Kenyon sprinted down the street for a block. Conscious of people staring at him as he ran, he forced himself to slow down to a more leisurely pace.
He had to get out of his running shorts and sweater. By now, the police would have sorted out the arrest of the three students and realize he was wearing a Virginia Tech sweater.
Kenyon noticed a charity shop on Old Brompton Road and stepped inside. Nodding at the clerk, he dug through a large pile of used clothes until he found a pair of baggy jeans and a black cotton T-shirt. Inside the change room, he pulled off the Virginia Tech sweater and his shorts and tried on the clothes. The waist of the trousers was a little baggy, but the pockets were large enough to conceal the Luger. Leaving his old clothes in the changing room, he paid the clerk three pounds for his new attire.
His cheap sunglasses in place, Kenyon returned to Old Brompton Road and headed toward the South Kensington station. He knew that it would be too dangerous to use the underground, but he needed to find Legrand’s office. And for that, he needed to buy a map.
The South Kensington station was packed with students heading for the nearby Victoria and Albert Museum, which suited Kenyon fine. He found a kiosk with maps for sale, and bought a fold-out that showed the streets and parks in the downtown core. He paid for the map out of his dwindling resources, and thanked the clerk.
Just as Kenyon was turning to leave the station, he spotted the police. There were two of them, a man and a woman, and they were ascending the stairs that led to the underground platforms.
Kenyon knew better than to run. Instinctively, he dropped to one knee and pulled his shoelace loose. With any luck, they’d walk right by.
The pair advanced over to the kiosk, stopping to talk to the vendor. “I’ll take a Daily Express,” said the male cop.
Kenyon glanced over at their well-polished boots. His hands began to shake as he tried to tie his shoe.
“Here, you all right?” asked the woman cop.
Kenyon turned his head slightly and spoke in a soft, Irish brogue. “Me, oh yes, ma’am, I just have a touch of MS.”
“Here, let me help.” She bent down and quickly tied his shoe.
“Thank you,” he said. “You’re very kind.”
She smiled to him as she stood up. “Enjoy your day.”
“I will.”
The pair resumed their patrol. Kenyon, his back curled to hide his height, turned and slowly walked in the opposite direction.
Out on the street, Kenyon quickly straightened up and began to run. Just ahead, a double-decker bus was waiting at a stop. Kenyon entered onto the platform adjacent to the driver and pulled out his underground pass. “Is this good on the bus?”
The driver smiled. “Good for the whole day. Where you headed?”
“I thought I’d see some of the sights downtown,” said Kenyon.
“This bus will take you right to Big Ben.”
Kenyon made his way up the circular flight of steps to the top of the bus. There was an open seat near the front, and he made himself comfortable.
Sitting above the traffic was an unusual feeling. The agent could see far ahead down the road. It was around six in the evening and the streets were crowded with taxis. Everyone was making their way home for the weekend, he thought.
He longed to be home in San Francisco watching the Giants with Marge, or running on the pathways around the Bay, or just having a burger and a beer with the gang. With a start, he suddenly realized that he might never see his friends, or San Francisco, again. The thought depressed him. Somehow, he had to settle this mess and settle it fast.
Kenyon leaned back in his seat and turned his thoughts to Raymond Legrand. DeWolfe had said he was ruthless. He had a hard time imagining Legrand as a spy, but Kenyon had enough experience with counterespionage to know that the most innocuous people were often the most dangerous. He had already suffered a nasty bang on the head the night Legrand had broken into his home; he was lucky the man hadn’t taken the time to finish him off for good.
The bus came to a stop. “End of the line,” said the driver over the intercom.
Kenyon got off. The streets were crowded with tourists gawking at the Parliament building and nearby Westminster Abbey. Kenyon headed east, toward the Thames, and found a relatively quiet park. He sat down on a bench and pulled Legrand’s business card out of his wallet, the one the private investigator had given him the day he and Happy Harry had waylaid him.
The address for R.L. Investigations was for Lincoln’s Inn, near Tanya’s office. Looking at the map he could see it was only about a mile from where he was sitting. He could walk there in half an hour.
Map in hand, he headed north. A little after seven the traffic in central London started to ebb. The narrow streets that ran between the long rows of office buildings in the downtown core fell silent. Kenyon could see the occasional cleaner moving through a building, emptying waste baskets. He picked up his pace, worried that everyone at R.L. Investigations would be gone by the time he got there.
Lincoln’s Inn Road was a wide street that skirted a spacious park. Kenyon circled the open green space, glancing at the brass plates on the buildings as he walked, until he came to R.L. Investigations.
Legrand’s building was four stories tall, with a facade of red brick. White limestone trimmed the arched windows. The entrance was guarded by a black, wrought-iron gate. Kenyon noted a security camera discreetly mounted on an arm to allow a full view of the entrance.
Legrand’s car was parked out front. The battered Range Rover looked just as decrepit as the last time he had seen it.
A set of tennis courts were situated right across from R.L. Investigation’s office. Several people were working up a sweat on the asphalt courts. Kenyon entered the park and found a bench that faced the building, then sat down to watch the play.
The agent wondered how far he would go to make Legrand talk. The weight of the Luger in his pocket was reassuring; he’d go as far as he had to.
Kenyon sat quietly at the bench, watching the front entrance, but no one came out. By ten, night had descended, and the tennis players were gone. It was time to make a move.
Crossing the park, Kenyon stopped at a garbage can. Someone had thrown away a small brown cardboard box with a courier sticker on the side. The agent picked up the box and crossed the street toward R.L. Investigations.
As Kenyon walked up the front steps, he scratched his forehead, obscuring his face from the security camera. He hoped that nobody was manning the monitor this late at night.
There was a buzzer to the left of the main door, on the opposite side of the camera. Kenyon gave a silent thanks to the incompetent technician who had set that up as he pushed the button.
“What is it?” came a man’s voice.
“Delivery for R.L. Investigations,” said Kenyon.
There was a pause. “We are closed.”
“Says here, ‘Attention Raymond Legrand. Special evening delivery.’”
There was a second pause. “Just a moment.”
Kenyon stood by the door, careful to keep his face away from the camera and the package visible. Come on, come on baby, he said under his breath. Show me how dumb you really are.
There was the sound of a bolt being drawn, then the heavy door creaked open. The pale face of Raymond Legrand shone in the interior light. “Where do I sign?” he asked.
“Right here.” Kenyon drew the Luger out from under the package and shoved it in his face. “Now step inside. Move.”
Plainly shocked by the sudden appearance of the gun-wielding agent, Legrand did as he was told. Kenyon entered behind him and slammed the door shut.
The interior hallway led to a reception room decorated with dark wood wainscoting and cream walls. Kenyon glanced about, wary of taking his eyes off Legrand for long. The main floor appeared deserted.
“Anybody else here?” asked Kenyon.
“No,” said Legrand. “I am alone.”
Legrand was dressed in a dark blue, pinstripe suit and silk tie, only he had taken off the jacket. “Give me your tie,” said Kenyon.
“What?”
“The tie. Take it off.”
Legrand removed the tie from around his neck.
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Legrand did as he was told, and Kenyon quickly knotted the tie around his wrists.
“Now we go upstairs,” said Kenyon.
The two men ascended the stairs of the building, Kenyon close behind Legrand. At each landing, he paused and glanced quickly about, but the offices on each floor seemed to be empty.
The topmost floor had been fixed up as a living suite, with the floors covered in Persian rugs and the walls painted a pale cream. Glancing through the front window, Kenyon could see the distant spires of the Royal Courts of Justice. He took Legrand into the living room and pushed him down on a couch, glancing in at the single bedroom and bathroom. They were deserted. He came back into the living room and sat down across from his captive.
Resting on the coffee table between them was a Louis Vuitton briefcase. It was large enough to hold a small painting.
Legrand, his hands still tied behind his back, tried to shift around. “Do you mind?” he asked. “This is very uncomfortable. My hands are beginning to go numb.”
Confident that he could handle the older man, Kenyon came around and loosened his bonds. Legrand rubbed his wrists for a few moments until the circulation returned before he spoke. When he did, it was a question. “May I ask you something?”
“Go ahead,” Kenyon said.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because I know all about your scheme,” said Kenyon.
Legrand stared at him, perplexed. “What scheme?”
“Your scheme to steal the Cyberworm virus.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I didn’t expect you to admit anything,” said Kenyon. “But we’ll be able to prove it all in a court of law.”
“Prove what?”
“For starters, you subverted Simon at Nebula Labs, then killed him when he delivered the goods.”
“Ridiculous,” said Legrand. “I don’t even know anyone named Simon.”
“Then, we’ll prove you killed Lydia.
“You are truly delusional,” said Legrand. “I loved Lydia.”
“She was nothing to you,” said Kenyon. “Just like Ricci.”
“Ricci? Lydia’s gallery manager?”
Kenyon leaned forward. “Yes, your accomplice. I saw you outside Bruno Ricci’s apartment near Harrod’s the night he was killed. You murdered him because he was going to squeal on you about Techno 69.”
“This is complete madness,” said Legrand.
“Is it?” Kenyon pointed to the briefcase. “Open it.”
Legrand stared at the briefcase, his face suddenly pale. “No.”
Kenyon stuck the barrel of the Luger in his face. “I said, open it.”
Legrand reluctantly drew the briefcase to himself and unlocked the clasps. He began to lift the top open.
“Stop!” said Kenyon. “Hand it here.”
Legrand pushed the partially open briefcase across the coffee table to Kenyon. Holding the Luger in his right hand, he cautiously opened the briefcase and peered inside.
The Louis Vuitton was filled with a large pile of papers and photographs. Most of the papers were newspaper clippings. All the photographs showed Kenyon.
The agent stared at the pile in disbelief. “What is this ?”
“It is your life,” replied Legrand.
Kenyon flipped through the pile. Some of the photographs were taken when he was a young boy. “Is this some kind of surveillance file you kept on me?”
“No,” replied Legrand. “Lydia accumulated it, ever since you were a baby.”
Kenyon read some of the newspaper clippings. One was an account from a Boseman, Montana, newspaper when he had won the state football championship with his high school team. Another was the notice of his acceptance into the FBI.
“This is what Lydia bequeathed to you in her will?”
“Yes,” said Legrand.
“And this is what you broke into my house to steal?”
“Yes,” replied Legrand. “I am sorry if I hurt you with the door. I did not mean to do it. I panicked.”
“I just have one question,” said Kenyon. “Why would my mother bequeath this to you ?”
Legrand stared at his hands in his lap for a long moment.
“Because I am your father,” he finally replied.