Counterfeit Conspiracies Page 9

  "I'm genius at face recognition."

  "Good to know."

  He added quite a lot of sugar to his coffee. I followed suit, knowing even a little shock is nothing to play around with, and I'd had more than my share of trauma for the day. As I sipped, he said, "That's why I knew I'd seen you before when we met again at the castillo."

  "Well, you were right on one of your observations," I said, thinking back to the encounter on the balcony.

  He raised an eyebrow. "Only one? Where am I wrong?"

  "You seem to know everything down to my shoe size—"

  "Nine, medium width."

  I closed my eyes, searching for my center in a job that was rapidly going sideways. "Anyway, use your resources. You obviously have more than the average Joe."

  "I don't have a Nico."

  "And you never will. He hates smartasses."

  Jack laughed as he sprinkled malt vinegar and salt onto his food. I tossed my pickled onion his way. "You don't like these?" he asked, spearing the abomination with a wooden fork.

  "Your research apparently didn't go deeply enough into my likes and dislikes. Slipping, Jack."

  "I forgot to check sites like eHarmony and Match dot com. It won't happen again."

  The fish sizzled in the container. I could have cooled it down with vinegar, like Jack did, but decided to go purist instead. Let him think I'm more Yank than worldly. "So what sites can a guy with supposed MI-6 connections access?"

  "Supposed MI-6 connections?"

  "Are you finally admitting you're MI-6?"

  "I'm not admitting anything. Just asking a question." He sipped his coffee. "Tell me about Nico. How did he know where to find us at that crucial moment?"

  I hedged, "Nico knows everything. It's why I can always count on him."

  "He appeared like magic. I'm guessing GPS, right?"

  I wiggled Cassie's phone. What was the point of trying to deceive?

  "Then you must have contacted him earlier and told him you'd switched with the girl at the Victoria and Albert."

  "She told you we swapped?" When he grinned, I knew I'd slipped into another trap. I grabbed a piece of fish and took a bite, despite knowing it was still hotter than I liked, just to keep from saying any of the angry words I was thinking at the moment.

  He pointed to my phone. "Did you give him follow-up instructions in that text message?" When I kept eating so I couldn't answer, he said, "This is all going to be so much harder if we don't work together."

  The couple at the next table looked at us, and the woman kept giving us one of those peripheral looks, watching us even when she pretended not to. I swallowed hard, then quieted my tone and leaned closer to Hawkes. "Work together? How are we working together? You're following me via bug or video. My contacts are saving your ass. You keep telling me just enough about myself to try to keep me off-balanced, and give me only enough about yourself to make me sure you're just a glorified con man. Tell me, Jack, why would I want to 'work together' with you?"

  Yes, I used air quotes to make my point. I didn't want any misunderstanding.

  He just laughed.

  "I guess I should have shown my gratitude by letting you drive the bike," he said, while extracting a chip from my container. I noticed he'd already devoured all of his.

  "Are you actively trying to annoy me, or is it natural behavior?"

  "Well, I did pay for them."

  "Excuse me for not showing my gratitude." I shoved them across the table and rose, finishing my coffee as I headed for the door.

  I wasn't actually mad, but I needed to unhinge him a bit. His brawn could be important in the near future, and I always operated on a paraphrased version of the old school advice, namely "Until you know who's a friend and who's a bastard, keep everyone in your sightlines." This man definitely fit the full spectrum of those parameters.

  On cue, he followed me out the door and tried to grab the bike's handlebars. I slapped his hands away. "Mine."

  "You think you can handle this much power between your legs?"

  "Guess it's time to show you exactly what I am capable of handling, Hawkes. Get onboard if you're brave enough."

  CHAPTER TEN

  In the next half-hour or so, I proved to Jack exactly how comfortable I was with a growling throttle in my hand. Overcast western skies grew steadily darker as the last bit of sun hid in the gray. Pedestrians moved more quickly toward home and hearth, and vehicular traffic tightened with every cab and bus reaching max load. On the scarlet and gold Kawasaki, however, mobile opportunity was almost limitless, and I admit to showing off at several points. My intent was to push a few buttons as I challenged sound and space barriers.

  Come on, Jack deserved a touch of fright by this point.

  Now in the forward position, I had the advantage of choosing my scenery as we moved closer to the docklands destination. I've always loved the many views of the London skyline, and I picked directions that showcased the best. My favorite two high points in London were Tower Bridge and the lovely Swiss Re building. Brits refer to the latter as the Gherkin, but the building always reminded me more of a giant-sized Faberge egg. At different times during our journey, I saw both in the distance as I crisscrossed the urban grid. The haphazard footprint of this capital city, regardless of the defined neighborhoods, is a quirky collection of villages. The landscape lends itself to sweeps and swaths of roadways, leading to lanes and loops, and a potential to throw off drivers and pedestrians alike. Dead ends become parks, and throughways change to lanes with entirely different names. The engine rumbled as our zigzag pace ultimately oriented east-southeast, to the heart of the docklands region, and the redeveloped and gentrified section highlighted at the new millennium. Despite not possessing the photographic London memory honed by black cab drivers, I had enough experience with the city to know its tricks and traps, and used my knowledge accordingly. I opened the throttle when any straightway sprang up before us.

  Jack simply hung on for dear life.

  Even under cloudy skies, the city skyline was interesting from practically any viewpoint. The hour sat close enough to full dark for all headlights and street lamps to offer the fuzzy glow that came from early evening and drizzly weather conditions. The streets were a bit slick, but the tires gripped like tiger paws. We skidded a couple of times, but only when I truly wanted to do so. Another quick turn, and I heard Jack's cursing in my ear, despite the barrier of the helmets. I smiled and wedged the bike through a sliver of space so close our pant legs brushed either vehicle.

  A couple more kamikaze moves, and I felt secure in believing we weren't followed. I worried about what was going on with Weasel and Werewolf, and hoped Nico finished up in Mayfair soon and got an update from law enforcement. I couldn't risk contacting Scotland Yard, since I'd have to admit I was there and didn't stay for questioning. Personal ethics are truly a bitch sometimes, and we had only a brief window to locate the rendezvous destination and find a place to hide in case our prey arrived.

  I slowed the bike and pulled out the phone, using my thumb to flip to the text message Nico had sent earlier matching an address to the GPS coordinates on Simon's calendar. There it was, ahead and to the left. A cargo yard filled with shipping containers stacked two and three stories high.

  "Is this it?" Jack's voice was muffled by the helmet. He climbed from the Kawasaki as the motor hushed.

  I could only shrug. "Our best bet for now. Help me hide the bike."

  He grabbed the handlebars and pushed to get the tires moving toward a sliver of dark between two containers. I scurried ahead to shift any debris. When the motorcycle was safely stowed and adequately hidden, we took a moment to absorb the ambience and reinforce our bearings. The letters of precise cursive I'd seen written in Simon's hand earlier that afternoon to denote this evening appointment were branded in my brain.

  "You think we'll find Babbage here?" Jack whispered, placing a hand almost proprietarily at the small of my back as I threaded my way through a narrow corridor bet
ween the numbered container towers. Something about the move made it feel more than simple courtesy, but playing one-up-man right then was counterproductive.

  Instead, I whispered back, "Guess we'll see soon."

  With Nico at the Mayfair address on the hunt for intel tagged to Moran, this opportunity was all mine—well, mine and Jack's. And quite possibly the last chance to find and rescue Simon Babbage. Yes, I was banking on the hunch that the cryptic note about tonight's docklands meet was a second rendezvous with the same contact Simon alluded to in our morning phone conversation. We had no real clue to the agenda, so the meet could be true or a wild goose chase, regardless of what Jack said. All magnified because I still had no idea whether Simon disappeared before or after the earlier appointment, and with or without the sword. But hopefully I would find out something soon. The lack of defined facts automatically made me nervous. I checked my watch.

  "Fifteen minutes."

  "Yep, and we're synchronized." Jack tapped his watch face with one finger. "Let's grab some dark."

  I pointed to another metal alley that gave good visual coverage to the point, while also radiating its lack of light like a black hole. "Over there."

  The back exit was blocked by another container, and the other oversized containers balanced above us not only helped cut off lamp light, but reduced further emergency exits to zero. Jack stood behind me. "It really is black in here."

  "Yeah, but gives us the best possible view."

  "Do you think there's a connection between Babbage's contact and Moran?"

  "Finding Simon safe, or gaining new information about Moran are the only things I can concentrate on right now, and all I can work toward," I said. "Until I know where there is or is not a link, I have to assume one. Beyond those considerations, Werewolf and Weasel come out of nowhere too often. And since you tell me their loyalties lie with Moran, I have to presume they followed me to the docklands on his orders."

  "But their following you could have nothing to do with this appointment. It could simply be Moran wanting you followed. To further his ability to possess the sword."

  I understood his argument, but the logic irritated me just the same. "My contacts said Simon had the sword. Simon has disappeared. Hence, the sword has disappeared. Moran's dynamic dunderheads have stayed too close to me for too much of this evening, and I now have you as my faithful sidekick."

  "I'm no one's sidekick."

  I heard a scuttle sound from behind us. Great, rats. To cover my fear of rodents, especially in such tight environs, I turned what little I could toward him. "How do I know that you're even telling me the truth? Maybe you need to—"

  That's when I heard the first whack, and Jack crumpled at my feet. Then my world went blacker than even the pitch-dark corridor.

  When I came to, I used Jack's prone body to push up and into a sitting position. I gave him a solid shake and received a grunt in reply. My eyes wouldn't focus at first, but when they finally did, I pulled out my phone and saw we'd been out for several minutes. Both palms felt like someone had taken steel wool to them. I must have slid, using my hands automatically as brakes, as I passed out. The crown of my head felt wet and achy, but my probing fingers came back with the verification my hair and the growing knot on my skull were damp from rain, instead of sticky from blood. That didn't make my head stop hurting, but it meant I could forgo an automatic trip to the trauma unit.

  My shove had apparently triggered Jack's subconscious to awaken, and he moved and moaned a bit before his eyes opened.

  "What happened?"

  I shined a penlight toward the back of the space and saw a short wooden stick a couple of inches square. "Looks like we got clubbed."

  Jack checked his pockets. "Nothing was taken."

  My Prada was still as heavy as ever. "Nothing from me, either." Then I looked around us. "But we're closer to the entrance now. Do you think we were moved after we were hit, or could we have fallen this far?"

  In the distance, the bebop of English emergency sirens sounded. As the high-low cacophony moved closer, Jack stood to gain a better look at the area we'd planned to keep under surveillance. "I'm thinking maybe we were moved so we would be better seen."

  A man with unruly brown hair and a beard lay curled in a tight ball several meters away.

  "Jones!" I cried, hoping he would recognize the name. I ran forward, and placed two fingers against his jugular. A slight pulse. Hopefully the sirens meant an ambulance, but we needed to be sure. "Jack, call for help."

  The Welshman, if this was the Welshman, was freshly stabbed, and barely breathing. "Mr. Jones," I tried once more. I could hear Jack talking to a dispatcher, as I memorized clues. The knife was a large blade, generic-handled model. I knew better than to touch the weapon but figured it had been wiped clean anyway,

  The ground was damp everywhere from the drizzle. I pulled off my trench coat, folded the garment into a hefty square, and placed it under his head to make him more comfortable. It was only after I'd done so I realized I should have left the scene intact. Still, the movement alerted Jones a bit, and I saw his lips move.

  "Jones. Can you hear me?" I bent closer to catch anything he might say. "Are you here to meet Simon Babbage?"

  "Peee-deee . . . dum." The sound came a second before two uniformed coppers rounded the corner at a dead run.

  Jack materialized beside me holding the Prada. I thanked him, surprised I hadn't noticed it missing, and irritated that he'd probably searched the bag while he had this opportunity.

  When the lead detective took that moment to speak, I could only nod when he said the inevitable. "We'll need statements from both of you."

  And there it was. We may have dodged the authorities earlier after the bullets on the boulevard, but I harbored no hope of slipping away after getting caught at an obvious murder attempt. My being American didn't help the situation either.

  A tall man in a dark suit arrived at that moment, and Jack left me to walk over and greet him. "DCI Lambert. Good to see you."

  "Hawkes, it's been awhile."

  Of course he knew Jack. I didn't know whether to be relived or further suspicious at that point, but Jack did get us processed and our statements taken in record time. Still, we were pushing the midnight curfew I'd promised Cassie.

  The victim was whisked off by ambulance, but not before he was identified as one Jestin Jones, well-known for his talents at trading money for information. No surprise, he was originally from Wales.

  "Did the victim say anything before he lost consciousness, miss?" a young detective-sergeant asked, his pen poised over a worn pad. I looked toward Hawkes and saw he was yukking it up with his DCI buddy. Before I looked away, his gaze met mine and he winked. I felt my blood pressure rising again.

  Cocky bastard. I took a moment to breathe and compose myself before I answered the officer's question. "Sorry. This has been a lot to handle all at once." He murmured a comforting cliché, and I smiled, dragging out my next words to add emotional authenticity. "All he did was make a breathy sound as he exhaled once. Then he took a kind of ragged gasp and lay quiet."

  "Yeah, the other bloke said it sounded like he was calling some guy dumb, or was only a garbled bit of sound," the DS said, as he scribbled on his pad. "Possibly Peter-something. Was that your take on the moment, miss?"

  "I really couldn't say," I hedged. I didn't know if Hawkes was playing things straight or trying to lead the police astray, but I needed to wrap this up before we got roped in any further. "The poor man . . . I wish we could have helped. If you don't need me anymore, officer—"

  "You've helped all you can, miss. Me guv said I could let you go once I had contact details.

  I provided him my cell phone number, trusting it would go to voice mail while Cassie had it, and a contact number at the Beacham Foundation. "But please try the cell first. I'll be on this side of the Atlantic for a bit longer, and I don't want my boss concerned if he hears there's been a violent incident. He's kind of a mother hen."


  Actually, he was a different kind of mother, but I wanted Max to stay out of the loop as long as possible on all counts, not just this potential slaying. Until I knew whether Simon fled under on his own power with the sword, or if the sword was still in hiding and he was kidnapped, I needed to keep things quiet. It was too early for a missing persons report, and getting too late to admit I knew Simon was missing otherwise. And any doubts I earlier harbored about a mole in the hierarchy of the field we call the Art World was now a thing of the past. I was certain.

  I had to shut down intel wherever I could, and letting Max know anything at this point would blow any hope of doing so. Once a secret is told to one other person, it is no longer secret. And in our current world of nearly instantaneous viral information leaks, I couldn't risk this kind of sensitive data becoming part of the new normal. The art world remained a tight little universe, and I worked best with it staying that way. "Thank you, detective-sergeant. I appreciate your discretion."

  "Perfectly understandable, miss. And could you tell me how long before you're due to return to America?"

  I took a second to consider how to answer. It wasn't my purpose to lie, but I needed to give myself wiggle room. "I have an open ticket. A bit of business has brought me to London. But I should have everything wrapped up in a few days."

  "Please stay available to us, and let us know if you have any change in plans."

  "I understand."

  What I didn't add was the fact that the breathy sound Hawkes told him sounded like "Petey dumb" could easily be the poor man trying to say the French village of Puy de Dôme. Pronounced "pee-dee-dum," it was an idyllic area of France where—I had learned from Simon's computer files—Moran kept a mountaintop hideaway.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  One of the trauma guys checked out the knot on my head and prescribed rest and a couple of paracetamol. That's acetaminophen to us Yanks. The tech also produced some alcohol wipes to clean my scraped palms. Jack remained the silent martyr and kept his abrasions to himself.