Secret Combinations (18 page)

Kenyon stared at the list. “Yeah, it rings a bell.” Where had he seen that name?

“Well, it's the only one that appears to be missing,” said deWolfe. “Perhaps it was the one that Lydia wanted me to look at.”

Suddenly it struck Kenyon; Lydia had written
Techno 69
in her Filofax a few days before she was murdered. Careful to conceal his excitement, he turned to deWolfe. “Where do you think she might have put it?” he asked.

DeWolfe shrugged. “Perhaps it was sold. We can check the files.”

Kenyon nodded in agreement. “Sounds like a plan.”

The agent closed the drawers, and the two men went up to the main floor. After locking the storage door, Kenyon led deWolfe down the hall to Lydia's office.

The agent pulled open the client drawer on the filing cabinet and went through the contents. Each artist had their own file, arranged alphabetically. He flipped through the folders until he found Maggote's, then returned to the desk.

The folder was quite thick; each work had an authentication certificate, color photo, and provenance listing the ownership trail. The works in the basement storage room were filed up front; they showed Maggote's estate as the owner. Kenyon flipped to the back; there were about a dozen paintings marked sold. He worked through the pile until he found
Techno 69
.

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.

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 house, 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.”