reached under the seat and pulled out a cap. “Put this on and sit low in the seat, so only the cap shows in the back window.”

As the cab rolled through Knightsbridge, the Range Rover caught up and resumed its tailing position three cars back. Harry made sure it got close enough for the driver to see Kenyon's cap poking above the seat, then sped up, putting more distance between the two cars as he entered Kensington.

“There's a row of shops along Gloucester Road,” he explained. “As soon as we turn the corner, I'll slow down. You tuck the cap onto the back window ledge and dodge into a shop.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Kenyon.

“There's an alley back behind the shops. I'll go down to the corner and turn. You wait until the Rover goes past, then follow us.”

“What then?

“I'll park halfways up the alley. Unless I miss my guess, he'll stop and wait to see what we do.”

Kenyon kept low in the seat until Harry warned him that Gloucester Road was coming up. The agent propped the urn on the seat beside him and pushed the cap back onto the rear window. “Take care of Lydia while I'm gone,” he said.

Harry looked in the rearview. “Get ready.”

Kenyon braced himself against the rear door and popped the latch. As they swung around the corner, Harry slowed, and Kenyon hopped out and slammed the door. The cabby roared off.

Wincing from the stitches, Kenyon limped as fast as he could through the front door of a wine store.

The counter clerk, a young woman, glanced briefly up, then went back to reading her
Hello!
magazine.

Kenyon stood behind a free-standing display of South African wine, staring out the window. A few seconds later, the black Range Rover rolled into sight. The side windows were tinted; Kenyon couldn't get a clear view of the driver. The 4X4 rolled past, and Kenyon eased out of the shop and followed the car down the road.

Traffic was slow on Gloucester Road, and Kenyon managed to keep up to the two cars with a brisk walk. He watched Harry's cab turn the corner at the end of the block, followed a few seconds later by the Rover. He slowed his pace in order to give them time to park.

By the time Kenyon reached the entrance to the alleyway, both cars had stopped. Harry's brightly colored cab was about two hundred feet up the alley; the Ranger was positioned behind a dumpster, about halfway back.

Perfect, thought Kenyon. Using a stack of old cardboard boxes as cover, he snuck forward. There was no way of avoiding the rearview. Hopefully, his pursuer was too intent on watching the cab to check it. Fortunately, Kenyon reached the back of the 4X4 undetected, and dropped out of sight below the back door.