Secret Combinations (29 page)

“I'd be
dee-lighted
to measure your inseam,
love
,” Mel mimicked the clerk in a falsetto accent. “Man, I almost decked that fruit.” They all laughed uproariously.

Kenyon looked at Mel. He was tall, with a crop of dark hair and a midwestern accent. He was ten years younger than the agent, but the resemblance was close enough.

“Excuse me,” said Kenyon. “You boys go to Virginia Tech?”

“Yessir,” said the one in the Gap cap. “We're criminology undergrads.”

Kenyon pointed to Mel's sweater. “I'm going to meet my brother for his birthday, and he just loves the Hokies,” he said.

The trio swelled with pride. “This year, we're going to win the Sugar Bowl,” said Mel. All three whooped.

“I hope they do,” said Kenyon, grinning. “Phil was going to go to Virginia Tech; that was, before the leukemia got him.”

The three young men suddenly sobered. “Hey, I'm sorry to hear,” said Mel.

“It's all right,” said Kenyon. “The doctors here say he's going to be fine.” Kenyon looked at Mel. “I didn't have time to buy Phil a birthday present, but you know, he'd love a Virginia Tech sweater. It would just make his day.”

Mel didn't need a second hint. He put down his Harrod's bag and pulled his sweater over his head. “You give this to your brother, and you tell him Mel wishes he gets better soon,” said the student.

“Hey, that's great,” said Kenyon, taking the sweater. “Phil's gonna just love it. But let me give you something.” Kenyon offered his
FBI
jacket. “Here, take this.”

Mel's eyes went wide. “Is this for real?” he asked.

“One hundred percent,” said Kenyon.

“Oh, man, the guys in criminology are gonna go nuts when they see this.”

“Go ahead, try it on,” said Kenyon.

Mel eagerly pulled the jacket on. “Fits perfect,” he said, beaming.

The kid with the Gap hat glanced up as the train began to slow. “Hey, Leicester Square,” he said. “This is our stop.”

“You guys take care,” said Kenyon, as they disembarked.

The agent waited until they had disappeared into the crowd, then slipped off the train and pulled on the Virginia Tech sweater. He tossed his ballcap onto a bench, and smoothed down his hair. He felt remorse at misleading Mel and his friends, but he was desperate.

A series of escalators carried the passengers up from the platform. Kenyon was careful to keep at least a hundred feet behind the students, wary of being spotted.

The station for Leicester Square was crowded with commuters and tourists trying to get in and out. Kenyon's heart plunged when he spotted two cops at each exit, carefully scanning the faces of people as they left.

Damn, thought Kenyon. Arundel had already got the word out. He stepped to one side to buy a cheap pair of sunglasses from a kiosk, hoping they wouldn't recognize him. It was a faint hope, but it was all that he could think of.

For the first time that day, Kenyon's luck took a turn for the better. As the three students reached the first exit, a bobby spotted the
FBI
jacket and grabbed his whistle. An ear-piercing shriek filled the air, and the other policemen came running. They pounced upon the unsuspecting student and wrestled him to the ground, along with his friends.

Kenyon felt terrible, but he knew it would make a hell of a story for their criminology classmates when they returned to the States. He said a silent thank you to the students, and fled up the unguarded exit.

As soon as he reached the sunshine at street level, Kenyon headed for Leicester Square. The pedestrian mall was crammed with tourists. The agent blended into the crowd, standing behind a fat man taking pictures of buskers with a video camera and an “I'm with Stupid” T-shirt.

Rather than watch the buskers, however, Kenyon scanned the crowd. He didn't spot any uniformed police, but he knew that Scotland Yard would have plainclothes in the crowd watching for pickpockets. He slowly made his way to the edge of the crowd, leaving Leicester Square and headed north, into Chinatown. Kenyon was surprised at the tiny size of the Asian neighborhood. Considering that London had almost ten million people, the oriental stalls and grocery stores only stretched for two blocks.

Kenyon continued north through Chinatown into Soho. The district was lined with theaters showing various plays. What had Arundel said? Why not take time out and go see a mystery. Kenyon laughed at the irony of that one. The theater district in Soho quickly gave way to the porno district, with Triple-X shops and nudie shows lining the streets.

As Kenyon walked past the Pussycat Exotic Show, a black man dressed in a gold vest stepped in his way. “We got gorgeous girls, we got well-hung lads,” he said. “Come on sport, give it a go.”

Kenyon was about to step around the tout and keep walking when he spotted a police car parked at the end of the street. He quickly ducked into the entrance. The foyer of the Pussycat was decorated in black velvet and a filthy red carpet. He paid his money to the bored ticket clerk and headed into the theater.

From what Kenyon could see in the gloom, the theater had once been an elegant music hall, but twenty years of skin shows had covered the walls in grime. As he sat down on a rickety bench, he noticed needles and condoms littered underneath. The only other people near him were a group of kids in raggedy clothes with spiked hair and they looked too stoned to even notice him.

The agent glanced at his watch. He had been on the lam for less than an hour. He figured he was safe for the next few minutes, but then what? Should he just turn himself in, he wondered? But he realized that if he was in jail, there'd be no way he would ever be able to figure out who was trying to frame him.

Kenyon thought back, trying to remember what Deaver and Arundel had said before he fled. Something about the e-mail he had received. It was too convenient. Kenyon had to agree. It was a great way to cover up the theft of the Cyberworm virus and build an alibi at the same time. The agent had to give his grudging admiration. Whoever had thought it up had done an excellent job of painting Kenyon into a corner.

What else had Deaver talked about? The stuff about the copy of
Techno 69
. They wanted it, and badly. What was so important about the forgery?

The question made his head ache. Kenyon was thirsty and tired. He had to find some cover to rest. He considered renting a hotel room, but he didn't have enough money for even one night. He couldn't go to the gallery; that would be the first place they'd stake out.

Kenyon thought for a fleeting moment about Tanya O'Neill, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Offering him sanctuary from the police was a felony, and she had a career in law at stake.

What about Happy Harry? No, Kenyon was certain that Arundel had the cabby under surveillance. One false move and he'd land in jail for aiding and abetting.

Who did that leave? Nobody.

No, wait. There
was
somebody. Kenyon pulled out his wallet and dug through it until he found the card he was looking for
: Hadrian deWolfe.
The art appraiser had been a good friend of Lydia's. Would he help her son? The agent hated to ask such a risky favor of someone he hardly knew, but there was nowhere else to turn.

Kenyon returned to the foyer and found a phone booth. He went inside and closed the door, then dug out some change and dialed the number on the business card.

“DeWolfe here,” said the art appraiser.

“Hadrian, it's me, Jack.”

DeWolfe picked up the urgency in his voice. “What is it, Jack?”

“Listen, I'm in a lot of trouble. I hate to ask for your help, but there's no one else I can turn to.”

The art appraiser didn't hesitate. “Whatever it is, you can count on me. Where are you?”

Kenyon breathed a sigh of relief. “I'm in central London, at the Pussycat Erotic Show,” said the agent.

“I know where that is,” said deWolfe. “It will take me fifteen minutes to get there—wait in the audience until I arrive.”

“Will do,” said Kenyon. “And one other thing.”

“What?”

“Thanks.”

“No need to thank me,” said deWolfe, sounding pleased.

Thank God there's some people you can count on, thought Kenyon. He hung up the phone and headed back to his seat.

The show began just as
Kenyon sat down. To the pounding of recorded rock music, a blond woman dressed in a schoolgirl's outfit wandered onto the stage, seemingly lost. The stage had been decorated in purple plush velvet curtains. A fireman's pole had been set up to one side, and a large, round bed dominated the center of the stage.

Kenyon leaned back in the bench and stared ahead, his eyes unfocused. He thought about the fact that Lydia was his mother. For the first time, his strange life started to make sense.

Kenyon knew that Lydia had come to London to study in the late 1970s. She would have been young, probably only twenty or so. For a small town girl from Montana, it must have been like another planet.

Suddenly, a large black man dressed in fireman's pants slid down the pole and landed at the blond girl's feet. He pulled down his pants to reveal a large, throbbing erection. The schoolgirl screamed in apparent fright.

Kenyon tried to picture a young woman with long, straight hair and chinos running into some British rock star in stovepipe jeans and a leather vest. Kenyon barked a short, loud laugh that made the stoned kids glance his way. For all he knew, his father could be Joe Cocker.

By now, the schoolgirl had gotten over her fright and was sucking the fireman's cock with great relish. He, in turn, pulled down her chemise to reveal an impressive set of breasts. He picked her up and flung her onto the bed.

It didn't matter a bit who the father was, thought Kenyon, Cyrus must have hit the roof when his daughter came home pregnant. An abortion would have been legal, but that wouldn't have mattered to Cyrus and Daisy: they were God-fearing fundamentalists. They would have ordered Lydia to have Jack, then arranged to formally adopt their daughter's bastard.

After that, guessed Kenyon, the old tyrant tossed his mother out on her ear, ordering Lydia never to darken his door again.

A second man, dressed in a Santa suit, came out and ripped off the schoolgirl's skirt. He and the fireman then took turns screwing her doggy-style.

How could Lydia abandon him just like that? Never a visit, never a card, never even a phone call. Maybe she just wanted to forget he ever existed. The thought filled his heart with sadness.

The agent glanced at his watch. What if deWolfe decided not to show? What if he called the police? The agent couldn't stand waiting any longer. He arose and went to the front door of the Pussycat, glancing out to see if the coast was clear.

Just then, deWolfe's car appeared, pulling up in front of the entrance. Abandoning caution, Kenyon sprinted over and hopped into the passenger side.

“Sorry about the delay, the traffic was dreadful,” said deWolfe. He pulled away from the curb.

“Listen, I really want to thank you,” said Kenyon, his heart pounding. “You don't even know what trouble I'm in.”

“Tell me,” said deWolfe.

“The police think I murdered Lydia and stole a military secret.”

The driver glanced at his passenger askance. “Did you?”

“No. I'm being framed.”

DeWolfe squared himself against the wheel. “Then I think you owe me an explanation,” he said. “Now.”

Kenyon didn't know where to start. “There's this computer virus called Cyberworm. Somebody tried to steal it in San Francisco. Only they set it up so it looked like I was the one stealing it.”

“That's terrible,” said deWolfe.

“It gets worse,” said Kenyon. “The code to the computer virus was here in England. The police think I tried to steal it. Somehow, they think that fake
Techno 69
has something to do with it.”

DeWolfe slammed on the brakes; a lorry behind almost rear-ended them. “Do the police have the fake?” he asked.

“No, they don't know where it is,” said Kenyon.

The truck driver angrily beeped his horn. deWolfe pulled over for a moment and rubbed his face. “Dear God, what is the matter with this world?”

Kenyon patted him on the back. “It's all right. We'll catch them, don't you worry.”

DeWolfe smiled grimly. “You are a very brave man, Jack Kenyon, to be thinking about catching the murderers when the whole world is pursuing you.”

“Yeah, well, I got a personal stake here. Unless I figure out who did it, they're going to lock me up and throw away the key.”

DeWolfe squared his shoulders. “Well, whatever you do, you will not do it alone. I will help you.”

“Thank you, Hadrian. I'm going to need all the help I can get.”

DeWolfe put the car in gear and pulled back into traffic. “Where do we start?”

Kenyon sighed. “I don't know. I just wish Ricci hadn't been killed. I think he was going to spill the beans.”

DeWolfe turned his head to Kenyon. “What do you mean, killed? Did he not commit suicide?”

“No. The police called me back last night to his apartment. Someone drugged him and slit his wrists to make it look like a suicide.”

“So, if we find out who killed Ricci, we have the mastermind.”

“I think I know who did it,” said Kenyon. “I saw Raymond Legrand outside Ricci's apartment the night he as killed.”

“You mean, the husband of Ilsa?”

“Yeah. I think Legrand killed Ricci because he was blackmailing Lydia.”

Suddenly, deWolfe stared ahead. Traffic had slowed to a crawl in front of the houses of Parliament. “Keep down,” he warned. “There are always policemen on duty out front.”

Kenyon kept low in the seat until deWolfe gave the all clear. By the time he arose from under the dash, they were near the Thames, heading west.