DeWolfe arrived promptly at nine-thirty, driving a boxy, blue Volvo sedan.
Clutching the lab coat under one arm, Kenyon climbed into the front passenger seat. “So, what’s the plan?” he asked.
DeWolfe put the car into gear and headed south. “Word has leaked out that a quantity of depleted cesium accidentally got mixed in with cadmium yellow paint at the chemical plant,” he explained.
Kenyon’s eyes went wide. “Really?”
“No, of course not,” replied deWolfe. “That is the ruse. Garbajian has an obsessive fear for his own safety, ja ? When I called and told him the deception this afternoon, he begged for my help to ensure his collection was harmless.”
DeWolfe reached King’s Road and turned right, driving down through Chelsea. Chic fashion boutiques and trendy restaurants lined the high street; a group of rowdy men in soccer jerseys spilled out onto the street from a pub.
“Where do I fit in?” asked Kenyon.
“You are an atomic energy official from the United States over here to talk with high-level scientists,” explained deWolfe. “I convinced you to come over and have a look at Garbajian’s collection.”
“Now I see why you wanted the lab coat.”
“Yes; a nice touch to go with your Geiger counter.” DeWolfe withdrew a small, black device from his jacket and handed it over.
Kenyon was impressed. “You seem to have thought of everything.”
“I do try to be prepared,” agreed deWolfe, solemnly. “You will check all his collection, ja? When you get to Techno 69, I will distract him long enough for you to examine it for the hidden cartoon character.”
DeWolfe turned off the busy King’s Road and headed south. They drove toward several modern highrises situated on the north shore of the Thames. As they approached, Kenyon could see that the highrises were encircled by a tall brick wall. A guard at the entrance to the compound confirmed their license plate on a guest check list before allowing them to pass through the road barrier.
Inside the compound, the towers were clustered around a marina filled with large yachts and powerful speed boats. Kenyon could see the Thames through the gate that closed off the canal leading to the river. It was high tide, and tour boats, their cabins empty of sightseers, chugged upstream.
DeWolfe parked in a section marked “Visitors.” Kenyon donned his coat and tucked the Geiger counter in one pocket, then the two men approached the front entrance of the largest tower.
The foyer of the tower was protected by a private security guard seated behind a barrier of steel and bulletproof glass. The evaluator spoke into a microphone by the door. “DeWolfe and Professor Kenyon here to see Herr Garbajian,” he announced.
The guard dialed a number, then spoke briefly on the phone. Satisfied, he pushed a button, and the door on the security barrier swung open. “Please come in. Someone will be right down to escort you up.”
A few minutes later the doors to the elevator opened, and a small, wiry Middle Eastern man in a double-breasted suit stepped out. His left eye was sewn shut; he squinted at them briefly with his good right eye, then beckoned them forward. “I am Hazzim,” he said. “My master awaits.”
The three men stepped into the mirrored elevator, and the doors closed behind them. Kenyon noted that there were no floor buttons in the device; the elevator began to rise on its own. Judging by the time and speed of the ascent, Kenyon guessed that they were somewhere near the top of the twenty story building by the time it stopped.
“Does your master own the top floor?” asked the agent.
“My master owns the entire building,” replied Hazzim.
The elevator doors opened up into a marble-tiled foyer. Standing there awaiting them was the largest Arab that Kenyon had ever seen. The man stood over seven feet tall, and his wide girth was covered in a flowing white robe. His black hair glistened with styling gel.
The guard held up a hand to stop deWolfe and Kenyon from advancing any further. He beckoned them to hold up their arms for a weapons search.
The giant quickly and expertly frisked both men. He pulled out the Geiger counter, examined it briefly, then returned it to the agent. He then silently motioned deWolfe and Kenyon to follow. Hazzim remained in the foyer.
Both men glanced curiously around as they advanced through the apartment. Garbajian’s home consisted of several large rooms furnished with an impressive mix of Western and Oriental furniture, including a carpet collection that Kenyon figured would do a museum proud.
Most striking, however, was the art collection. In addition to the Warhols and Picassos, Kenyon recognized an impressionist oil painting depicting water lilies; Monet.
The Arab turned down a hallway and stood to one side of a doorway. He beckoned deWolfe and Kenyon to enter.
The room was a large semi-circle of about twenty-five feet in diameter. The outer wall was a phalanx of floor-to-ceiling glass; Kenyon could make out the cruise boats on the Thames, far below. The three inner walls were decorated with an eclectic display of modern art. One oil painting looked like cans of white, yellow, and red paint had been poured onto a block of rapidly spinning plywood; another display consisted of a large, sealed aquarium in which a pickled lamb floated in formaldehyde. Kenyon idly wondered what you were supposed to do if it if ever sprung a leak.
DeWolfe nudged Kenyon. “There it is,” he whispered.
Techno 69 was tucked into one corner, almost out of sight. It measured only one foot by eighteen inches and, like Maggote’s other works, was a mix of electronic components fixed to a flat surface and daubed with bright paint. It struck Kenyon as almost ludicrous to think that someone might have been killed over it.
“Gentlemen, it is a pleasure.”
Kenyon and deWolfe turned to face a small, rotund man. Abdul Garbajian was in his mid-forties, but his smooth, round features and large brown eyes gave him the appearance of a much younger man. He was dressed in a dark grey business suit, blue shirt, and red silk tie. He turned and pointed to the large bodyguard. “Please forgive Ali for having to search you for weapons. He is very thorough when it comes to my safety.”
DeWolfe waved a hand dismissively. “Think nothing of it, Herr Garbajian.” He turned toward Kenyon. “May I introduce Professor Kenyon, of the Atomic Energy Commission.”
The two men shook hands. “It is an honor to meet such an esteemed scientist,” said Garbajian.
“You have a lovely home,” replied Kenyon. “I can’t help but admire your collection.”
Garbajian smiled shyly. “It is a trifle,” he said. “But it is something that I hold very dear.”
“Ja,” interrupted deWolfe. “And we would not want anything untoward to happen to it, now would we?”
Garbajian’s tentative smile disappeared. “This issue that we spoke about, it is dangerous?”
DeWolfe turned to Kenyon, raising one eyebrow.
“Probably no worse than minor genetic mutation,” said Kenyon. “You weren’t planning to have children, were you?”
Garbajian turned white and placed his hands over his groin.
DeWolfe placed a protective arm around Garbajian’s shoulders. “Why don’t we leave Professor Kenyon to his work? I would love to examine that charming Matisse hanging over the bar.”
Garbajian slapped his head. “Where are my manners? Perhaps you would like a schnapps, yes?” The two men departed for the main living room.
Unfortunately, to Kenyon’s dismay, Ali remained behind, his arms crossed, staring at him intently. When Kenyon pulled the Geiger counter from his lab coat pocket and turned it on it emitted a low clicking. He slowly and methodically ran the sensor over the pickled lamb, hoping that the guard might lose interest.
No luck. Ali kept his gaze focused closely on Kenyon. The agent crossed the room, nearer to the Maggote, and pointed the Geiger counter at an oil painting that depicted a group of nuns despoiling a Hun. He flicked the volume control on the device and the clicking rose to a cacophonous shriek.
Still, Ali held his place. Probably doesn’t have any family jewels to worry about, thought Kenyon to himself. The Maggote was only a few feet to his right, but he couldn’t think of a way to distract the guard.
Suddenly, Garbajian let out a piercing shriek. It was followed by a second wail. In a flash, Ali was out the door, racing for the front of the apartment.
Kenyon wanted to follow, but he quickly turned and stepped toward the Maggote. Dropping the Geiger counter, he ran his fingers over the artwork, searching for a loose component. There. He tugged at a two-inch microchip, and it immediately came loose from the surface. Turning it over, he held it up toward the light.
A tiny figure of Mickey Mouse waved brightly back. The painting was real.
Kenyon had no time to think; a third scream, this time from deWolfe, jerked his attention back to the living room. Jamming the microchip into his pocket, he raced out of the den and down the hall.
The scene in the living room pulled him up short. Garbajian was writhing on the floor, pulling on the back of his shirt in an effort to drag the tails out of his trousers. Ali stood across the room, pinning deWolfe by his neck against the wall. The art evaluator, his feet at least a foot off the ground, struggled vainly to breathe.
“Drop him!” shouted Kenyon.
Ali simply looked back and forth between Garbajian and deWolfe, torn between helping his master and throttling his attacker.
Kenyon needed to act quickly. He stepped forward and grabbed the prone Garbajian by the shoulders. “Tell him to drop deWolfe!”
In a flash, Ali dropped the art evaluator. He also pulled out a knife from his waistband and advanced on Kenyon.
The agent stood up and stepped back. “Whoa! I’m not going to hurt anyone!”
Ali lunged forward, his knife held high.
The agent spun to his left and kicked Ali hard in the knee. The big man screamed and bent forward in pain. Kenyon cracked him on the chin with his elbow. Ali went down in a heap. He kicked the knife from Ali’s hand, then went to deWolfe’s aid.
The art evaluator was crumpled against the base of the wall, grasping his throat.
“Can you breath?” asked Kenyon.
“Barely,” deWolfe gurgled, as he pushed himself into a sitting position.
By this time Garbajian, the back of his shirt fully out of his trousers, was on his feet. “Hazzim!” he shouted. “Come here!”
Hazzim appeared at the door carrying a Czech-made submachine gun. He flipped the safety and pointed it directly at Kenyon, then looked at his master.
“Get out of my house, at once!” demanded Garbajian.
Kenyon gripped deWolfe by the shoulder and turned him toward the foyer. “Come on, Hadrian, we got what we wanted.” The men retreated to the elevator, the snout of Hazzim’s weapon following them until the door closed.
As soon as they were descending, Kenyon turned to deWolfe. “What happened?” asked the agent.
DeWolfe coughed, clearing his throat. “The guard was not about to leave you alone, so I had to improvise.”
“What did you do?”
DeWolfe smiled slyly. “I dropped an ice cube down Garbajian’s back.”
Kenyon grinned. “I guess that would make me scream, too.”
Both men laughed until they reached the bottom.