Secret Combinations (34 page)

“Tell us what you have discovered, Cruickshanks,” ordered Legrand.

The technician straightened slightly, glancing at the men over his glasses. “This entire painting is designed to be a recording device.” He removed a pen from his breast pocket and used it as a pointer. “Look here: this circuitry is a digital memory, and this,” he pointed to a second patch of microchips, “appears to be the recording module.”

Legrand tapped the picture. “But that is impossible. If this device were truly a bug, Dr. MacQuaig would have detected it when he swept the room. He had all the latest surveillance-detecting equipment.”

“Not if it wasn't actively recording at the time,” said Cruickshanks.

“But what good is a bug if it does not record?” asked Legrand.

“I didn't say it
didn't
,” replied Cruickshanks impatiently. “I merely said it wasn't recording whenever they were checking for bugs.”

“How is that possible without someone sneaking in and turning it on and off all the time?” asked Legrand.

“When it is activated by this,” replied Cruickshanks. The technician tapped a glistening square of purplish, translucent material glued to the upper left corner.

Kenyon bent over the painting and examined the patch. “It's a solar-powered battery.” He turned to Legrand. “It converts light into electricity.”

“Yes, but this one is slightly different,” said Cruickshanks. “This particular battery doesn't react to the visible light spectrum. It is designed to create a power source only when it is in the presence of electro-magnetic radiation released by a computer display.”

Legrand looked perplexed, but Kenyon understood. “That's wild,” said the agent.

Legrand crossed his arms in frustration. “I, for one, do not understand.”

“Most bugs are detected when they're either transmitting or recording,” said Kenyon. “That's when they're giving off an electro-magnetic field.”

“That is easy to elude,” said Legrand, unimpressed. “They turn the device on with a remote signal when they wish to record.”

“Using a remote activator is very difficult to do when the recording device is inside a lead-lined room,” said Cruickshanks. “Radio waves can't penetrate lead.”

Kenyon continued. “So, what you do is design a bug that turns itself on only when the secret code is being broadcast.”

“Will somebody please explain in plain language?” said an increasingly agitated Legrand.

“Computer screen monitors like the ones in the
TEQ
boardroom emit radiation,” said Kenyon. He tapped the circuitry. “Whenever they ran a demonstration, this special panel powered up the bug.”

Cruickshanks nodded. “The bug then recorded the encryption code and stored it in
RAM
.”

Kenyon finished. “When the demo was over, the monitors would be turned off and the bug would go back to its dormant mode, where it was undetectable.”

Legrand took Kenyon by the arm and led him off to one side, out of Cruickshank's hearing. “Ilsa bought
Techno 69
for the boardroom,” he said. “Does this mean she is involved?”

Kenyon shook his head. “No. I think deWolfe learned from her that she intended to hang it in the boardroom, and had a copy made up with the bug. He knew Ricci was pulling a forgery scam, and twisted his arm into making the switch. All he had to do then was get it out.”

Legrand pounded his fist against the lab desk. “He seduced my wife to convince her to donate it to the auction.”

Kenyon nodded. “And it would have worked, if Lydia hadn't stumbled on the real one hidden in the gallery storage room. She switched them, and Garbajian bought the real one by accident.”

“And before deWolfe and his gang realized what had happened, they killed Lydia,” said Legrand. He sat down on a stool and buried his face in his hands. “The bastard,” he muttered.

Kenyon placed a hand on Legrand's shoulder. “Don't worry, deWolfe's not going to get away with it.”

Legrand glanced up. “What do we do now?”

Kenyon took the fake
Techno 69
and placed it back in the hiding place behind Lydia's portrait. “We jerk
his
chain around for a change.”

•  •  •

Legrand drove through
the streets of Kensington as dusk descended on the city. “What you propose is very dangerous,” he said to Kenyon. “Why do we not simply turn the painting over to the police?”

Kenyon sat on the passenger side dressed in dark clothing and a baseball cap pulled down to conceal his face. “Because they think I killed Lydia in order to cover up the theft of the Cyberworm virus. If I show up with it, they're not going to believe deWolfe is responsible.”

“So, what is the plan?”

Kenyon glanced into the back of the Range Rover at the portrait of Lydia. “We're going to give the painting to deWolfe.”

Legrand turned his head toward Kenyon in surprise so quickly that he almost smashed into the bus ahead, barely hitting the brakes in time. “Are you absolutely insane?”

“We're just going to give it to him long enough to take it to his boss,” Kenyon said, fishing around in his pocket and pulling out a metal disk about the size of a quarter. “See this? I got this from your boy Cruickshanks.”

Legrand peered at the device in the gloom. “What is it?”

“A Global Positioning Satellite transmitter.” Kenyon worked the disk underneath the frame of the painting.

“Ah, very imaginative,” said Legrand.

Kenyon reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a device that was the size of a pocket calculator. “This tells me the location.” He turned the device on, and it beeped. “We can follow deWolfe wherever he takes it. Once he gets there, we call the cops.”

Legrand nodded. “So, we simply give it to deWolfe and say, ‘Here, take this to your master,' no?”

Kenyon laughed. “No. We have to fool him into thinking he's found it on his own.”

They were nearing Lydia's home. Kenyon pointed to the alleyway that lead up to deWolfe's secret flat. “Pull in here, and stop.”

Legrand wheeled the Rover to the side of the road. Night had descended, but Kenyon pulled the ballcap further down over his face. He got out of the car and slipped up the alleyway.

He found deWolfe's blue Volvo parked in the reserved spot. Glancing up, he saw a light burning at the top of the building. Good; Kenyon thought, deWolfe was in his lair.

Kenyon glanced back. He could see Legrand peering after him down the alley from the Rover, but the rest of the street was deserted. He bent down over the back of deWolfe's car and took the cap off the air valve on the rear tire. Using the tip of a pen, he pushed in the pin until the air began to rush out. After several minutes, the tire was flat. Kenyon put the cap back on the valve and returned to the Range Rover.

“Why did you do that?” asked Legrand as Kenyon climbed in.

“To give us some breathing time,” said Kenyon. “Now we have to shake the surveillance team off Lydia's place.” He took a bright yellow raincoat from the floor of the car and pulled it over his jacket, then handed a second one to Legrand. “You know what to do.”

By now night had fully descended. Kenyon stood around the corner from Lydia's home beneath the towering limbs of a tree that stood in the fenced park. He was acutely aware of deWolfe's observation post directly above, and he had to will himself not to glance up.

Several pedestrians strolled past, obviously curious about the man standing out on a warm, cloudless evening wearing a raincoat. Kenyon ignored them, more concerned that he might be spotted by the surveillance team before the time was right.

He glanced at his watch. Legrand had been gone ten minutes; plenty of time to reach his appointed spot on Gloucester Road. It was time. Kenyon opened his raincoat and pushed the baseball cap back so that his face was clearly visible and began to stroll toward Lydia's home.

He spotted the surveillance van the moment he walked around the corner. It was the same one he had seen out of deWolfe's window the evening before; an electrical contractor's panel truck, parked adjacent to the park.

Kenyon slowed, then stopped beneath a street lamp. He waited for several seconds, then saw it; someone was moving in the van, causing it to sway. He could hear the side door being unlatched. He counted to three, then crouched and ran back.

As he rounded the corner, he peered over his shoulder. Sure enough, a man dressed in worker's coveralls was climbing out of the van and heading in his direction. He prayed that the second man would follow. Head down, Kenyon sprinted as fast as he could toward Gloucester Road. He rounded the corner, straight into Legrand.

“Go! Go!” he urged Legrand, who, dressed in a similar bright yellow garment, turned and ran for the Gloucester Road tube.

Kenyon stepped into the door of a betting shop and pulled off his raingear. Standing behind the door, he watched as first one cop, then the second, came sprinting around the corner and raced after Legrand.

Kenyon quickly left the betting shop and retraced his steps. The plan was for Legrand to ditch his bright raincoat in the station, then return out the door. With any luck, the agents would think Kenyon had disappeared into the underground and concentrate their search there.

Kenyon turned the corner back onto Lydia's street and approached her home cautiously. The van was empty. With the door thrown open he could see the radio equipment inside. The agent resisted the urge to pick up the handset and transmit a raspberry. Knowing that deWolfe was watching his every move, he pulled out a key and advanced up the steps. He quickly let himself in, then closed the door.

The interior of Lydia's home was dark. Kenyon stood for a moment at the door, sniffing the air, waiting for any sound or sign that someone was inside.

All was quiet. Kenyon advanced down the hall into the kitchen. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a portable bug detector and turned it on. A red diode light on the top flashed slowly as he turned it to the left and right, first around the stove and microwave, then around the wall phone. Nothing.

Kenyon continued into the dining room. He swept the detector under the large oak table and chairs, but the device remained silent.

Careful to keep from being silhouetted in the window, Kenyon moved around the living room in a crouch. He checked under the chairs, but there was nothing. He ran the detector along the mantelpiece; still no sign. Even the telephone on the coffee table showed no indication of being bugged.

Then, on a hunch, he followed the telephone line back toward the wall. At the window, mounted on a baseboard behind a curtain was a small white box. Kenyon pointed the detector and the red diode light began to flash faster and faster. He bent over for a closer look at the box. It resembled a voltage adapter, but it straddled the line between the phone and the wall socket. He recognized it as a dual bug. Not only could it record phone calls, but any conversation in the room, as well.

Kenyon returned to the telephone and picked it up. He dialed Legrand's cell number. The phone rang twice before Legrand came on the line.

“
Bonjour
,” said Legrand.

Kenyon was relieved. “Bonjour” was the code word for free and clear. “I found the hiding spot,” he said.

“Excellent,” responded Legrand. “Where is it?”

“In the Rachmaninov,” said Kenyon.

“Ah, ingenious,” replied Legrand.

“We rendezvous there in two hours, at midnight.” Kenyon then hung up.

He glanced out the bay window. The surveillance van was still empty, the door ajar. Kenyon quickly exited the front door and sprinted across the street to the fenced park. He grabbed the top of the wrought-iron gate and vaulted over the top and into the darkness beyond.

Kenyon sat in the Range
Rover for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for Legrand to return. Had the surveillance men from Scotland Yard managed to double back and capture him? He glanced nervously at the painting resting on the back seat. If he were caught now, he would spend the rest of his life behind bars. He leaned under the dashboard, wondering if he could hotwire the car.

A rap at the window made his heart leap into his mouth. Kenyon straightened up in the seat just as Legrand clambered into the driver's side, his face sweating. “I haven't had this much excitement since we torched Algiers,” he said with a grin. He fired up the Rover engine, and the two men sped off into the night.

Traffic was light and they made good time heading south. They crossed the river and entered into the suburbs, following the path that Kenyon had taken a week earlier when he had driven out to see the spot where Lydia had died. It seemed like a million years before.

The bright lights of London dimmed as they left the city and entered the countryside. Legrand flicked on the high beams and roared down the back roads, picking the fastest way. Forty minutes after leaving Lydia's home, they turned onto Abbey Lane at the top of the hill.

Legrand slowed, easing the Range Rover down the steep, winding road and glancing around for a place to park. Kenyon pointed to a narrow, flat spot between two trees where the 4X4 could pull off. Legrand steered the Rover into the tight spot and quickly killed the headlights and turned off the engine.

They had no sooner stopped when they noticed the headlights of another car approaching down the road. They crouched down in the front seat, watching as a sedan appeared around the corner. It slowed slightly as it passed the parked Rover, then sped up and disappeared down the lane.

After the car passed, the two men sat in the Rover listening to the forest sounds coming through the car windows. All they could hear was the tick-tick of the engine cooling and the sound of the wind in the trees above. Somewhere in the night, an owl hooted.

Kenyon nodded to Legrand, and they got out and went around to the back of the car. The
PI
opened the rear door and fished around in the back for some dark clothing. Kenyon pulled deWolfe's 9 mm pistol from under a seat and tucked it into the back waistband of his jeans, then pulled his black sweater down over it. He then went to a side door and lifted the painting out from the back seat.