Counterfeit Conspiracies

by Ritter Ames

  After getting out of the taxi, I set off on a brisk pace around to his private entrance. A concrete and stone wall chased along the sidewalk at shin level, with four-foot iron bars dancing along the top. I stopped at a brass nameplate engraved with the words Beacham Ltd., London. A couple of careful steps down and I was eye-to-eye with the brightly polished, lion-head doorknocker that always made me think of Dickens's A Christmas Carol.

  I reached for the brass knob. Locked.

  So, Simon, your little rendezvous lasted longer than you expected. But surely Martha should be there. Simon's secretary felt it her sworn duty never to miss even an hour of a proper day's work.

  I still had my key, but it took a few minutes of searching to find it in the oversized purse. As I slid it into the brass lock and gave a twist, I was surprised to hear the dead bolt give way from the inside. I pulled the key away, just as the door opened.

  "What do you want?"

  Planted in front of me was a woman about my age wearing a blue power suit and a pair of large eyeglasses. She was taller and broader than I was, and effectively blocked any view of the office. I had the feeling that was the idea.

  Her long legs screamed athlete, as did the way she held her shoulders. But the glasses appeared to be fakes; heavy horn-rimmed frames with clear lenses. Interesting. She wasn't a cheap thug, either. Expensive salon streaks added fire to the thick, red hair she had caught up in a huge bun at the nape of her neck. I had no problem envisioning it down her back, flowing in vibrant curls. This definitely wasn't tiny, blue-haired Martha. "I'm here to see Simon."

  One shoulder twitched. The move was nearly invisible, but I was on guard for any tell. I still couldn't quite trace her accent, but it was definitely Continental, probably a hybrid. "Mr. Babbage is on holiday. You'll have to make an appointment."

  Excuse me?

  "Where did he go?" I was careful not to reveal anything.

  "Scotland."

  "Oh, Scotland's lovely this time of year," I extemporized. "Have you been there?"

  "Yes." Wariness creeped into her eyes, behind their glass windows.

  "I'm sure Simon will have a wonderful time. Especially if he took golf clubs."

  "Yes, he took them. He brought his bag into the office so he wouldn't forget. I watched him carry them out." Her words came briskly; a lie-detector couldn't have been more accurate.

  "When did he leave?"

  "This morning, early."

  "And he'll be back when?"

  "A fortnight."

  I nodded and took a step away. An almost imperceptible shift in her posture showed relief. "I'll try back later then. Thanks so much for the information. Oh, by the way, what happened to his last secretary? I think her name was, maybe…Marsha?"

  "That's right." A widening smile revealed her pleasure at so easily fooling me. "She found another job. Felt she needed a change."

  Martha had worked for the Beacham Foundation for thirty years, the last twelve with Simon. If she wanted a change now, so did the Queen. "How interesting. Do you happen to know where she went?"

  "Some bank, I think."

  I smiled and renewed my thanks. The redhead waited until I reached the gate before finally closing the door and slamming the bolt back into place.

  Okay, so I knew the Amazon was lying, and Martha was missing—possibly Simon as well. Yes, I was alarmed. I could call the New York office on the intruder, but there was little they could do from there but notify the police. Which would not bode well for anyone should Simon just be held up with his Welshman. Until I knew what I was dealing with, better to keep things close to the vest.

  And figuring out what I was dealing with meant figuring out just what this imposter was doing in Simon's office.

  "Took his golf clubs," I muttered, biting the corner of my lip as I frowned. Simon hated golf, thought it was the biggest time-waster known to the corporate world.

  Entering the trust company's main lobby, I eventually turned down a hallway and entered a service area. A skip down a ramp led to another hallway—and a janitor's closet. I took a quick look around before slipping inside. Under the third shelf on the back wall was a small knob that felt like a knot in the wood. I pressed the spot, then quickly stepped back as the row of shelves swung outward to reveal a locked door. Martha had never been too keen on Simon and me fraternizing, so to smooth ruffled feathers he had given me the key to his back door. Or, as he put it, his "escape hatch."

  Keeping my fingers crossed, I inserted a small silver key in the lock and turned, hoping the end of our affair had not also signaled a visit by the locksmith. The key turned easily, and the door slid open, revealing Simon's private washroom.

  I peeked through the crack in the door that led to his office. My fears were confirmed. The Amazon was ransacking Simon's office, working with an abandon that bordered on hysteria. Whatever she was looking for, she hadn't found it yet.

  I moved back to the janitor's closet, pulled the door nearly closed, and reached for my cell phone. Looked like all the hours I'd spent absorbing the atmosphere while Simon devoured fish and chips would be put to good use.

  After a number of rings, I finally heard a breathless, "Hello—I mean, Beacham, Ltd."

  Assuming my best, working-class London accent, I said, "Yeah, we got yer package by mistake."

  "What?"

  "A package, dearie," I enunciated the words slowly. "As in the post. Ya know, from the parcel service. Came in with the new menus. The bloody printer finally got the bloomin' things right."

  "We have a package from the printer?"

  "Nah, I got the printer's stuff. Yer's is from someone else."

  "Look, I don't know anything about—"

  She sounded ready to hang up. Time to send the hook out a little farther. "I thought yer might be wantin' it, seein' it's marked urgent an' all."

  "Urgent?" She was biting. I prepared to reel her in.

  "Tha's right, dearie. Oh, my, there's som'thin' else written here as well. Let me see. Why it looks like it starts wi' an A. I'm afraid I can't see very well without me specs . . . let me . . . well, I ain't real sure, but it might be sayin' 'author'."

  The redhead nearly screamed. "What's inside?"

  "Well, I could look if ya want me to, dearie, but—"

  "No!" This time she did scream. Then in a calmer tone, she said, "I mean, that's okay. I wouldn't want to get into trouble with Mr. Babbage. He might want to open it himself. Could you bring it here, to the office?"

  "Sorry, ducks." I was grinning so big my cheeks hurt. "Gotta make more chips for the late-lunch crowd, I do. Yer gonna hafta come yerself."

  A sigh escaped. "Where are you?"

  "Jus' go out yer door and head five blocks east, then take a right. Sign in our window says 'Jenny's Chips.' That's me mum, God rest her blessed soul. Can't miss us."

  "Who do I ask for once I'm inside?"

  "Sheesh, didn't I just say? Jenny, a'course. Named for her I was. An' ya best 'urry. Once a line starts formin' you'll need to wait yer turn like ever'one else.

  I broke the connection and clapped a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. When I stepped back into the washroom, I heard the Amazon hustling out of Simon's office, but I didn't move until I heard the key turn in the outside lock.

  There wouldn't be much time. With legs as long as hers the redhead could cover the distance pretty quickly. I'd wanted to make it farther, but that might have meant a taxi ride, and my ruse would have been discovered much quicker. Given all the variables, I could only hope for a good fifteen minutes before she figured out she'd been scammed and returned to the office. I mentally adjusted the time estimate down five minutes, just to be sure.

  My Prada went into a corner of the washroom for safekeeping, and to aid in an unimpeded search. I locked the door connecting this office with the front one, then looked around. The place was a mess. Books lay strewn across the floor, pages rifled for God knows what. Paper in the wastebasket burned to scraps and ashes. Files scattered
drunkenly on and off the disaster that used to be Simon's desk. Shredded paper embellished every surface like a macabre party decoration. Credit card receipts were mixed with paperwork on a Picasso. Bills of sale, bills of lading, and bills of office expenses, all crumpled and torn.

  At some point, frustration apparently led to a bottle of Perrier getting thrown at the paneled wall, thin water streaks marking silent witness to the office chaos.

  Strangely, Simon's pride and joy, a three-hundred gallon saltwater aquarium had not yet been touched by the vandalism which dominated the room, its pristine condition a sad mockery to the rest. I don't believe in precognition, but even I had to admit that "something fishy" was going on.

  First, a look at the desk calendar. The leather case didn't take long to spot beside the tipped-over rubber plant, but the pages had been rifled and ripped. All I found was a partial page for the day. Simon scribbled in a meeting for twenty-one-hundred hours, with the name Jones marked beside the time, and a GPS location with DOCKLANDS added. I pocketed the scrap, making a mental note to give the numbers to Nico for a translation I could actually understand. There was no sign of a note on the morning meeting Simon mentioned on the phone, but I couldn't find the previous day's calendar page either, so I could only hope the evening event was a follow-up to the original meet of the day.

  A quick search revealed no laptop. Nothing to do but check the front office. I unlocked the door and moved quickly through the receiving area, finding the computer propped against the wall by the door, ready for the final getaway.

  I grabbed the laptop and moved it to Martha's now spotless desk. Even the pictures of her nieces and nephews were gone. The drawers revealed little except a dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice and a few phone bills. I scooped up everything and stuffed it into my jacket pocket.

  Back in Simon's office, I balanced the laptop and relocked the door, just as I heard noise coming from outside. In front of Simon's desk stood two sturdy visitor's chairs, the upholstery ripped open with a knife but the frames still intact. I grabbed one, wedging the back of it firmly under the door handle.

  The outer door opened, and I was treated to sounds of fury from an angry Amazon when she discovered the laptop wasn't where she'd left it. The doorknob rattled, and a key was stabbed into the lock, but the chair held everything tight.

  Ignore her. Concentrate. The lighted tank filled my vision. Three-hundred gallons of salt water perfection that only occurred through human design. The Amazon was looking for something here, and I needed to find it. But what?

  The fish were beautiful, shiny rainbows, swimming in and around the huge chunk of pink coral that had cost Simon the earth. I remembered shuddering at the amount he'd spent the day it arrived, but he smiled and said the price was well worth it, before he quickly changed the subject.

  Of course.

  But how . . .?

  The other chair might work, but the follow-through would be awkward and the effort could take more than one throw. The door started vibrating on its hinges, and I took another frantic look around. The chair would have to do.

  A loud jarring sound made the door and wall tremble. The Amazon apparently decided to throw herself against the barrier.

  As I moved toward the desk, my foot hit something heavy. I retrieved the object at my feet. The ugly paperweight Simon's mother bought him last year for Christmas. The laptop went onto a high shelf near the escape hatch, and I hurled the heavy lead crystal at the tank with every ounce of strength I had.

  Glass hit glass. For a second nothing happened. I crouched behind the desk and wondered what to try next. Then I heard a sound like a gunshot. The Amazon quit pounding. There was one second of silence, then a great cracking noise, like a thousand breaking glasses. The peace of the room was breached, and splintered glass and salty water swooshed onto the floor.

  I raced over, trying not to notice the fish, floundering and helpless. It took a second to find the coral, but it was right there, near what was left of the tank, under a large, jagged-edged piece of glass. The twin pieces, naturally dissected right down the middle, came apart as I pulled. I could still see how together they had formed the perfect cavern for fitting the waterproofed, salt-water protected envelope that now lay in my other hand. An envelope holding one precious thumb drive.

  The ramming resumed, and I noticed a crack form down the middle of the door. Clutching my treasure, I grabbed the laptop and flew through the washroom door. The same moment, one of the chair legs splintered. I slammed the back door. Shelves again in place, the locking mechanism snapped home, and I felt immense, but momentary, satisfaction. Even through the thickness, I knew from the sound of another mighty crack when the washroom door gave way. I smiled, wondering if the Amazon had enjoyed Jenny's Fish and Chips, and how long it would take her to find out how I'd escaped.

  The thumb drive was returned to the coral and went into the pocket with Martha's books and the bills. I wanted to give it as much protection as I could. Getting Simon's laptop into my purse proved a bit more difficult, but determination won out. When I heard a gunshot on the other side of the wall, my smile widened. Guess the woman was tired of messing about with locked doors. Definitely time to get moving.

  A service door led from the hallway to a sheltered exit, where I skirted a delivery lorry. With another backward glance to assure myself there was no fire-topped fury behind me, I blended in with the noontime masses. I needed somewhere to land for a few minutes and regroup. As luck would have it, the crowd herded me toward a busy fish and chips in the opposite direction from the fictitious Jenny's. A perfect place to hide.

  The shop was full of hungry diners. At the counter, still panting a bit, I pointed at something on the overhead menu, little caring what I ordered, simply trying to rid my memory of those other fish. The gorgeous wonders dying on Simon's floor.

  "I so love a good fish, don't you? With chips on the side, naturally. My idea of heaven."

  I froze. The sound of his voice fueled my already spiked adrenalin. I prayed I was imagining things. Surely, he wasn't really there.

  My hopes were dashed when the counterman brought my order and my imaginary friend swiped a chip.

  "I must say, you're looking well, my lovely lioness. A bit more windblown than the last time I saw you, but the casual look suits you somehow. Still blonde, I see."

  And he was now fully British.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I looked at him through narrowed eyes. He was enjoying my irritation. "Who are you?" I made a grab for my things.

  He ignored the attempt, holding my Prada bag high above our heads. Then he looked up. "What is this? Are you training for the Olympics or do attractive women always carry so much in their handbags?" Without waiting for an answer, he pulled a business card out of an inside pocket of his jacket and flipped it to me.

  The sound of hot oil and lunchtime crowds sizzled behind us, but we might as well have been alone in the place. As with our last encounter, I knew that he knew I would go to any lengths necessary to keep from creating a scene. Time to reconnoiter.

  "Jack Hawkes." I read, holding the card carefully between two fingers. Then with the thumb of my other hand, I rubbed the embossed shield that rose from the face of the card. "What's the design?"

  "A family thing."

  A quick visual sweep of the room to check escape distances resigned me to the fact nothing appeared promising. When I looked back at him, his grin was even broader.

  Extending the card back, I said, "Just gives a name and phone number. Doesn't tell me anything."

  He ignored the card. "Tells you more than you've told me. Care to introduce yourself? What do your parents call you?"

  I smiled ruefully. "Well, when they were alive, they called me Kitten."

  Jack, or whatever his real name was, didn't let my sarcasm faze him. "I would have put money on Princess."

  "You'll understand, then, when I assume you are affectionately referred to as Bozo." I patted his cheek, first softly then a bit
sharper, to distract him as I stuck a tiny audio transmitter to the back of his lapel.

  "There's no need to be rude—"

  "I'm not the one who keeps insinuating myself into places I'm not invited."

  With a shrug and a swift glance around the room, he said, "This appears to be a public place. I don't see invitations on any of the tables, and no one is at the door turning away people."

  "You followed me here!" I slammed the card down. Then, he had the nerve to shush me!

  "Enough playtime," he warned, his voice barely above a whisper. "No need for explosions." He placed my bag on the counter, but kept it out of easy reach. He took my right hand in his left, with a grip that was loose but could easily change to something stronger, which it did in about a second. He pulled me closer. "Come on," he coaxed, "I noticed you on the street and remembered you from Italy. Noticed you were traveling alone in a foreign city and wanted to offer some company. Just call me the British welcome wagon."

  I slid my left hand into my jacket pocket and fingered the new lock pick case I'd purchased and decided to carry away from the store. A quick flick of the zipper, and my fingers were blindly reaching for a sharp tool. His eyes caught the flash of silver, but I knew he hadn't time to react. A instant later, the hand he had been using to grip mine was in the throes of stabbing, bruising pain.

  "Never get between a woman and her purse."

  He cursed, leapt to his feet, and grabbed a napkin to cover his injury. Free, I recovered the Prada he'd taken hostage. If he expected an apology, he was doomed for disappointment. But he moved between me and the door, so I shouldered my bag and tried to push past him. "Get out of my way and stay out of my life."

  His right hand shot out, catching my arm. I'd about decided to play the helpless female routine and scream my way out, when he picked up his card from the counter and slipped it into my Prada, stuck open because of the damned laptop. "Keep the card. You might need to get in touch with me sometime."