Secret Combinations (32 page)

“How long did that last?”

“Over thirty years,” said Legrand. “And then, one night late last year, Lydia invited me to her home. She told me how Sir Rupert had threatened you with harm. She explained how she had hidden you at her parents' home, cutting off all contact.”

“I can't believe he threatened her that badly,” said Kenyon.

“I know Sir Rupert,” said Legrand. “If he had known the truth, your life, and Lydia's, would have been in grave jeopardy.”

“Why did she suddenly tell you, after so long?” asked Kenyon.

“Sir Rupert had a stroke,” said Legrand. “It crippled him. Overnight, he went from being a dangerous enemy to a feeble old man. Lydia was no longer afraid of him. She could finally reveal the truth.”

“And did the truth set
you
free?”

“No. I went to Ilsa and told her about Lydia and you, that it was all in the past. I had hoped she would understand in some way, but it was not to be.” Legrand shuddered. “She was furious. She said she'd have her revenge on us all.”

Kenyon thought about the time he had innocently wandered into her gunsights. He was glad she hadn't taken the opportunity to load him with buckshot right then and there. “What about me?” he asked. “When was I going to find out?”

“Lydia wrote you a letter,” said Legrand. “She was killed before she had a chance to mail it.”

Kenyon stood at the window overlooking the park for a long time, breathing the night air and thinking. Far off in the distance, the spires of the Royal Courts of Justice gleamed in their spotlights.
Where's the justice in any of this?
Kenyon thought.
Where's the justice for me?
Kenyon didn't even notice Legrand was gone until he returned with a humidor.

“Care for a cigar?” he asked.

Kenyon declined and Legrand lit one up, then sat down on the couch, where he silently puffed away.

There was something about the smell of the cigar that took Kenyon's memory back to the day in San Francisco. He thought about the stakeout, and how it had gone wrong. The pool of blood under Simon flashed before his eyes, then the chase through San Francisco. And finally, the abandoned warehouse, where he had stalked up to the office, following the suspect's scent.

The scent of a cigar.

Kenyon placed one hand on the butt of his Luger and turned to Legrand. “How do I know any of it is true? How do I know that it's not a complete pile of bullshit?”

Legrand put down his cigar and walked over to a small writing desk that served as a phone stand. “If there was someone you trust who could confirm my story, then would you believe me?” asked Legrand.

“Who?” replied Kenyon, laughing in derision. “Sir Rupert?”

“No. Someone you've known all your life.” Legrand began to dial a number.

“Who are you calling?” asked Kenyon.

“Cyrus.”

Kenyon held Legrand's phone, picturing the other end in his mind. Cyrus would be standing by the wood-burning stove, holding the ancient black hand-piece of the wall phone in his right hand.

“It's all my fault,” Cyrus said, in a deep, cavernous voice. “I hated to live a lie, Jack. It hurt me deep.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” asked Kenyon.

There was a pause. “I was ashamed. I couldn't stand folks around here thinkin' you was a bastard.”

“Did you hate me for it?”

“No, I hated myself. But I took it out on you. I'm sorry, son.”

Kenyon's throat constricted. It was the first time in his life Cyrus had ever apologized to him. For anything. “I forgive you,” said Kenyon.

“Thank you, son. I love you.”

That was the first time Cyrus had ever told him that, as well. “I love you too, dad.”

There was a pause. For a moment, Kenyon thought the line had gone dead, but then he heard Cyrus' voice again.

“I ain't your dad anymore, Jack. I'm your grandfather. I don't know this Legrand feller, but he's your real father now. Don't let him slip away.”

“I won't, Cyrus. I'll talk to you again, soon.”

Kenyon hung up the phone and turned to Legrand. For several moments, the two men stood staring at one another.

Finally, Kenyon spoke. “You got a place I can stay for the night?”

When Kenyon awoke on the
couch the morning sun was coming through the window of Legrand's flat. The Frenchman was in the kitchen, cooking on the gas stove. The smell of coffee and bacon hung in the air, making Kenyon's stomach growl in appreciation.

Legrand noticed Kenyon was awake. “I hope you had a comfortable rest.”

Kenyon pushed the blanket off his shoulders and sat up. “I slept like a log.”

“Excellent. A good night's sleep always makes for a good morning's appetite, no?” Legrand carried the frying pan to a small dining table, where he loaded up a plate. With a flourish, he invited Kenyon to join him.

Kenyon sat down while Legrand poured the coffee. In addition to a large helping of bacon, the plate in front of him was heaped with toasted bread and an omelet. The agent realized that he hadn't eaten for over a day. He dug right in.

“This is great,” said Kenyon, pointing to the omelet. “What's in it?”

“Some fresh mushrooms and onions.” Legrand, coffee in hand, joined him at the table. “I fry them in butter and pepper, then fold the concoction into the omelet with a slice of brie.”

“It's delicious,” said Kenyon, his mouth full. “I could eat two.”

Legrand laughed. “I am afraid this is all I have. I was not expecting company.”

Suddenly, Kenyon realized the predicament his presence had put Legrand into. He put down his fork and stood to leave.

“Where are you going?” asked Legrand.

“Away,” said Kenyon. “Just being here could get you into a lot of trouble.”

“Do not leave,” demanded Legrand. “It is extremely important that we talk, first.”

Kenyon reluctantly sat down again. “About what?”

“Someone went to great lengths to set both of us up for some espionage plot. Whoever did that is far more dangerous than the police. Before you leave this house, I want to know who did it, and why.”

Kenyon sipped his coffee. It was hot and strong, the way he liked it. “Before I say anything else, there's one thing I have to know,” said Kenyon.

“What is that?”

“Did you kill Bruno Ricci?”

“No,” replied Legrand, staring him straight in the eye. “I did not even know it was his apartment, until you told me.”

“Then what were you doing there?” asked Kenyon.

“I was following a man. His name is Hadrian deWolfe.”

“
Hadrian
?” Kenyon stared at Legrand.

“You know him?” asked Legrand.

“Yeah,” replied Kenyon, suddenly on guard. “He's an art evaluator from Switzerland.”

“That is his cover,” said Legrand. “He was a paid informant for the
SVR
, the Soviet Foreign Intelligence service. For a while, he worked as a double agent for
MI6
. He was considered quite useful.”

“What happened to him?” asked Kenyon.

“The
SVR
suspected his treachery, and he fled to Britain. There were rumors he was subsequently involved with arranging arms for terrorists in the Middle East. Nothing was ever proven, but he was too suspect for
MI6
to keep on.”

“Is that why you were following him?” asked Kenyon.

“No.” Legrand stared at his hands in his lap. “I believe he was having an affair with my wife.”

Kenyon's head started to spin. “
Ilsa
?”

“Yes. Once she learned of the ancient affair between Lydia and myself, she became very distant and cold. At first, I assumed it was because of me, but soon, I began to suspect there was someone else involved.” Legrand stared off into the distance. “She would leave Ingoldsby Manor and come home at odd hours. There were phone calls. When I answered the other person would abruptly hang up.” Legrand turned his gaze to Kenyon. “Eventually I had one of my staff follow her. He tailed her late one night to a small apartment in Kensington.”

“Near Lydia's?” asked Kenyon.

“Yes,” said Legrand. “My investigator observed deWolfe arrive shortly after. They stayed there until early in the morning.”

“That doesn't prove they were having an affair.”

“Of course not,” agreed Legrand, ruefully. “Perhaps they were just playing bridge.”

“Did you ever confront her?” asked Kenyon.

“I asked her face to face if she was involved with another man. She did not answer my accusation, she simply ordered me to leave Ingoldsby Manor.” Legrand waved a hand around the apartment. “I have been here ever since.”

Kenyon sipped his coffee for a moment, thinking about deWolfe. Why had he fingered Ricci as the man who might have the fake
Techno 69
? “Tell me about the night you followed deWolfe,” he said. “The night Ricci was killed.”

“I had been staked out for several hours in front of his apartment when I saw him leave at about 10:00
PM
,” said Legrand. “I thought he might be heading for an assignation with my wife. I followed him in my car.”

Kenyon took another sip of his coffee. “What did he do?” he asked.

Legrand shrugged. “He parked behind Harrod's and went into the apartment. He stayed for about one hour, then came out. I followed him, but he simply returned to the flat.”

“When did he leave Ricci's?” asked Kenyon.

“Shortly after 11:00
PM
.”

“Was deWolfe carrying anything when he left? Something fairly big, like a painting?”

“Not that I recall,” replied Legrand.

Kenyon pondered for a moment. “You said deWolfe's apartment is in Kensington.”

“Yes, it is near Lydia's—your—home,” said Legrand.

Kenyon tucked the Luger into his pocket and headed for the stairs. “Let's go.”

Legrand jumped up and followed him. “Where?”

“To pay a visit to Hadrian deWolfe.”

•  •  •

The inside of
Legrand's Range Rover was a lot cleaner than the exterior, which pleased Kenyon. He was also grateful for the tinted glass, He wouldn't have to crouch down to conceal himself from the police.

Traffic through downtown London was fairly light, and the two men made good time. After about twenty minutes, they reached Hyde Park, and headed west along Kensington High Street until they came to Gloucester Road. They turned left and headed south.

Legrand turned off Gloucester Road and meandered through a mews until he came to a spot just around the corner from Lydia's. He nodded to an empty parking stall marked “Private.” “DeWolfe usually parks his car here,” he said. “He must be out.”

“Just as well,” said Kenyon. “It gives us a chance to scout around.”

A group of workmen were busy drilling a hole in the roadway near the front of deWolfe's apartment. Legrand pulled the Rover in behind their truck and parked. He then got out, flipped up the back hatch and began rummaging in the tailgate area, filling up a rucksack with various items.

Kenyon joined the
PI
at the back of the Rover. “What are you doing?”

“Since Monsieur deWolfe is not home, I suspect we will need a few things they did not hand out in Quantico.” Legrand handed Kenyon a pair of latex gloves. “Put these on.”

They walked toward the front door of deWolfe's apartment block. It was part of a row of townhouses similar in design to Lydia's, but divided into apartments. They reached the front door, which was locked. Legrand peered through the glass at the top of the door, then pulled a seagull's feather out of his jacket pocket. Inserting it through the crack at the top of the door, he began to wiggle it back and forth.

“What are you doing?” asked Kenyon.

“There is a motion detector that automatically unlocks the door as you leave,” said Legrand. “The motion of the feather activates it.”

“Where'd you learn that?” asked Kenyon.

“From a cat burglar in Marseille.”

There was an audible click, and the
PI
pushed the door open. The foyer of the building led to a steep flight of stairs. They ascended for several floors, finally emerging at the topmost landing.

Legrand fished around in the duffel bag, pulling out a thin tube attached to a small
LCD
display panel. He pushed the tube under the door. An image of the flat appeared on the tiny monitor. Legrand gently twisted the tube, and the image did a pan of the interior. As far as he could see, the apartment was deserted. “No one is home,” he announced.

“Great, but how do we get in?” said Kenyon. The door was solid wood, with a deadbolt locking it shut. “We'd need a forklift truck to bust down this door.”

“We have something better,” said Legrand. He fished around in his duffel bag again and drew out a small car jack and a telescoping steel pole. He attached the pole to the top of the jack, then expanded the pole until it was the width of the hallway. “Hold the end of the pole against the deadbolt,” he commanded Kenyon, as he braced the base of the jack against the far wall.

The agent stared at the pole. “You know, I could get in a lot of trouble for this.”

Legrand gave him a look. “Tell me, do they still hang spies in your country?”

“Good point.” Kenyon lifted the pole and held it against the lock.

Legrand cranked the jack several times, until the pole was snug against the lock.

“This is going to make a hell of a bang when it goes,” says Kenyon. “Won't somebody hear it?”

“Not if we time it correctly,” said Legrand. Just then, the road crew outside began work and Legrand cranked the jack several times. The sharp crack of the splintering wood was drowned out by the din outside. The two men quickly entered the flat.