Secret Combinations

by Gordon Cope

  The color photograph showed a painting similar to the rest of Maggote’s work; electronic components had been affixed to a plywood board and splashed with blobs of red, yellow, and orange paint. As far as Kenyon could see, the only item differentiating Techno 69 from the rest of the works was a square, glistening solar panel in the lower left corner. Kenyon handed the photograph to deWolfe, then read through the paperwork. “Techno 69 was sold last year,” he said. “Some outfit called TEQ Plc bought it.”

  “Oh, dear,” replied deWolfe, waving the photograph in the air. “Now I know why the name is familiar.” He stood up and ran through a pile of magazines on a shelf until he found a slim catalogue. He flipped through the slim volume until he found what he was looking for. “It’s in here,” he said, handing the catalogue to Kenyon. “It was donated to the auction.”

  Kenyon glanced at the cover. “Charity Auction, Ingoldsby Estate, Surrey,” was written in large script across the top. “Saturday, July 5,” the day of Lydia’s death, appeared beneath.

  “I wonder who bought it?” said Kenyon.

  “I believe Regency House handled the actual auction,” said deWolfe. He pointed to a pile of mail. “They may have sent a list of the sales.”

  Kenyon found a large manila envelope from the auctioneer. He ripped it open, pulled out the list, and scanned the contents until he found what he was looking for. “Someone named Garbajian bought it for ninety thousand pounds.”

  DeWolfe leaned back in his chair. “Abdul Garbajian—I know the man. A very important patron of modern art. Also very guarded of his privacy.”

  Kenyon handed deWolfe the rest of the Techno 69 papers. “You think it might be a fake?”

  DeWolfe scanned the papers. “Everything seems to be in order. Certainly, there is no way that Lydia would knowingly sell TEQ a forgery.”

  “Yeah, but anything might happen once it’s out of her hands,” said Kenyon. “I think we should see this painting for ourselves.”

  “I agree,” replied deWolfe. “I do have a concern with Herr Garbajian, however.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He has a bad temper. He might not react well to being told he spent ninety thousand pounds on a forgery.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s understandable,” agreed Kenyon. “I don’t see any way around not telling him, though.”

  DeWolfe lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Perhaps there is a way we can check its authenticity without unduly alarming our dear friend.”

  “What do you propose?”

  The evaluator rubbed his hands together. “Just a harmless ruse. Do you have a white smock?”

  “Say what?”

  “Oh, what do you Americans call them? A lab coat.”

  Kenyon thought he’d seen one in Lydia’s studio. “Yeah, I think there’s one at home.”

  “Excellent. You go fetch it, and in the meantime, I shall arrange everything with Garbajian.”

  Kenyon escorted deWolfe out the gallery door and onto the sidewalk and waved down a passing taxi. “Give me a call when you have something set up.”

  “Will do,” replied deWolfe, nodding as the cab drove off.

  If Kenyon hadn’t followed the cab with his eye as it departed down the street, he never would have noticed the man crossing the road at the corner. As it was, deWolfe’s taxi passed the pedestrian when he was almost in the taxi’s lane, forcing him to abruptly turn back. He was wearing a cap over his short hair and a large pair of sunglasses, but there was no concealing the distinctive limp.

  “Dahg,” said Kenyon aloud.

  A bus driver honked his horn in anger as Kenyon crossed the busy thoroughfare. He tried to close the gap between himself and his prey, but the sidewalk was clogged with people. He jumped high several times to try and keep Dahg man in sight, but the man suddenly disappeared from view.

  It took Kenyon fifteen seconds to reach the point where he had last seen the fugitive. He stopped in front of the entrance to a long, narrow arcade filled with jewelry shops. The walkway was crowned with an arched glass ceiling and crowded with shoppers eyeing the diamonds and pearls. There was no sign of Dahg.

  Kenyon approached an ancient Warder standing guard at the entrance to the arcade. “Did you just see a man about six feet tall, with short blond hair and a limp go by?”

  The Warder removed his thick glasses and rubbed them on his bright red tunic. “No, sir. Ain’t seen no gentleman like that.”

  Dahg had disappeared so quickly, for a moment Kenyon doubted his eyes. But in his heart, he knew what he’d seen.

  Sixteen

  As Kenyon walked back toward the gallery, his mind raced. What was Dahg doing in London? He was disturbed but also excited by the sudden appearance of the ex-CIA man. In his preoccupation with tracking down Lydia’s killer, he had almost forgotten about Cyberworm: now, the theft of the software program, and the murder of Simon, was back, front and center.

  When he reached the gallery, he stopped by the front desk and questioned the receptionist. “Zoë, did you see a man out front, about my height, short blond hair, walks with a limp?”

  Tigger shook her head. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “If he happens to show up and I’m not here, whatever you do, don’t let him in.”

  A look of concern crossed Tigger’s face. “Why?”

  “Mr. deWolfe tells me there’s been a suspicious character in the area casing out galleries.”

  “Ah!” Tigger nodded her head. “Don’t want them reconnoitering our place, do we?”

  “Exactly. I’ve got to go out for a few hours. You hold down the fort.”

  Tigger gave him a brilliant smile. “Roger, boss.” She saluted as Kenyon exited.

  Out on the street, Kenyon glanced up and down the road, but there was no sign of Dahg. He turned and headed up the street.

  By now, he was starting to get his general bearings. To the south was the Thames. To the north was Oxford Street, part of London’s busy shopping district. To the west was Hyde Park, a wide expanse of greenery separating the gallery from Lydia’s home.

  Kenyon reached the eastern edge of the park and turned south along Park Lane, a wide avenue lined with fancy hotels. The stroll helped him calm down and collect his thoughts. Dahg in London just didn’t make sense. The guy was on the lam; why come here? Maybe he had been mistaken; maybe it hadn’t been Dahg at all.

  A long black Mercedes limousine crossed the sidewalk in front of Kenyon. When he glanced up he found himself right in front of the Dorchester Hotel. There was a stand of taxis waiting by the door. Kenyon decided to grab one.

  The cab paralleled the park for half a mile, then headed west for another two. Kenyon was glad he had taken a taxi: Hyde Park was a lot larger than he had suspected.

  As the cabby drove past the expanse of green, Kenyon mulled over what he had learned about the forgeries. Someone had planted a fake Maggote that Lydia had sold to the bookie Lump. Lydia had made good, but now it seemed there was another fake out there, one that might have been sold to Abdul Garbajian. What had deWolfe said about this cat? He had a bad temper. Bad enough to murder Lydia over a forgery?

  No, that didn’t fit: Lydia died the night of the auction, just after it was sold. It was unlikely that Garbajian would figure out immediately that it was a phony and set up a murder in the middle of the night. On the other hand, if it was a fake, then there had to be some connection to Lydia’s death. All in all, Kenyon liked deWolfe’s idea of using a ruse to check the painting.

  The taxi stopped in front of Lydia’s home. Lydia’s housekeeper was sweeping the steps as he came up the walk.

  “Hello, Señora Santucci,” said Kenyon.

  The housekeeper sniffed and turned her back.

  “What’s wrong?” asked the agent.

  Señora Santucci turned to face Kenyon. “Poor Miss Lydia, if she knew her nephew so greedy! You cannot wait to grab her money and go.”

  “I am not.”

  “You are, too. You try to sell this ho
use, I know it.”

  “Whoa, wait a minute.” Kenyon scratched his head. “I haven’t talked to anybody about selling Lydia’s house, honest.”

  “Then why a man come around this morning and ask to see? He say you want to sell.”

  Kenyon felt a stir in the pit of his stomach. “What did this man look like?”

  “He big and tall, and Yankee, like you.”

  “Short, yellow hair?”

  “I think, maybe. He wear a hat.”

  “Limp?”

  “Yah. He walk funny.”

  Kenyon’s eyes grew wide in alarm. “You didn’t let him in, did you?”

  Señora Santucci placed her hands on her hips. “No! I tell him, go away.”

  Kenyon gave her a hug. “Good for you. If he ever comes back and I’m not around, you call me right away, okay?”

  The housekeeper beamed. “I chase him away with broom.”

  Kenyon went into the house and hurried upstairs to the office. He glanced at his watch; it was close to four, making it almost eight in the morning in San Francisco. He closed the door and dialed the FBI headquarters. The receptionist quickly put him through to Gonelli’s office.

  “Marge, it’s Jack,” he said when he got her. “Dahg’s in London.”

  “Hey, it’s a little early in the morning to be pulling my chain, kiddo.”

  “I’m not kidding, Marge. He’s here.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. He tried to sneak past the housekeeper into my place this morning. I saw him myself this afternoon, sniffing around Lydia’s gallery.”

  “So, Dahg’s in London, is he?” said Gonelli, almost to herself.

  “What I can’t figure out: what would he want with Lydia?” said Kenyon.

  “You mean, what would he want with you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you,” said Gonelli. “Remember the e-mail that set Dahg up? It came to you.”

  “So?”

  “So, whoever did it, did it through you.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know who sent it.”

  “I know that, you know that, but Dahg don’t. You didn’t bring any Cyberworm files to London, did you?”

  “No, I left everything with Jasmine.”

  “Good. ’Cause he’ll be back.”

  Suddenly, Kenyon wished he had his sidearm. “Can we put out an international warrant on him through Interpol?”

  “Will do. Listen, you want protection? I can call the embassy and have them put a detail on ya.”

  Kenyon pictured two burly Marines with carbines following him around everywhere. “No. I can take care of myself.” The agent made a mental note to check out the house for security as soon as possible. “What else is going on in the Cyberworm case? Anything new?”

  “Nebula Labs ain’t talkin’ to us,” said Gonelli. “Deaver slapped a clamp on ’em, and they’re hiding behind it. I can’t even find out what the damn software does.”

  “Jesus,” replied Kenyon. “What a lot of horseshit.”

  “Hey, at least we found a pony. I got a source in Deaver’s office.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Word is, the US attorney’s office thinks it was all set up offshore. They’re chasing down some leads in Europe. Now, Dahg shows up in London. I’m gonna have Leroi go through the files and pin down any UK connections.”

  “Could be IRA.”

  “They steal guns, not secrets,” said Gonelli. “I’m thinking maybe Iran or one of their pals are behind this.”

  Kenyon felt better. “At least that gives us somewhere to start,” he said.

  “What about Lydia’s murder?” asked Gonelli. “You find out anything on the forgery angle?”

  “I think there was another fake that might have been bought through Lydia’s gallery,” said Kenyon. “A painting called Techno 69.”

  “Techno 69, huh? Who bought it?”

  “An English company called TEQ. Then it was donated to a charity auction, and some dude named Abdul Garbajian bought it.”

  Gonelli pulled out a pen. “Gimme those names again, and I’ll check ’em from this end.”

  Kenyon spelled out the names of TEQ and Garbajian while Gonelli wrote them down.

  “How are you going to check if Garbajian’s painting is a fake?” asked Gonelli.

  “I mentioned to you an art evaluator named Hadrian deWolfe,” said Kenyon. “He knows the buyer, and he’s going to arrange a meet with this guy so we can secretly examine the painting.”

  “You trust this deWolfe?” asked Gonelli.

  “Don’t worry about this guy, he’s an old pal of Lydia’s.”

  “Well, that’s a good recommendation,” said Gonelli.

  Kenyon ignored the jibe. “I’ll give you a call when I find out more.”

  “You take care, cookie. Watch your back.”

  “Will do, Marge. Thanks.”

  Kenyon hung up the phone; time to do a security check. Rule number one: examine all windows and external doors. The office window faced out to the alleyway, secured by a heavy brass lock. He glanced out. It was at least twenty feet to the ground, but workers on the adjacent home had set up scaffolding not six feet away. A cat burglar could make the leap to the outside window ledge, if he were agile enough. Not good.

  Kenyon then went back downstairs. At the main door he examined the locking mechanism. It was a good-quality deadbolt, extending two inches into a heavy wood frame. However, someone could smash the lead paneling in the side window and reach right in.

  In the living room Kenyon examined the bay windows that faced the street. Heavy brass locks secured the glass on the inside, and access to the windows from the outside was limited by the iron fence and the stairwell that descended to the basement level. But a determined thief could lay a plank across to the outside window ledge and pry a window up with a crowbar; not any easy thing to do undetected, but still possible.

  Next, Kenyon headed for the basement. Passing through the kitchen, he noted with satisfaction that the window facing the alleyway had been filled in with glass brick. It would take a sledgehammer to force a way through there.

  In the basement, the bottom floor had been divided into a wine cellar on one side and servant’s quarter’s on the other. The door leading to Señora Santucci’s apartment was sturdy. Kenyon would have to check with her later on the quality of the basement doors.

  Back upstairs, the windows in the third floor studio didn’t have sturdy locks, but a burglar would have to scramble up the drain pipe for three floors just to reach them. One slip, and he would drop onto the pointed iron fence below.

  All in all, Kenyon was pleased with the security of the house. A locksmith could easily install a double-keyed mechanism on the front door, but the scaffolding at the back was a problem. Maybe the locksmith would have to think of something to secure the office window.

  The white lab coat was hanging where he had last seen it. Kenyon lifted it off the peg and turned to leave, when he stopped. The hairs on his neck tingled; something was wrong.

  Kenyon cast his eyes around the room, slowly surveying the furniture. Years of experience had sharpened his senses to the point where, like a cat, he could instantly tell if the tiniest detail of a room had been altered.

  Everything appeared to be in the same spot, except for a brush; the tip now faced the easel. He walked over and examined it closely, careful not to touch it.

  Maybe Señora Santucci was here and cleaned up, he mused. If that was the case, why be so fussy about returning everything to its exact spot?

  Kenyon turned and walked to the second room. He bent down and stared at the floor. There, in the sawdust, were the unmistakable footprints of a man. They led straight to a garbage bin in the corner. When he opened it, Kenyon could see it held a short piece of wood. He lifted the scrap of frame wood, painted burgundy, then dropped it back into the bin.

  A phone rang. Kenyon returned to the main studio room but, for a second, he couldn’t locate the source of the soun
d. The agent finally found the receiver under a pile of newspapers and picked it up.

  “DeWolfe here,” said the evaluator. “I have arranged to meet Herr Garbajian this evening at ten at his residence. Do you have the white smock?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  “Excellent. I will meet you out front of Lydia’s at nine-thirty.”

  Kenyon hung up the phone and returned to the framing room. Who had been up here, and why? he wondered. Suddenly, it hit him: deWolfe. The evaluator must have come up during his cataloguing of Lydia’s possessions; it was only natural that he check the studio.

  Kenyon tucked the lab coat under his arm and made his way down the stairs, chuckling. You’re getting jumpy, he thought. Soon, you’ll think everyone’s out to get you.

  Seventeen

  DeWolfe arrived promptly at nine-thirty, driving a boxy, blue Volvo sedan.

  Clutching the lab coat under one arm, Kenyon climbed into the front passenger seat. “So, what’s the plan?” he asked.

  DeWolfe put the car into gear and headed south. “Word has leaked out that a quantity of depleted cesium accidentally got mixed in with cadmium yellow paint at the chemical plant,” he explained.

  Kenyon’s eyes went wide. “Really?”

  “No, of course not,” replied deWolfe. “That is the ruse. Garbajian has an obsessive fear for his own safety, ja ? When I called and told him the deception this afternoon, he begged for my help to ensure his collection was harmless.”

  DeWolfe reached King’s Road and turned right, driving down through Chelsea. Chic fashion boutiques and trendy restaurants lined the high street; a group of rowdy men in soccer jerseys spilled out onto the street from a pub.

  “Where do I fit in?” asked Kenyon.

  “You are an atomic energy official from the United States over here to talk with high-level scientists,” explained deWolfe. “I convinced you to come over and have a look at Garbajian’s collection.”