Counterfeit Conspiracies

by Ritter Ames

  "Things are taken care of, Laurel," Max said.

  "For the time being. I don't know when I'll be on the move again."

  "So you do have information!"

  Damn! I was so busy concentrating on the audio from my room I let myself fall right into that one. "Not really. I'm still waiting to see if I can connect with Simon. He wasn't at his office when I got there."

  "That's what I've been hearing. Any thoughts?"

  "Not yet. He had a meeting earlier. It may have run longer than anticipated."

  It was a half truth, but until I knew more I didn't want to tip my hand and inadvertently put Simon in any more danger than he already might be. I trusted Max, but there was no telling whom he trusted.

  I said my goodbyes and turned to stab the button to call the elevator. Hawkes had apparently given up on the computer and was moving around my room. After a few minutes, I heard the sound of material being cut. When I heard the distinctive clink of the decorative chains on my Prada, I knew my bag was his latest victim.

  I officially hated him.

  After a few more seconds, I heard, "There."

  Finally, the elevator arrived, but I had to wait while a German family of five departed. A businessman jumped on to join me at the last second, and pushed the button for the third floor, so I had an additional stop before I could reach four. As the car rose, I heard the ear bud deliver the sound of a door open and close. The door to my room. Unless he was waiting to greet me when the car arrived, I'd missed my chance at catching him in the act.

  The fourth floor lobby was empty. Just as well. The longer I could be the cat in our little game the better, I supposed. Still, I wished I knew who the man really was.

  Everything looked as I'd left it, except for my purse. The designer bag had a new design feature, a small tear that had been camouflaged by rejoining the leather with a bit of adhesive. Using my fingertips, I discovered the dime-sized disk that now lived under the bottom lining. Irritation made me want to flush it down the toilet, but professionalism stopped me from making such a mistake. If Mr. Hawkes wanted to play follow-the-bouncing-disk, I would just have to make sure he had a good enough journey to make his efforts worthwhile.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Whether Simon was in trouble or in hiding, the last thing he needed was for me to lead Hawkes right to him. I needed time to make plans and lose my tail, and the best way to do that was to get lost in a crowd and plant Hawkes's bug on some unsuspecting tourist. Luckily, the hotel lay near Buckingham Palace, offering me a perfect option. I packed a couple of outfit changes, a pair of stiletto heels and another of high boots, and a few toiletries into the two largest shopping bags. Besides a little black dress, I included a new all-black cat suit. Like most women, I know the virtues of the LBD, but in my line of work being able to blend with shadows is as critical as becoming part of the monochrome at cocktail parties. I swaddled the laptop between the layers, and nestled it halfway down the pile. Once I added my picks and new gizmos into the customized pockets in my Prada, extracted the bug from Hawkes's handiwork and reclosed the slit, I was ready. I slung the new trench coat over one arm. This was London in fall, after all, and the garment afforded my best camouflage as I moved through the city. I hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and bid the suite a fond adieu.

  The desk clerk had assured me following Max's intervention that the room was paid for as much as a week if necessary, and the rest of my things could stay without worry. But worry remained my constant companion whenever I gave myself the opportunity, so I grabbed my Prada and the shopping bags and made my way to the nearest tourist trap.

  Buckingham guards had made their daily change hours ago, but the masses still happily filled the area. Young and old perched on the fountain, and laughing groups milled along the pavement, posing before the massive, black-and-gold-topped iron gates, and generally squealing about finally arriving at the royal pilgrimage. I allowed myself to breathe a bit and take in my surroundings. A quick look didn't reveal Hawkes obviously about, but I knew he was too good for that anyway. My ear bud only offered road noise and footsteps. Yet, it was the same road noise I'd been hearing in my other ear, which proved he was close by, if invisible.

  I sauntered a bit. Pulled out my phone and snapped a few shots. Helped an elderly couple decipher their map.

  Finally, I spotted him. Gerald O'Toole. That wasn't his real name, but his old-moneyed, banking family preferred he use the nom de plume since he'd decided about a decade ago that grifting was his preferred occupation. He was the one who taught me how winning at poker required more talent at reading faces than reading cards. I used those same lessons beyond the green baize table every day and counted Gerald one of my best early mentors.

  "Hi, handsome."

  "Laurel, my love!" He enveloped me in a hug. I held my purse tight to my body, then checked my pockets when we broke free.

  "Ah, your actions wound me," he said.

  That's when I noticed my missing phone. He and a partner used to regularly run a scam at places like Buckingham Palace, where Gerry dressed as a London bobby and his compatriot was a pickpocket. Gerry would drift through the crowd in a 'public service persona' warning people to keep their valuables safe, as he explained pickpockets were common in the area and sure to be mere meters away. Which, of course, caused every tourist to pat pockets holding wallets, cameras, or other valuables, and allowed Gerry's partner to collect the booty with minimal effort.

  Lucky for me, Gerry wasn't the pickpocket because he stank at the craft. I held out my hand. "You think that wounds you, I'll do far worse if you don't hand over my phone."

  "Just a joke."

  "I'll believe it this time, but don't push me, Gerry." I pulled the card with the bug from my jacket pocket and used my fingers to hide it from public view. "But you can redeem yourself. Someone is using this to track me."

  "A stalker?"

  I frowned. "Not sure yet, actually. Could use your help maybe to find out, though."

  "Anything, love."

  Closing my fingers lightly, I found the bug fit perfectly in a loose fist. "I'm going to walk away, and I need you to see if you can spot the guy following me. He's about your height, and has a Cary Grant-Clark Gable look about him. At least he did the last time I saw him. Dark wool jacket."

  "Old Hollywood?" Gerry waggled his eyebrows.

  "Good point. Probably a disguise. Anyway, I'm going to wave goodbye and walk away. I need you to go in the opposite direction and see if anyone matching his description takes off after me. He'll stay back a bit, probably using his phone to follow the signal."

  "Gotcher. Same number as of old?"

  "Yes. Text me if you notice anything I need to know right away."

  His eyes drifted, and I knew he'd spotted a mark, so wasn't surprised when he took a step back, waved, and said, "Good seeing you, love. Talk to you soon."

  Luckily, he headed in the way I wanted him to go.

  Two kids splashing in the fountain created a believable diversion. I had a brief word with their mother, then smiled and hurried off to tag behind a horde of nearly a dozen students moving toward the Tube.

  "Are all of you on holiday?" I asked one of the teens, as I slipped the bug into her knapsack.

  "Trekking across Europe for gap year," the tallest guy said, a redhead who reminded me of Prince Harry. "Got a friend getting us into a West End play tonight, so just hitting tourist sites in the meantime."

  "Dude, we need to speed it up," a blond guy in front called out. "We gotta hit the subway before the day's prices go up."

  "Oh, you do," I agreed, and pushed my way through to the front. Rush hour prices on the Tube were quite the gotcha for the unaware. "Come on and I'll show you a shortcut to Victoria Station."

  My phone buzzed with a message, and I looked to see that Gerry sent a picture of Jack. I sent a Thx m8 reply as I walked and kept up a fast pace as I darted through alleys, leading the team through bustling lanes. Just in case Jack realized where we were g
oing, and the group hadn't shielded me completely from sight, I nipped inside with them, using an excuse to help them find the right platform. They moved through the gate, and I slid into a shadowed corner to watch. It would have been faster to grab a ride there and hop off at South Kensington, but I didn't want to run any new risk of getting trapped in a subway car with Jack. Especially since I spotted him moments later as he made his way through the same turnstile the group just used.

  I returned to the surface as soon as I could safely manage and called Gerry. "Thanks so much." I lengthened my stride toward Sloane Square, heading for the Victoria and Albert Museum. The V and A was a perfect place for me to hide until dark. I knew someone in the restoration department who could slip me into a hidey-hole, and keep my things safe while I did my targeted wander aimed at locating Simon.

  "Anytime, love." Gerry said.

  "You didn't happen to know him, did you?" I asked.

  "Not really . . ." He hesitated. "But somehow he does look familiar to me. Probably at some event I worked once."

  Worked. Yeah, right.

  "You'll let me know if you remember."

  "Absolutely."

  "Great, Ger, thanks. Got to go, but keep in touch. Okay?"

  "Will do, Laurel. You watch yourself, too."

  It felt a little lonely when Gerry disconnected. He wasn't the best person to have in my corner, but at least he was someone right then. I may be young, blonde, and too much of a spendthrift for my boss, but that didn't mean I wasn't a cautious and intelligent person. The dangers in my life were real. Simon, my contact for this case, was missing. The only clue I'd been able to locate that could possibly help find him was on a drive with corruption problems. And I was playing cat and mouse with Clark Gable.

  I thought back to the day before, the first time we'd met. It was soon after I'd received a bogus message on my phone, right before I was scheduled to get into the Castillo. New directions so close to the truth I hadn't realized they didn't quite match closely enough, and led me down a rabbit trail. It took time I didn't have to recover and backtrack from the mistake, then more time roaming the sprawling estate to try to find the contact. Time someone obviously used to kill him. Was I misdirected to save me? Or to trap him? Could I have been the proposed victim instead? And had it been Hawkes who'd sent the message?

  Now I seemed on a second fool's errand. On my own because my compatriot was missing, as was the treasure I'd been sent to claim. And instead of bogey emails and text messages, I now had a bogey Englishman-cum-Southerner on my tail. Hopefully, Gerry would remember where he might have seen Hawkes before and could give me the heads up. Until then, I was on my own. Max would be angry at me for withholding information, but involving him now would only further muddy the waters.

  Which led to the real muddy waters in my life; the dockside ones I believed held the possible opportunity of meeting with the 'smelly Welshman' who may have been the last person to see Simon. I had to hope the evening meeting with the Jones character was the same or a confederate to whomever Simon met that morning.

  I struck off at a strong pace toward the Victoria and Albert Museum. It was just far enough that a Tube ride would have saved some time and effort, but I had both to spare as I waited for the Docklands meeting, and walking above ground not only let me check for anyone following me, but kept me from getting trapped on a train with someone I wanted to avoid. Nevertheless, my Prada sat heavy on my shoulder. I contemplated ditching the bag before the meeting to give myself more options for maneuverability.

  "It's so great to see you, Laurel. Have you a place yet to stay while you're here?" Cassie Dean asked. She had cut her blonde hair since coming to London, and also sported a couple of thin fuchsia streaks.

  "You've found a new look. No one could mistake us for sisters anymore," I said.

  She laughed. "We really used that to our advantage at Cornell. Too bad you had to go and graduate ahead of me. Have you been waiting long?"

  I linked arms with her and moved away from the front desk. "No longer than usual, Cassie. I knew someone would finally find you among all the artifacts. Patience builds character I'm told."

  "You already have plenty of character, Laurel. Guess my work is done."

  "I take it you like it here?"

  "I don't ever want to leave. I'm hoping I can get a full-time position soon," she said. "Now that I've completed my Master's it's the perfect opportunity to try for something like this. Keep your fingers crossed for me."

  "Always do, Cass."

  She had written to me months before about landing a summer job as a conservation intern, and her excitement hadn't waned. Always a positive person, the true tip-off to her happiness was noticing how the no-nonsense leather clogs on her feet never quite touched the floor. The beige smock protecting her clothes showed the evidence of wood dust and stain.

  "Yes, I'm fine for lodgings," I answered her previous question.

  "Well, I have a flat with a spare room, just off Portobello Road." Her face brightened when she mentioned the place. "You're always welcome."

  "Those places can be a bit pricey for someone only receiving an internship stipend, Cassie," I said. "Can't help being both pleased for you and a bit jealous."

  "The owner offered the flat on the condition I'd renovate the woodwork," she explained. "That's my specialty: plaster work and restoring historic wood and furniture. I'm as thrilled to work on the mid-nineteenth century flat as I am to be here at the Victoria and Albert."

  "I can tell." I laughed. I couldn't help it. Her exuberance was contagious. "Is it one of those huge connected buildings?"

  "Yes. Originally part of over two-thousand acres on the crown of Notting Hill." Her hazel eyes glowed as she spoke. "What would be considered a block-long condo back in the States, is part of a project built more than a century and a half ago. The buildings hark back to distinctive Italian designs of old. The Italianate influences are still seen in the elaborate stucco front villas that line up like residential soldiers down the street."

  I rolled my eyes. "Extravagant talk for an intern."

  "I won't be an intern forever, Laurel. Just wait." She frowned down at my shopping bags. "That looks like clothes."

  A quick look around showed no one within earshot. "Cassie, I don't need a place to stay, per se, but I do need some help. Can you give me a tour? We need to talk without being overheard."

  Cassie blinked, then smiled. Anyone watching her wouldn't have noticed the shift, but I caught the look in her eyes and knew she perfectly understood. "Let's start down this way."

  We journeyed through Italian Renaissance casts and copies, made for the use of nineteenth century British art students to study and sketch. When a group of the twenty-first century variety approached, Cassie slipped into tour guide mode.

  "The idea of this room lies in the lessons offered," she said, masking our true purpose for being there. "Making art accessible to all, and providing a means for every working man and woman to gain an appreciation and education in the world's art."

  She continued to wax poetic from the founding in 1852 when the Victoria and Albert began as the national museum of design and art. Ten kilometers of galleries held every imaginable kind of art discipline from around the world and throughout the centuries. Even with all the wonderful artifacts I'd been involved in gaining—and losing—I couldn't help but feel giddy at what this museum offered. Where else could you see an Indian throne and the first freestanding bookshelf, the Heneage Jewel owned by Queen Elizabeth I, and a staggering wealth of ceramics, metalwork, textiles, paintings, photography, and musical instruments all under one huge roof. The marvels from the once vast British Empire, long after the fabled sun had set.

  "And your favorite would be?"

  "The furniture and sculpture of the display areas. It's honestly the most peaceful atmosphere I've ever found in a museum home," she said. "But that's if I'm just looking. What held me in sway the first time I came is the area that still draws me. The conservation roo
m and its opportunity to return distressed art to the public."

  The students moved on, and our discussion switched to more pressing topics.

  "I need you to take these shopping bags for me and keep everything safe," I murmured. I reached into my pocket and removed the coral, pushing it down the side of one bag to hide in the depths. "There's a laptop buried beneath, and a USB drive inside that coral piece that I need you to see."

  "Sounds interesting," she whispered. "Follow me, and we'll find an empty office."

  Down another hall, she switched on the light in a room a little smaller than a broom closet. One corner held several monitors that showed various entrances.

  "Not deluxe accommodations, but serviceable for our needs," she said. "This is just a backup area, and the guard always breaks about this time each day."

  I took in the gray walls, the subdued lighting, and the triple monitors.

  "This is fine." I withdrew the laptop, powered up the computer and pulled apart the coral. Cassie gasped. I put a finger to my lips. Despite her assurances, I wasn't completely ready to feel safe. "I want you to know what you're protecting. It only seems fair."

  Pictures glowed on the screen, and I flipped through the digital gallery. I pulled a scrap of paper from the Prada and jotted down my cell number. "I need you to look at these when you can, Cass, but keep the information to yourself. Email or text me regarding any item you spot that has a history. No matter how innocuous you might believe, I need to know. I'm grasping at straws here and looking for any connection."

  "You want me to keep this drive and the computer?"

  "If you can. I have something I must do tonight. If everything goes well I should be by to pick up the whole shebang before midnight. If not, I'll need to know it's somewhere safe until you can get it to the Beacham Foundation."

  She nodded. That was what I loved about this girl. She always got what needed to be done. No hysterics, no histrionics. She scribbled on a Post-It and exchanged it for the phone number I held. "Here's my address and phone. Take the number twenty-three bus at Ladbroke Grove Station. Or from here you can take the tube from South Kensington and change to the Hammersmith and City."