Counterfeit Conspiracies (9 page)

"Dylan." The friend, a young Clooney lookalike with Bluetooth, shook my hand. "And you have, of course, already
connected
with our dear Jeremy.

"I really am sorry." I offered my most apologetic smile. It was the least I could do since I really had injured him on purpose—even if it was an act of self-defense.
My hero.

Jeremy grimaced at me.

Call me heartless, but enough was enough. It wasn't like I broke his foot. At least I hoped not.

I turned to the more congenial, and more attractive, Dylan, even if I do dislike the Bluetooth silhouette. "This area has really changed. I'd be thinking about trading in my job in the financial district and calling this place both home and work."

"That's our plan eventually," Dylan said. Jeremy grunted, the perpetual frown still on his face. Dylan addressed the cabbie, "Could you pull in here, please?"

The cab slowed and stopped at the curb. I craned my head, looking through all the windows as I pretended to search for an imaginary friend, while I actually searched for any sign of my two adversaries. "Guess I'm early."

Before my seatmates had a chance to move, I passed enough pound notes to the driver, opened my door, and stepped into the street. Then I quickly ran around the cab and onto the sidewalk, waving goodbye as I hurriedly departed.

"Laurel, wait!"

Dylan came up behind me. "Since you have a bit of time, why not join me for a drink, coffee, anything. Pub's right there."

He pointed at a trendy place just down the block. I had to kill time somehow, so nodded and took the arm he offered.

The look inside the pub was contemporary, but the lighting was the universal dim everyone looks for in a place to drink and relax. Dylan answered his Bluetooth again as we ordered our pints.

I can't help it. Those Bluetooth thingies annoy me, and I don't understand why guys love the devices. It's my problem, I know, because I never feel emotionally secure in those situations. I'm always afraid a guy is talking to me when he's looking my direction and doesn't have a phone to his ear, so I respond and ultimately get a frown and one of those raised hand signals. Or I don't answer when he really is talking to me, and I look like I haven't been paying attention. Yet if I pay attention, isn't that eavesdropping? Thus the crux of my annoyance.

In this case, I lucked out and the exchange was again brief between Dylan and whomever, so no social faux pas on my part. He said, "Yeah, right. Exactly. Absolutely. The pub. Yes," and ended the call. So I forgave him and answered when his lovely brown eyes stared into my blue and he asked, "You like that table over there?"

It was far enough from the window that my pursuers wouldn't be able to see me very well in the dim light, but offered a direct line so I could keep watch over the perimeter. "Sure."

Except Dylan did the gentlemanly thing and pulled out the chair which kept my back to the view. He took the surveillance spot for himself. No graceful way out of the situation beyond looking pushy or paranoid. I did a little twist in the tall chair, and crossed my legs to the side, achieving a bit of sideline vision as I gave him my profile and asked. "How long have you lived here?"

"Long enough to feel the wrath of the old Docklands communities," he said, giving a lopsided grin that made him even more closely resemble a young George. I was betting it wasn't accidental.

"Why's that?"

"Same old story. Redevelopment made the area more attractive to commuters like Jeremy and me, and the spit and polish made the area's property values rise."

His words reminded me of a
Guardian
story I read several years ago chronicling how luxury executive flats in the Docklands went up alongside rundown public housing estates. Yet, as hard as it was for change to be accepted, it did bring some pluses. "Doesn't the Docklands have its own symphony orchestra now?"

"Yes, the Sinfonia. Based at St. Anne's Limehouse. Do you like the symphony?"

I liked vibrant and culturally interesting places and the same in my men. Dylan was looking to fit this bill, though I didn't have the scheduling means at the moment to make a date. As I reached for a card to give him, the strap slipped from the back of my chair and my purse crashed to the brick red cement floor. Contents scattered in all directions.

"Damn." I crab-walked to grab the most embarrassing contents the Prada revealed, as he slipped from his chair to help. When the last fleeing lipstick was wrangled back, I turned to him, to offer thanks once again, and saw Weasel outside one window, his back to me as he scanned the street scene. I was under the table in a flash, using my chair as camouflage as I watched Weasel cup his hands to look in, then walk quickly away.

"That was the guy from the train, wasn't it?" Dylan asked, holding a hand to help me back to my feet.

I nodded, trying to figure out how best to work this situation. Dylan was obviously curious, but I wasn't even sure what was going on yet. I could have used help, but didn't know exactly what kind of help to ask for. Instead, I decided to spin a bit of a tale. It would make him remember me better, sure, but if I played my cards right it could bring out the chivalry I hoped lurked in his beautiful soul. Okay, I was making assumptions, but so far, his actions matched his exterior.

"Here's the thing, Dylan." I leaned closer to him and dropped my voice to a whisper. "I'm at risk of getting busted. I'm in London to help the FBI fraud squad, the unit in America handling art theft. The CIA put them in contact with MI-6 and I was supposed to have a liaison officer, but the only contact that has been made with me is those two guys on the subway who tried to chloroform me as we departed."

"Which is why you stomped Jeremy."

"Yes." I grabbed his hand. "My only hope right then was to create a scene to push them away from me. My cover has been compromised, and those two hoods are trying to sabotage a meet I have set up with an informant tonight. I can only assume there's a mole in our operation, and I don't know for sure who I can trust."

The best lies were always ones built on a kernel of truth. The best covers followed the same blueprint. To succeed, I had to use that practice in spades. Playing the damsel-in-distress card around an obviously interested male never hurt either. I held my breath and hoped Dylan believed me.

Dylan scrunched his lovely forehead a moment in deep thought, then looked behind me and grinned. "Well, well, aren't you in luck. You need someone you can trust in MI-6…"

A hand with vise-strong fingers gripped my upper arm. I didn't even have to turn around.

"…and I can vouch for this guy," Dylan finished. "Glad you could make it, Jack."

The voice from behind me confirmed every fear.

"Dylan, good to see you, mate." Hawkes's grip tightened. "And thanks for keeping my friend company until I could get here."

 

 

 

 

 

We ringed the tall table. The crowd around us had no idea the blonde chewing her lower lip was being held captive, or revising and discarding escape plans. The cloudy sky grew darker, due to the prospect of rain as much as the end of the day. I noticed Hawkes had an umbrella, black and expensive looking. Quite the Dapper Dan, our Jack Hawkes. I could envision him giving the carved curved handle a sharp twist to extract a hidden sword. Then I looked closer and noticed a longer and stouter middle shaft than normal, and had a feeling my daydreams were all too true. Funny thing, I couldn't be sure whether I was frightened by the prospect or a little awed. Much like my ideas about the man.

Dylan finished his pint and Jack polished off mine. I sulked, I freely admit, and they pointedly ignored me. However, Jack did keep a tight grip on my forearm as he 'debriefed' Dylan, so he obviously thought me a flight risk.

I pretended to scan the crowd, but knew it was a lost cause unless I wanted to start a public spectacle. Which I didn't. Well, I did, but they never worked in cases like this. Let's just say there are stories I could tell—the best involve Harley riders in L.A., but that's for another time. This place was filled with pretty much an after-work crowd, all suits and tailored wear, a few visible tattoos and some piercings for light to bounce from, but a pretty tame group overall. Even light jazz played over the speakers. Not the sort of locale one can count on for a good distracting rumble to start when one needs it most.

As soon as my tablemates finished their information dump, Dylan gave me a wink and slapped my nemesis on the back like old pals.
Traitor.
I watched him work his way back through the pub and out the door, unfurling his own black umbrella along the way. Then I turned on Hawkes. "MI-6? I realize you gave your name as James Bond the first time we met, but
MI-6
?"

"How do you think I found you, since you put my favorite bug on that group of college kids? I was almost on the train to the West End before I overheard their conversation and figured it out."

"MI-6?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you'd better quit answering my question with a question."

"That was a question?"

"There you go again!" My voice rose in my frustration, then I cringed when I felt every patron's eye move in my direction. Leaning in, I whispered, "You know it was. Now, how did you find me? I want to know."

Glasses clinked around us, and the noise level rose and fell. I wished for more privacy, but there were no better options. When he stayed silent, I added sharpness to my tone, but kept the volume low. "Well, are you going to tell me?"

He just grinned. I was so close to slapping him it wasn't even funny. But I kept quiet, and leaned farther into his personal space, waiting him out. Then I caught the tell. His gaze flicked up toward the ceiling for just a second. I twisted in my chair and followed the trajectory.
Damn!

"CCTV? You tracked me through CCTV? You cyber-stalked me!"

He shrugged. "No, I cyber-found you."

"Semantics." I hugged my Prada with my free hand. Hawkes's revelation made me rethink my options. No doubt, I could scream and try to escape, but if he carried law enforcement connections, what would a scene truly gain? He'd probably get me locked up for my own protection, and I'd lose the trail of the sword forever. Instead I repeated my earlier question, "How did you find me? It's more than just telling the CCTV watchers to keep an eye out for a blonde."

"Just basic procedure," he said, much too casually for my comfort. When I arched an eyebrow, he continued, "I posted your picture in various systems, and you were flagged entering the underground. Cameras took over and followed you. I was alerted and contacted Dylan, and he gave me your progress within the train and outside. You were always protected."

I flashed back to Weasel and Werewolf crowding me in the train, to their furtive movement when I knew I was a second away from me getting chloroformed. "Protected? I had to stomp on a guy's foot to create a diversion."

"Yes, Jeremy. He'll hold a grudge, but you were quite resourceful with those thugs." He grimaced. "But from my own personal experience I know you're quite adept at grinding heals into insteps."

"You survived our Italian adventure."

"Not without a few bruises. Worry not, however. I like feisty women."

"Maybe I can introduce you to a few of my friends."

The toothy grin he flashed did nothing to lower my blood pressure. To one side of the bar a rousing version of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" entered the scene, along with a platter of cupcakes.

"Who are you, Hawkes, and what kind of clout do you really have?" I asked. "Are you really MI-6, or is that just a line Dylan believes?"

He flashed me a smug grin, then turned when the birthday crowd started yelling for a speech. I wished I could just get Hawkes to talk, no speech necessary, but he didn't answer. To keep from punching him, I clasped my hands so tightly together they nearly fused. I knew the tactic. He was keeping me angry to tie up my brain.

After a couple of deep breaths, I tried another approach. "I need to use the ladies'."

"That isn't going to happen." Since my arm was still vised in his grip, I figured he was probably right. Unless I got a brainstorm or figured a way to break his hold. Or break his hand. Hawkes looked at his phone and swiped a thumb across the screen. "I've proven I can track you either with or without a bug. And since I have too much to do to keep running after you, we need to work together. What do you know about Marker and Firth?"

"Is that a location?"

He stared at me, incredulous. "The two guys following you."

"You mean Weasel and Werewolf?"

He had to wipe tears from his eyes by the time he stopped laughing. "Oh, I bloody love that. Brilliant. Yes, Weasel and Werewolf."

"Never had the pleasure before today. Don't really want to meet up with them again."

"No, you really don't. Each a nasty piece of work. They're under Moran's thumb."

I sat up a bit straighter. "What do you know about Moran?"

Hawkes leaned closer. "You know as well as I do that Moran is ruthless, cunning, and his favorite target items are priceless bodies of art with historic cachet
.
"

"Old news, Hawkes. So where is this going? I don't need to hear a Moran lecture. I've had too many unsatisfactory experiences with the man."

He twisted my empty glass. "You want another pint?"

"I wanted that one, but you drank it."

"I'll—"

"No, I'm good. Will you just continue with whatever you want to say, please? What you
think
I should know."

Both glasses got shoved to the center of the table with his free hand, but the other never lost its grip on my arm.

"Like you, I've run into the character a few times more than I've wanted," he said. "And also, like you, the outcomes were frustrating. Moran has more marks in the win column than I, and I hazard to assume your experience is the same."

"I've had the upper hand in our encounters," I bragged
.