Counterfeit Conspiracies Page 4

  I jerked my arm free and forced a deep breath into my lungs. "Don't count on it." I spoke between clenched teeth, raised my head high and strode out the door.

  I skipped around the corner, and used the old mirror trick to see if he followed me. At the same time, I blindly dug around in the dark depths of my purse for the iPod-sized receiver that allowed me to hear what was going on in Mr. Hawkes's little world. The ear bud didn't offer much for several minutes, beyond the sound of eating and crowd noise. Why wasn't he following me? This was getting weird.

  After two minutes he hadn't exited the eatery, and I was getting a lot of funny stares from passersby. Still not satisfied, I used every trick I knew to not only keep an eye on whether I had a tail, but lose him if that was indeed the case. He never materialized again, and the only sound I heard in the ear bud once he left the restaurant was his footsteps and surrounding city noise. Though, somehow, that didn't make me feel relieved. The boor was too good at popping up whenever I least expected. And, oddly enough, it happened every time I was in escape mode.

  This definitely required some prolonged thinking. I wished I had Simon to share a game of brainstorm badminton. I hoped for a call soon and sent him another text. Having heard nothing was slightly alarming, but not altogether out of the ordinary if he'd had to go dark to remain under the radar. The fact was, if the Amazon had gotten to Simon, she would have known where to find the thumb drive.

  I just hoped she didn't have friends.

  In the meantime, I had places to go and things to do. Sigh . . . All without any backup.

  I took a circuitous route to my hotel, even catching a number fifteen bus at the last instant, but kept feeling I was being watched. In a game where I had to trust my instincts, my brain stewed busily over the fact that no evidence of being followed matched my paranoia. I didn't get any of this.

  At the hotel, I nodded to the doorman, then headed for the front desk. No one had asked for me, and I received no message from Simon. I spent another seven or eight minutes pretending to read UK magazines in the lobby, and taking the opportunity to text Nico the GPS location from Simon's calendar, all while making good use of shadows to keep an eye on the front door. But I never saw Teal Eyes.

  My instincts told me I was still missing something. I jumped into an empty lift, and at the same moment heard a phone ringing through the ear bud. Hawkes was calling someone.

  "Cecil, it's Jack. We have complications."

  "I don't like complications." The oily voice came clearly through the receiver.

  "Didn't expect you would, but they're complications just the same."

  "Tell me."

  "Look, this line isn't secure, and privacy is sporadic, so I'll keep my report brief. Our bird has flown his coop. I can't go into details right now. I don't have many. But I have located someone else who appears to be searching the same bushes we are."

  "Do you have a name?"

  "Not yet, but I intend to soon. She's the blonde I worried about at the party in Italy."

  "The one where the snuffbox—"

  "We need to keep specifics out of this conversation. It's too easy to catch a cellular signal." So refreshing to hear the worry in his voice.

  "Can you handle her?"

  I wondered if he looked at his bleeding hand when he answered.

  "I'll give it my best shot. I planted a card on her and I know where she's staying."

  He bugged me while I was bugging him! How utterly annoying. But how? Then I remembered the raised coat of arms on his card, and his last ditch effort to get it into my purse. It had to have a GPS in it since I hadn't said anything on my route back to let him track me via audio.

  "I'll go in sometime today and look around." Well, if he thought he was going to search my room, I needed to plan a little surprise for the creep.

  "When?"

  He sighed. "Whenever she doesn't appear to be going anywhere I need to follow. You know, Cecil, it certainly would be nice to have some backup once in a while."

  "Jack, you're the best I've got. You wouldn't be satisfied with anyone I sent to help you. Besides, I don't have the personnel to spare at the moment. So many projects."

  Cheap bastard, I thought, just like Max. I almost laughed when I heard, "You're one cheap bastard, Cecil. I'll do my best, but no promises. You have anything for me?"

  "Actually, no. I thought I had some information. I received a fax a few minutes ago about Babbage. Came in from Agent Crinoline. But since you just told me yourself he's likely in Moran's care, it's old news now."

  I sucked in a breath. Did Hawkes know where Simon was or was he guessing? Had he followed him, too? I prayed his information was incorrect even as a sinking feeling in my gut told me that was a long shot.

  "How did Crinoline find out?"

  "It was a pass-through from another agent. I can't really say where the information originated."

  "So Crinoline isn't in London?"

  "No. New York, I believe."

  "A pity. I really could use the help."

  "I'll keep that in mind, dear boy. In the meantime, do the best you can and check in as often as possible."

  "Right."

  A few seconds later, I heard Jack mumble, "When I have a minute to spare."

  The hotel room was the sanctuary I remembered: queen-sized bed with an ivory spread that blended well with the dark beige walls and teak furnishings. There was a table with two side chairs and a television hidden within an elegant armoire. Good lighting, quiet ambience, and a full bath instead of the abbreviated version I found too often in U.K. and European hotels. All of my shopping bags were lined up atop and beneath the table by the window. I reminded myself to put the cabbie's name and number in my phone. It always paid to keep a list of excellent resources.

  Hawkes, or whatever his name was, had gone quiet. I heard an oof and excuse me, but then nothing. I hoped the adhesive hadn't let go. Leather jackets are better than cloth, but one never knew when the bug could get knocked loose.

  A quick bag count and brief exploration told me everything had made it safely from cab to room. Before I did anything else, I slipped the picklocks into the top back corner of the closet's dark shelf, under the extra pillows the management kept there.

  I loved shops that carefully wrapped each purchased item in precise, pristine tissue or taped boxes. I always felt like I was getting an extra birthday as I unwrapped them. The bags sat so pretty and inviting, bright colors and neutrals, stripes, patterns and classic plains, that I wanted to dive in with relish. I was even beginning to forgive Max for taking away my vacation. Well, not completely. But I had to ignore the promise of pleasure and give myself over to work first.

  I pulled Simon's laptop from my Prada and hoped the battery was fully charged, since I'd neglected to grab the power cord. Luck was shining on me, and I soon had a happy little window asking me for a password. While we were dating I learned Simon had a penchant for password puns that tied to his name, but still had to try several before SIMONEYES worked.

  Suddenly, I heard, "Yes, I'm looking for a friend of mine."

  "And your friend's name, sir." The second voice sounded like that of the hotel concierge.

  "Laurel Beacham."

  Damn his eyes. I was right. He did know who I was. This was getting worrisome.

  "I can call and announce you, sir."

  I heard paper rustling. Hawkes said, "I'm really just looking for her room number. Want to surprise her. This is for your trouble."

  "I'm sorry, but that is against the hotel's policy. If you would like to leave a message."

  Bravo, I thought. I definitely needed to tip the guy.

  "No, thanks. I really want to surprise her. I'll just catch her later."

  Sure he would.

  "Do you have a bar?" Hawkes asked.

  "A small one down that hall, sir."

  "Thank you."

  The coral came apart even easier the second time, and I slipped the thumb drive into a USB port as I continued listen
ing to alternating sounds of movement and silence.

  The directory for the external drive showed only three files, the largest labeled MORAN, a tiny one named ARTHUR, and another file full of photos. I clicked the icon for the biggest file, and it loaded up Simon's encryption program to access the data. A few seconds later, the company's word processing program popped up, the screen filled with text in a small, funky font. I slipped off my shoes and settled in for a good read.

  In the meantime, I heard Hawkes try to rope the bartender into a conversation, but since I hadn't talked to that hotel employee I knew he would get no information there. I pulled the ear bud out and slipped it into the same jacket pocket that held the receiver.

  What I found on the tiny drive was much more interesting. I basically had a laundry list of crimes against Art and The World that could be attributed to, or at least strongly pointed toward, Devin Moran. Most I already knew, however, I hadn't heard about the foiled attempt by Moran-financed forces to appropriate items from Sotheby's before the Princess Di auction, nor the regarded fake Egyptian vases and statuary that now resided at the British Museum.

  "Of course, it isn't preposterous to assume the items in the B.M. weren't already forgeries that were heisted years ago by some equally ingenious rat," I said, irritable since this was long a worry in the art world.

  Near the end was a list of properties owned by Moran and his associates: castle in Scotland and a manor house in the south of France; luxury apartments in Prague, Moscow, and St. Petersburg; beach property in California and on Martha's vineyard; another place in France, this time a mountain chateau near Puy de Dôme; and finally, a palace in the English countryside, and a Mayfair townhouse in London.

  "Boy, crime really does pay."

  I exited the file, and clicked on ARTHUR. This file came up as a blank page. Now what?

  A scan of the photo folder found only numbers, no names, but looking at the pages of thumbnail views it looked like a collection of places and art. I would have to look to see if there was a cross reference in the MORAN file, but if not the places could be the properties described in the file. I needed to compare the documented locations and descriptions with the photos to see if I could narrow down the properties, and get some ideas on where I might look for Simon. The tiny views of the art pieces looked like they could also be the ones referenced in the file. I recognized several as suspected in the documentation. However, there was no time for any of that right then. I grabbed an Internet connection and sent the files to Nico, through our encryption service, then closed the directory. I would also give him the actual drive the next time I saw him, in case he needed it to improve his chances of finding oddities. A few seconds later, I withdrew the thumb drive from its port, and shut down the computer to save the battery.

  "Don't panic," I muttered. At least the list of locations gave me some place to start searching for Simon, and Nico was a magician with cryptic information. While I didn't trust Hawkes or his informants, Simon wasn't in his ransacked office to meet me as promised, and hadn't called in any of the intervening hours since to set up a new meet. I would likely have to rescue Simon somehow from somewhere.

  Yes, I probably should have called Max right then and told him, but I wanted more information before I opened that can of worms. Max had been out of the field for so long he didn't really function well unless I already had an idea of the direction I needed to take, or the help I required. And he had a nasty habit of taking stories I told him for use as lunchtime conversation fodder with his peers. Simon's disappearance made everything more serious in my book, and the way last night's snuffbox contact had been snuffed out created an even more critical need for me to count noses and be absolutely sure of who was and was not a player in this fatal farce.

  The room phone gave a hesitant ring, pulling me out of my musings.

  "Hello."

  "Is this Miss Beacham?"

  "Yes."

  "So sorry to bother you, miss, while you're probably unpacking and all. But we seem to be having a bit of a problem with your credit card. Could you come back down and bring it with you?"

  I caught my lower lip between my teeth to keep from cursing out loud. It was time to pay the piper for the shopping spree—not that any of it was my fault. Except for the fact I kept maxing out my credit cards. But I wouldn't have if Max hadn't made me reverse directions after my bags were already loaded for Tahoe. Yes, I could have had them routed back to me and waited, but I'd been given a two-day window for this job. Besides, I thought the card number I'd surrendered to the hotel still had a credit cushion. Obviously not. Damn! "I'll be right down."

  Max had to get to work on this, there was no other way. He would scream at me about fiscal responsibility, but this wasn't all my fault. I couldn't help it if my dad squandered everything away before he drank our family finances into oblivion. My place as a Beacham required I at least try to uphold the image my grandfather had so fiercely created and protected.

  I straightened my shoulders and drew a deep breath. If it took listening to another lecture, so be it. Max may have been mentored by my grandfather, and gained trust through his frugal habits, but regardless of how my boss gained the top slot, my grandfather left me the legacy of lessons learned to allow my entrance into all avenues of society. Without the image I maintained I couldn't go where the foundation and my job needed me to go and get introduced to the people I needed to see.

  "Still, if I could have gotten the money back on the Tahoe place that this little job made me give up, my gold card would have some breathing space now," I muttered aloud. The buck may stop here, as old Harry T. used to say, but Max deserved a hefty share of the responsibility this time.

  The room alarm clock said four p.m., which meant it was late morning in New York, and Max likely hadn't even had his first cup of espresso yet. Since he'd yelled at me earlier at Heathrow, he'd gone to bed well past his personal curfew. It made sense to call him ahead of going down, but I reasoned he'd be less likely to start a lengthy lecture series if I phoned him from the front desk and related everything as a business problem.

  "It is that after all," I said, practicing my upcoming speech as I searched for my wallet. "Accounting still has to reimburse me for expenses incurred last week in Italy. If he would issue me a corporate card—"

  No point in going on with that tack; there was no way he would. The high balances I carried on five bankcards gave him ample reason to resist giving me another to run up to the limit. I dragged my purse closer and rummaged, looking for the wallet that carried the one credit card I thought I could still use, and my phone. In the process, the business card Jack Hawkes gave me surfaced again.

  My first impulse was to crush it under my heel, but first impulses aren't always best. Little benefit in letting him in on my secret just yet. I tossed the card into the brass trash bin next to the table. No doubt, he would feel silly following around a British rubbish truck in the early morning. Then, feeling almost paranoid, I picked up the coral and returned the thumb drive to its secret center before putting the heavy sea beauty back in my jacket pocket. While a little unusual, it seemed like as good a hiding place as anywhere else I could come up with at the moment. I scooped up the key from the table beside my purse, and slipped my wallet under one arm.

  I stopped at the door. Should I pretend to pull Hawkes in, give him my financial state as a reason to call? Play the damsel in distress angle? His clothes always looked like he had a few bucks, even if he never wasted a dime on personality classes.

  "Don't be ridiculous." I mentally slapped myself. It was too soon to try an extemporaneous approach. I opened the door, and again hooked the ear bud above my left lobe.

  At the front desk, I picked up the first audible signal since I'd started listening again. It was a scratching sound I couldn't readily identify.

  "I realize there must be some mistake, Miss Beacham, but it appears we will need to access another of your credit cards." The front desk clerk presented the rejected authorizatio
n by my credit card company.

  "Let me make a phone call to my corporate headquarters, and I think we can get this taken care of to everyone's satisfaction." I dialed Max. As the phone rang in my right ear, my left heard Hawkes opening a door.

  "Laurel! What information do you have?" After calling me at the airport at a time that had been the middle of the night for him, he'd apparently been up ever since. Or Max was just crankier than usual. Time to be authoritative.

  "There's a problem with my credit card, Max, and I need you to approve—"

  I wanted to pull the phone away from my ear—he was that loud. Instead, I pushed it closer to my head and stepped farther from the front desk, hoping to muffle his aggrieved response.

  "We can discuss everything later, after I've been refunded for Italy and I get a credit from the airlines and my rental company for Tahoe. In the meantime, you must get the particulars from this nice, helpful person . . ." I smiled at the clerk ". . . and send him the necessary corporate credit information to cover my hotel stay here in London."

  "We need to talk about this—"

  "And we will, Max, but not right now." I really wanted to reach into the phone and rip off the little toad's lips. I lowered my voice, turning away from the desk as I warned, "Right now, you need to come through or I will change this morning's ticket from a credit to a seat on the next flight to Tahoe. And I will be on it—since I have luggage already there and accommodations paid for in Nevada."

  "Touché, Laurel. Let me speak with the hotel employee."

  As I handed over the phone, through the ear bud I heard, "Who travels with their stuff in shopping bags instead of suitcases. Is this woman crazy?"

  The bastard was in my room! I clenched my teeth. I heard the bags rustling, but no noise of anything actually being unwrapped. Probably figured he couldn't search them without my noticing. Then I heard a slight metallic ringing, and a growl, so I figured out he'd found his business card in the trash can.

  Next, I heard the whirr of the computer booting up, soon followed by a curse that obviously signaled the password screen. I was listening to keys clicking in his attempt at stumbling onto the correct "open sesame" as the desk clerk completed his conversation with Max and handed back my cell phone.