Secret Combinations (19 page)

“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 sound. 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.

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.”

“Now I see why you wanted the lab coat.”

“Yes; a nice touch to go with your Geiger counter.” DeWolfe withdrew a small, black device from his jacket and handed it over.

Kenyon was impressed. “You seem to have thought of everything.”

“I
do
try to be prepared,” agreed deWolfe, solemnly. “You will check all his collection,
ja
? When you get to
Techno 69
, I will distract him long enough for you to examine it for the hidden cartoon character.”

DeWolfe turned off the busy King's Road and headed south. They drove toward several modern highrises situated on the north shore of the Thames. As they approached, Kenyon could see that the highrises were encircled by a tall brick wall. A guard at the entrance to the compound confirmed their license plate on a guest check list before allowing them to pass through the road barrier.

Inside the compound, the towers were clustered around a marina filled with large yachts and powerful speed boats. Kenyon could see the Thames through the gate that closed off the canal leading to the river. It was high tide, and tour boats, their cabins empty of sightseers, chugged upstream.

DeWolfe parked in a section marked “Visitors.” Kenyon donned his coat and tucked the Geiger counter in one pocket, then the two men approached the front entrance of the largest tower.

The foyer of the tower was protected by a private security guard seated behind a barrier of steel and bulletproof glass. The evaluator spoke into a microphone by the door. “DeWolfe and Professor Kenyon here to see Herr Garbajian,” he announced.

The guard dialed a number, then spoke briefly on the phone. Satisfied, he pushed a button, and the door on the security barrier swung open. “Please come in. Someone will be right down to escort you up.”

A few minutes later the doors to the elevator opened, and a small, wiry Middle Eastern man in a double-breasted suit stepped out. His left eye was sewn shut; he squinted at them briefly with his good right eye, then beckoned them forward. “I am Hazzim,” he said. “My master awaits.”

The three men stepped into the mirrored elevator, and the doors closed behind them. Kenyon noted that there were no floor buttons in the device; the elevator began to rise on its own. Judging by the time and speed of the ascent, Kenyon guessed that they were somewhere near the top of the twenty story building by the time it stopped.

“Does your master own the top floor?” asked the agent.

“My master owns the entire building,” replied Hazzim.

The elevator doors opened up into a marble-tiled foyer. Standing there awaiting them was the largest Arab that Kenyon had ever seen. The man stood over seven feet tall, and his wide girth was covered in a flowing white robe. His black hair glistened with styling gel.

The guard held up a hand to stop deWolfe and Kenyon from advancing any further. He beckoned them to hold up their arms for a weapons search.

The giant quickly and expertly frisked both men. He pulled out the Geiger counter, examined it briefly, then returned it to the agent. He then silently motioned deWolfe and Kenyon to follow. Hazzim remained in the foyer.

Both men glanced curiously around as they advanced through the apartment. Garbajian's home consisted of several large rooms furnished with an impressive mix of Western and Oriental furniture, including a carpet collection that Kenyon figured would do a museum proud.

Most striking, however, was the art collection. In addition to the Warhols and Picassos, Kenyon recognized an impressionist oil painting depicting water lilies; Monet.

The Arab turned down a hallway and stood to one side of a doorway. He beckoned deWolfe and Kenyon to enter.

The room was a large semi-circle of about twenty-five feet in diameter. The outer wall was a phalanx of floor-to-ceiling glass; Kenyon could make out the cruise boats on the Thames, far below. The three inner walls were decorated with an eclectic display of modern art. One oil painting looked like cans of white, yellow, and red paint had been poured onto a block of rapidly spinning plywood; another display consisted of a large, sealed aquarium in which a pickled lamb floated in formaldehyde. Kenyon idly wondered what you were supposed to do if it if ever sprung a leak.

DeWolfe nudged Kenyon. “There it is,” he whispered.

Techno 69
was tucked into one corner, almost out of sight. It measured only one foot by eighteen inches and, like Maggote's other works, was a mix of electronic components fixed to a flat surface and daubed with bright paint. It struck Kenyon as almost ludicrous to think that someone might have been killed over it.

“Gentlemen, it is a pleasure.”

Kenyon and deWolfe turned to face a small, rotund man. Abdul Garbajian was in his mid-forties, but his smooth, round features and large brown eyes gave him the appearance of a much younger man. He was dressed in a dark grey business suit, blue shirt, and red silk tie. He turned and pointed to the large bodyguard. “Please forgive Ali for having to search you for weapons. He is very thorough when it comes to my safety.”

DeWolfe waved a hand dismissively. “Think nothing of it, Herr Garbajian.” He turned toward Kenyon. “May I introduce Professor Kenyon, of the Atomic Energy Commission.”

The two men shook hands. “It is an honor to meet such an esteemed scientist,” said Garbajian.

“You have a lovely home,” replied Kenyon. “I can't help but admire your collection.”

Garbajian smiled shyly. “It is a trifle,” he said. “But it is something that I hold very dear.”

“
Ja
,” interrupted deWolfe. “And we would not want anything untoward to happen to it, now would we?”

Garbajian's tentative smile disappeared. “This issue that we spoke about, it is dangerous?”

DeWolfe turned to Kenyon, raising one eyebrow.

“Probably no worse than minor genetic mutation,” said Kenyon. “You weren't planning to have children, were you?”

Garbajian turned white and placed his hands over his groin.

DeWolfe placed a protective arm around Garbajian's shoulders. “Why don't we leave Professor Kenyon to his work? I would love to examine that charming Matisse hanging over the bar.”

Garbajian slapped his head. “Where are my manners? Perhaps you would like a schnapps, yes?” The two men departed for the main living room.

Unfortunately, to Kenyon's dismay, Ali remained behind, his arms crossed, staring at him intently. When Kenyon pulled the Geiger counter from his lab coat pocket and turned it on it emitted a low clicking. He slowly and methodically ran the sensor over the pickled lamb, hoping that the guard might lose interest.

No luck. Ali kept his gaze focused closely on Kenyon. The agent crossed the room, nearer to the Maggote, and pointed the Geiger counter at an oil painting that depicted a group of nuns despoiling a Hun. He flicked the volume control on the device and the clicking rose to a cacophonous shriek.

Still, Ali held his place. Probably doesn't have any family jewels to worry about, thought Kenyon to himself. The Maggote was only a few feet to his right, but he couldn't think of a way to distract the guard.

Suddenly, Garbajian let out a piercing shriek. It was followed by a second wail. In a flash, Ali was out the door, racing for the front of the apartment.

Kenyon wanted to follow, but he quickly turned and stepped toward the Maggote. Dropping the Geiger counter, he ran his fingers over the artwork, searching for a loose component. There. He tugged at a two-inch microchip, and it immediately came loose from the surface. Turning it over, he held it up toward the light.

A tiny figure of Mickey Mouse waved brightly back. The painting was real.

Kenyon had no time to think; a third scream, this time from deWolfe, jerked his attention back to the living room. Jamming the microchip into his pocket, he raced out of the den and down the hall.

The scene in the living room pulled him up short. Garbajian was writhing on the floor, pulling on the back of his shirt in an effort to drag the tails out of his trousers. Ali stood across the room, pinning deWolfe by his neck against the wall. The art evaluator, his feet at least a foot off the ground, struggled vainly to breathe.

“Drop him!” shouted Kenyon.

Ali simply looked back and forth between Garbajian and deWolfe, torn between helping his master and throttling his attacker.

Kenyon needed to act quickly. He stepped forward and grabbed the prone Garbajian by the shoulders. “Tell him to drop deWolfe!”