Secret Combinations (35 page)

While Legrand changed clothes, Kenyon walked out to the road. He could still feel the heat of the day rising from the asphalt in the cool night air. He glanced both ways, but there were no telltale lights from oncoming traffic. They were alone.

Kenyon walked a few steps uphill. The light from a full moon peeked between the trees, illuminating the spot where Lydia's car had gone off the road. He could still see the scars on the trees where it had crashed to a halt. He paused and stared at the scene, so peaceful and quiet in the silvery illumination.

Legrand, dressed in black, joined him by the side of the road. “What is it?” he asked, peering down the embankment.

“Nothing,” said Kenyon. He wanted Legrand to keep his mind on the task at hand. “I was just waiting for you.” They continued up the hill.

About one hundred feet from the crash site, they came to the bridle path. “The Ingoldsby Estate is only half a mile away,” said Legrand, pointing down the path. He glanced at the illuminated dial of his watch. “We will get there with an hour to spare.”

Kenyon nodded. If he guessed correctly, deWolfe would try and get there before their rendezvous at midnight in order to steal the painting. By letting the air out of his tire, he had given them at least a fifteen-minute head start. At best, they would only have a few minutes to plant the painting, then hide.

With Legrand leading the way, the two men headed down the path at a rapid walking pace. Even with the full moon, Kenyon could see little of the path, but he could smell the rich aroma of horse manure and feel the sandy earth beneath his shoes.

Legrand stopped. Something was moving on the path ahead. Deep in the shadows of the overlying trees, Kenyon could only make it a large, dark bulk. He pulled out the gun and flicked off the safety, taking aim.

Fortunately, he didn't fire. The metallic click of the safety startled the deer from its freeze, and it darted off the path, disappearing into the thick underbrush. Both men exhaled in relief.

They walked silently for about five minutes, then the path began to open up to one side. To his right, Kenyon could see a large field. High above, the dark sky was filled with a million stars. They followed a path along the edge of the field until they came to a shooting blind. Kenyon realized they were at the spot where Sir Rupert had tried to kill him with a shotgun. A shiver went down his spine.

Now that he had his bearings, Kenyon moved ahead of Legrand. The two men followed the pathway through the trees, finally coming out at the estate yard behind the numerous barns and outbuildings.

They paused. Except for a single electric bulb burning at the wide entrance door to the stable, the yard was dark. Legrand pointed, and they advanced to a smaller, unlit door.

Kenyon eased the door open and glanced inside. The stable was unlit. He could hear Ilsa's horse moving about, nervous at the sudden intrusion. He advanced along the aisle down the middle of the barn, stopping to stroke the horse's nose. “Shh, that's a good girl,” he whispered. The horse nuzzled his empty palm. He wished he had an apple to give to her.

Legrand touched his arm and they continued toward the front of the stable. They opened the door cautiously and peered out toward the main house. The large mansion lay in darkness, except for a light burning over the back entrance to the kitchen. Kenyon couldn't see any cars in the yard, but from this vantage point, there was no way of telling if there were others parked out front.

Once again, Legrand pointed to the dark side of the mansion, and the two men advanced. Legrand led the way to a low set of steps that led to the basement of the house. At the bottom of the steps were a pair of massive, rough-hewn oak doors. Legrand took a skeleton key out of his pocket, then Kenyon saw the other man feeling around the door until he located the keyhole. Legrand turned the lock, then eased the squeaking doors open. Both men quickly darted inside. Kenyon left the door slightly ajar in case they needed to get out quickly.

Legrand removed a penlight and switched it on. The room was a series of brick arches supported by thick oaken posts and beams. A dozen large wooden barrels lined the walls. “We are in the wine cellars,” he whispered. “There is a set of steps to the left.”

Kenyon kept behind Legrand as closely as possible and followed the narrow, dancing beam of light as they advanced through the room. “Are you sure nobody's home?” he asked.

“It is the staff's night off,” replied Legrand. “Just to be sure, I called on my cell phone. Nobody answered.”

“Where is Ilsa tonight?”

“She normally takes Sir Rupert to the Governor's Club for dinner on Saturdays, then to the Royal Geographic Society talk. They are never back before midnight.”

They reached the wide steps. Legrand went first, careful to keep the light from the tiny flashlight to a minimum. The steps ended at the main kitchen. The exterior light over the back door streamed through the large windows, illuminating empty countertops and large pots.

As they advanced toward the hallway, Kenyon glanced over his shoulder. He noticed a small portal leading to a flight of steep stairs. “Where does that go?” he quietly asked.

“That is the servants' stair to the bedrooms above,” Legrand explained. “It is only used by Gladys.”

Kenyon nodded, and the two men continued their journey.

The hallway was dark. Kenyon blessed Ilsa's penny-pinching ways, glad that she didn't leave all the lights in the house on.

The double doors to the reception hall stood wide open. Inside, moonlight flooded the polished wood floor, giving the room a cold, silver glow.

They crossed the floor to the Rachmaninov Steinway. The dark patina of the grand piano glistened in the moonlight. Legrand eased the lid up, and Kenyon placed the painting into the cavity. The piano strings cooed and sighed as Lydia's portrait nestled into its hiding spot. Legrand eased the lid down.

Kenyon pulled out the receiver for the
GPS
system and turned it on. The device emitted a soft ping to indicate that it was functioning. Nodding in satisfaction, the agent turned off the device and put it back into his pocket.

“What do we do now?” asked Legrand.

“We hide and wait for deWolfe to find it,” said Kenyon. “Where's a good spot?”

“The drawing room next door.”

Legrand was about to lead Kenyon to the drawing room when he stopped and nodded toward the windows. “Shh,” he said. “I hear something.”

The two men cautiously advanced to the patio doors and eased one open a crack. They could hear the distinct sound of several car engines in the distance, but there were no lights to tell how close they were. After a few moments, the sound died away. Legrand turned to Kenyon, and shrugged. He eased the patio door closed.

Once again, Legrand turned toward the drawing room, but Kenyon placed a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.

“What is it?” whispered Legrand.

From the moment they had started on their journey down the bridle path, something had been nagging at the back of Kenyon's mind. “That night of the auction, didn't you say Ilsa was away from the party?”

“Yes,” replied Legrand. “She went upstairs to tend Sir Rupert. She was gone for over an hour.”

Kenyon glanced out of the large reception room windows. From where he was standing, the horse barns weren't visible. He thought about the narrow back stairs leading from upstairs to the basement, then to the basement doors, then to the horse barn, and then to the bridle path. It had taken Kenyon and Legrand about fifteen minutes to traverse the path, but someone on a horse could reach the scene of Lydia's murder much faster.

“Oh, shit,” said Kenyon. The agent turned and lifted the piano lid in an effort to grab the painting.

“What are you doing?” asked Legrand.

“We have to get out of here right now,” whispered Kenyon.

They were interrupted by a noise in the house. Both men froze. From somewhere down the hall, they could hear the distinct
clump, clump, clump
of someone moving along in a walker.

“It is Sir Rupert,” whispered Legrand. “What is he doing here alone?” He started toward the hallway.

Kenyon struggled to hold the heavy lid of the piano and lift the painting out. A corner caught on a string, and the plucked chord hung in the air, echoing around the room. Both men froze.

The sound of the walker stopped in front of the reception doors, and the room was flooded with light.

Charlie Dahg stood at the door, one hand resting on Sir Rupert's walker, the other pointing a gun at the two men.

Kenyon and Legrand stood imprisoned
in the wine cellar. Their arms had been looped around one of the stout wooden posts that supported the basement ceiling, their wrists bound by plastic handcuffs.

Dahg positioned himself beneath a light and closely examined the portrait of Lydia. Her skin glowed harshly beneath the glare of the bare light bulb. “Nice looking piece of ass,” he muttered. “So, this is what everyone's been after.”

“How did you find us?” asked Kenyon.

Dahg put down the painting and pulled a portable radio scanner out of his pocket. It was the kind used to monitor listening devices. “I overheard you were onto something. I tailed you out.”

Kenyon winced at his own stupidity. Not once on their journey out from London had he bothered to look to see if they were being followed.

Dahg drew out a silencer and attached it to his gun. He stood at the base of the stairs and aimed it at the two men. “Nothing personal, but I don't want any witnesses.”

Kenyon had to think fast. Dahg had forgotten to frisk the men, and the agent still had the Luger tucked in the back of his jeans. If only he could get his hands free.

“I assume you don't want fifty million, either,” said Kenyon.

Dahg cocked his head to one side. “What?”

“That's what it's worth, in the right hands,” said Kenyon. “I know the right hands.”

Dahg shifted his weight to his good leg. “Tell me.”

“I'll do better than that,” said Kenyon. “I'll make you my partner.”

A short, ugly bark of laughter escaped Dahg's lips. “I'd be a fool after you double-crossed me in San Francisco.”

Kenyon shrugged. “That was a mistake. Nothing personal, but I didn't trust you. If I had realized how resourceful you were, I would have let you in on it in the beginning.”

Dahg sat down on the steps and smiled. “Let's hear the story,
partner
.”

Kenyon wet his lips. He had to play this very carefully. “The Cyberworm virus that Simon stole was only half the secret. The other half, the encryption code that unlocks the virus, is concealed in that painting.”

“Where is it concealed in the painting?”

“Let me free and I'll show you.”

Dahg, a rueful look on his face, shook his head no. “Who's the client?”

“I'm not going to give up my bargaining chip.”

Dahg pointed his gun at Legrand. “Tell me, or I shoot your pal.”

Kenyon glanced at Legrand. Sweat trickled down the older man's face.

The agent had to think fast. “Legrand's the technician—if you shoot him, we can't transfer the code to the virus.”

Dahg paused for a moment, trying to make up his mind. “I don't believe you,” he finally said. He pointed the gun at Legrand's crotch. “I'm going to count to three, then I'm going to shoot your friend in a very painful spot. One, two . . .”

Dahg never finished. Distracted by a noise, he turned and stared up the stairwell. “Who the fuck are you?”

A voice responded. “Your employer. Or, might I say, your former employer.”

Dahg swung his gun away from Legrand and pointed it up the stairs. Before he could fire, there was a sharp crack of a gunshot, and his head exploded in a shower of blood and bone. He pitched forward off the steps, dead by the time he hit the cellar floor.

Kenyon and Legrand stared open-mouthed as Hadrian deWolfe came down the stairs, an ancient Colt .45 service revolver clutched in his hands. He nudged Dahg in the back with the smoking barrel. The victim didn't even twitch.

Satisfied, deWolfe stepped over the corpse and into the cellar. He stopped before the painting of Lydia. “Ah. What's this? Such a delightful portrait.”

DeWolfe turned the picture over. “How ingenious!” He carefully withdrew
Techno 69
and held it up to the light. “At last, we meet again.”

He turned and bowed to Kenyon, clearly jubilant. “Thank you, Herr Kenyon, I knew you had it in you.”

“It was nothing.”

“Don't be so modest,” said deWolfe. “It was not in Lydia's house, or her gallery. And that cretin Ricci certainly did not have it. Without you, we might never have found it.”

Kenyon nodded. “That was what the charade with Garbajian was all about. You wanted me to be your bloodhound.”

DeWolfe smiled a toothy grin. “Our clients were becoming a trifle impatient, I must confess. Things were getting, shall we say, desperate.”

“Desperate enough to kill your partner, Ricci?”

DeWolfe pursed his lips. “He was
hardly
a partner. If it wasn't for a little blackmail over his forgery scam, the sullen boy wouldn't have cooperated at all.”

“Why did you set me up to call him?”

“Isn't it obvious? I wanted to find out if he was hiding the painting.”

Kenyon nodded. “And when you learned he didn't have it, you killed him.”

“He was going to confess my involvement,” said deWolfe. “Really, you can't trust anybody these days.”

“And what about Lydia?” asked Kenyon. “Couldn't you trust her?”

“Lydia never knew,” said deWolfe.

“So, why did you kill her?” asked Kenyon.

“I didn't,” said deWolfe.

“I don't believe you,” said Kenyon.