Secret Combinations

by Gordon Cope

  Kenyon turned and read the faded sign over the warehouse door. “Agent Kenyon is at the Salmon King fish packers, just off Army Street. Send reinforcements.”

  As the man drove off, Kenyon entered the gate and ran across the yard to the front of the warehouse. He peered around the corner. The blue van sat fifty feet ahead, beside a door. The motor was turned off.

  Kenyon pulled out his automatic and advanced on the van, trying to keep out of view. He reached the rear window and glanced inside. The vehicle was empty and there was no sign of the driver.

  Kenyon checked the warehouse door. It was unlocked. As quietly as he could, he opened the door and eased inside. The interior of the warehouse was lit by sunlight pouring through small windows high on the walls. Long zinc-metal tables covered the concrete floor. He listened for sounds of movement. Except for the dripping of water somewhere, all was quiet.

  Glancing down, Kenyon could see a fresh set of footprints receding in the dust.

  He advanced slowly, following the footprints to a set of wooden stairs that led up to an office that overlooked the warehouse floor. The windows to the office were shuttered.

  Kenyon sniffed the air, detecting the aroma of fresh cigar smoke. The driver was up top. He tested the stairs. The wood was old, but solid. He eased his way up, placing his weight on the side of the steps where they met the riser. He kept his gun pointed at the door to the office, the trigger cocked.

  When he reached the top of the stairs he found the door to the office closed, but the smell of cigar smoke was very strong. He braced himself on the top step, then rushed against the door, bursting it open. “Freeze!” he shouted. “FBI!”

  A shadow darted from behind a desk. Kenyon lunged to the left to cut off his retreat.

  Suddenly, there was no floor. Kenyon’s foot shot into a gap and he pitched forward onto his face, his gun clattering across the room. He tried to rise, but his boot was stuck in the joists. While he struggled to free himself he heard the crack of a gun. It felt as if he had been punched in the back with a sledgehammer. The floor rose up in slow motion, and a wave of blackness engulfed him.

  Two

  Monday, July 4

  Kenyon dreamed he was back in Montana, riding the horse that Cyrus and Daisy had given him as a birthday present when he was ten. The young boy he had been climbed through the pine-scented forest to a ridge that overlooked Eden Valley ranch. Below him, tucked into a sheltered valley, were the fields and barns and stables that Cyrus’ father had built in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains. Above him, a hawk circled the sun, a tiny dot in the immense blue sky.

  A ringing phone awoke him and he stared around, momentarily disoriented.

  He was lying in a narrow bed with protective chrome rails, propped on his side with an orthopedic pillow. The curtain that surrounded the bed had been pulled back. The walls of the room were white, and the floor was finished in beige Formica tiles. A tag sewn on the bed cover said “San Francisco General Hospital.”

  With a start, a jumble of memories came pouring back. Flashing red lights, a rush to the hospital, the brilliant white glare of an operating room.

  Kenyon stared irritably at the bedside phone, but it continued to ring. He finally reached over and picked it up.

  “What?” he croaked, his voice hoarse and phlegmy.

  “It’s me,” said Leroi. “How you doing?”

  There was a plastic bottle with a straw resting on a table beside the phone. Kenyon took a sip of water. “Somebody tried to cut me a new asshole. It hurts like hell.”

  “Good. That means you’re too mean to kill. You get the flowers from the guys?”

  Kenyon looked over at a table covered with several bouquets. He couldn’t read any of the tags from where he lay. “Yeah, I got ’em.”

  “How long you in for?”

  “I don’t know. The doc hasn’t come in yet. They wanted me to get some sleep.”

  “Sorry about waking you, but I wanted to talk before the posse arrives. You alone?”

  “Yeah,” replied Kenyon.

  “Good. What happened?”

  “You first,” said Kenyon.

  “Okay,” said Leroi. “After you took off, I went in and covered Simon.”

  “How is he?”

  “Real bad, last I heard.”

  “What happened to Dahg?”

  “The SWAT team took him down, no problem. Cravitz says his eyes just about popped out of his head when they crashed the door. I guess the last thing he expected was a bust.”

  Kenyon briefly explained to Leroi how he tailed the killer south to the warehouse. “I was worried he might escape, so I tried to take him solo. I screwed up.”

  “Hey, shit happens,” said Leroi. “Mama says you get better real quick. Talk to you later.”

  Kenyon hung up the phone and took another sip of water. He was relieved that his squad had arrested Dahg without incident, but there was no masking the operation as anything but a fiasco. His head hurt, and his guts were filled with a queasy feeling.

  There was a knock on the door, and a young, attractive Asian woman in a white lab coat entered. “I’m Doctor Lui,” she introduced herself. “I did the surgery on you last night. How do you feel this morning?”

  “I’m fine,” he replied. “How’s Simon?”

  Lui sat down on the edge of the bed, facing Kenyon. “He suffered a lung puncture and a lacerated aorta. We tried to repair the damage, but he lost too much blood. He didn’t make it.”

  “He’s dead?”

  The doctor nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  Kenyon felt numb; the death of Simon weighed heavily on his heart.

  “You want to know how you’re doing?” asked the doctor.

  Kenyon turned back to her. “What? Yeah, sure.”

  Lui lifted Kenyon’s hospital gown and listened to his chest with the stethoscope. She then examined the wound to his backside. “You were lucky,” she finally said. “The bullet was deflected by the notebook you had in your back pocket. You got a bad bruise and ten stitches in your butt.”

  “Can I go home?”

  Lui stood up. “I want to let the swelling go down and check it again this afternoon.” She gave him a wink as she was leaving. “If it still looks as good as it did last night, I’ll cut you loose.”

  Kenyon blushed, but also breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing he wanted was to get stuck in San Francisco General for several days. Ever since he had watched Daisy die in a cancer ward, Kenyon hated hospitals.

  The doctor left the door open, and Kenyon glanced out into the hallway. An agent stood to one side, guarding his door. Kenyon wondered if that was for his own protection, or to keep everyone out until the official investigation. The agents had a name for all the second-guessers who swarmed over a botched assignment: the rear-admirals. He wondered which rear-admiral would be in first.

  He didn’t have long to wait. There was a rap on the door post, and Will Deaver entered, a brittle smile on his face. “How are we this morning?” he asked cheerfully.

  “We’d be a lot better if our ass didn’t resemble swiss cheese.”

  Deaver glanced briefly at the prone FBI agent, then turned his attention to the flowers. Kenyon almost expected him to go over and check to see if there were any from celebrities, but Deaver reached into his pocket and pulled out Kenyon’s cell phone, instead. “I just wanted to return this to you,” he said. “I got the ambulance there in record time.”

  “I’m sure Simon would be pleased if he weren’t still dead.”

  Deaver turned red. “I hardly think that’s an appropriate comment.”

  “Oh, it’s appropriate, Deaver. If we had done what I wanted to do, maybe Simon would be alive.”

  Deaver pointed his finger at Kenyon. “He’d have been just as dead with your plan. Don’t you try to pin your fuck-up on my chest, mister.”

  Someone spoke from behind him. “He’d have to find it first.”

  Deaver turned. A short woman in her mid-fiftie
s with permed grey hair and cats-eye glasses stood in the doorway. She clutched a large leather purse in her hands. Except for the unlit cigar butt in her mouth, she looked just like someone’s granny.

  “Oh, hi Marge,” replied Deaver. “I was just leaving.”

  “No, you ain’t,” she replied in a nasal, New York accent. “Not until you listen to what I got to say.” She marched right up to Deaver and poked him in the ribs with a short finger. “You stuck your nose where it don’t belong yesterday and that pisses me off big time.”

  Deaver backed up. “Marge, I was just trying to . . .”

  “I know what you was trying to do. The next time you screw up one of my operations, I am going to shoot you right between your beady little eyes. Now get out of my sight.”

  Deaver made a show of straightening his tie and brushing his lapels until Marge opened her purse and reached inside. Deaver lunged out of the room.

  “That’s better,” said Marge, slamming the door shut behind him. She turned to Kenyon. “You feel good enough to talk, sweetie?”

  Kenyon patted the side of the bed. “Yeah, sure, Marge.”

  Marge Gonelli was the special agent in charge of the San Francisco office. She was one of the most talented recruits ever to be appointed as a field agent. She had risen to her current station as SAC after a long and illustrious career, and her treatment of agents under her wing had earned her their unqualified respect.

  Gonelli sat down on the bed and reached into her bag. “Hey, I got something for you.” She pulled out a card and present.

  “You shouldn’t have,” said Kenyon. “Happy 33rd Birthday” was written across the top of the card. The illustration showed a young man in a red convertible. He opened the card and read “To my favorite agent. Marge.”

  Gonelli handed him the present. “Go on, open it. I made ’em myself. Oops! Spoiled the surprise.”

  Kenyon unwrapped the box; it held two dozen brownies. “My favorites,” he said, taking a bite. “These are great, Marge.”

  Actually, they smelled like gun oil, but then, everything in Gonelli’s purse did. Several years ago, a bank robber had entered her branch while she was picking up a new debit card. She reached into her purse and fired her .38 Smith & Wesson through the bottom of the bag, knocking the big toe right off his left foot.

  As Kenyon ate his brownie, a nurse entered the room with a glass of juice. She stopped short and stared at Gonelli. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but you’ll have to put out that cigar; this is a no-smoking environment.”

  “I ain’t smokin’ it, honey,” Gonelli replied, holding up the inert stogie. “Any rules against eatin’ it?”

  The nurse looked at Gonelli askance; she put down the juice on Kenyon’s bedside table and quickly retreated.

  “I think she’s sweet on you,” said Gonelli, after the nurse had left. “You should ask her out.”

  “Yeah. I’ll offer to show her my circumcision scar.”

  “Cute. Keep up the wise talk and you’ll never find a nice girl.”

  Just to change the subject, Kenyon recounted the botched stake-out. He left nothing out; the most embarrassing part was explaining how he had fallen through the floorboards, letting the perp get away.

  “What were you packin’?” asked Gonelli.

  “My Sig Sauer. Did they find it?”

  “Yeah. One bullet fired. Did you hit him?”

  Kenyon shook his head. “I didn’t fire it.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. I dropped it when I fell.”

  “So, he capped your tuckus with your own gun,” said Marge.

  Kenyon was mortified. “Marge, please, don’t tell anyone.”

  Gonelli shook her finger. “I gotta. Besides, it lets you off a discharged-firearm review. All that leaves is Simon.”

  Kenyon grimaced. “You know, Marge, if I had just ignored that asshole Deaver, he might be okay.”

  “Rule number one in this business, never second-guess,” replied Gonelli.

  “Deaver’s going to be looking for a scapegoat.”

  “Let me worry about him. I wanna go over some stuff with you.” Gonelli pulled out a file from her purse and adjusted her glasses. “We think Simon was carrying a coded memory stick containing a software program called Cyberworm.”

  “Is it a secret military program?” asked Kenyon.

  “Yeah,” said Gonelli. “We’re working to get clearance.”

  “What about Dahg?” asked Kenyon. “Is he talking?”

  “Nope,” Gonelli said, glancing back at her notes. “He checked into the Raphael Hotel under an assumed name last week. We got a warrant and found fifty thousand dollars in cash under his pillow. Phone records for the hotel shows he called Simon at home. We’ll sweat him with conspiracy in the murder of Simon.”

  “Can we make it stick?”

  Gonelli shook her head, no. “My guess is, he’s a mule hired to make the pickup and delivery.”

  Kenyon scratched his chin. He hadn’t shaved since Sunday morning, and a day’s worth of dark stubble was growing in. “What about the guy in the blue van?”

  “The van was stolen the day before. The plates were pinched from a second car. It was abandoned at the fish plant; he musta had a back-up car. We got no prints in the vehicle. We’re gathering hairs and fibers, but don’t hold your breath.”

  “And the warehouse?”

  Gonelli pulled the cigar butt from her mouth and squinted at it. “The company that used to own it is bankrupt. It’s been abandoned for about ten years. All we found was some footprints and cigar ash.”

  Kenyon nodded. “I remember smelling it.”

  Gonelli leaned back. “So, we got a dead double agent, a spook who ain’t talkin’, and a wise guy who can’t shoot worth beans. Ya’ know what’s buggin’ me most, though?

  “What?”

  Gonelli pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Who tipped us off?”

  Kenyon shrugged. “Maybe it was another gang. They couldn’t do the deal, so they spoiled it.”

  “If I were a rival gang that knew the time and place of the pass, I would have just gone in and ripped off Simon when he was at home,” said Gonelli. “No, there’s more to it than that.”

  Kenyon thought for a moment. “How about a double-cross? Whoever hired Dahg planned all along to cut Simon off at the underground garage and steal the stuff there, then head back to their rat hole. They leave Dahg holding the bag.”

  Gonelli pondered his idea. “Better, but it still don’t scan.”

  “Anything on the e-mail itself?” asked Kenyon.

  “It came from a java joint wi-fi near Haight and Ashbury. The clerks in there are baked. Maybe if we take your description down, we can luck out.”

  Kenyon shook his head. “I never got a clear look at him.”

  Gonelli crossed a note off in her file. “Well, that burns that bridge.”

  “I think our best bet is to look at who stands to gain from the theft,” said Kenyon. “Once I find out what kind of program this Cyberworm is, I should be able to narrow down the possible suspects.”

  Gonelli rolled the cigar butt in her mouth. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You ain’t on the case.”

  Kenyon stared at the blanket. “You think I screwed up?”

  “No. You’re not on the case because you’re taking a personal leave of absence.”

  “Hey, it’s only a few stitches,” argued Kenyon. “The doc says I can go home today.”

  Gonelli looked down at the back of her hands. “This is a different kind of personal leave,” she said. “I got a call from some lady lawyer in London. She told me Lydia Kenyon was dead.”

  Kenyon’s expression was blank, until he made the connection. “You mean, my Aunt Lydia?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry, Jack. Lydia was killed in a car accident.”

  For a moment Kenyon stared at the ceiling, trying to decide what to say. “I hardly knew her, Marge.”

  “She�
��s your relative.”

  “She was the daughter of my foster parents, Cyrus and Daisy.”

  “That still makes her family.”

  Kenyon rubbed his face with his hands. “She had already grown up and left home when I was born. I never met her in my entire life.”

  “So?”

  “Look, I’m sorry she’s dead and all, but I don’t see why I need a personal leave of absence.”

  Gonelli reached into her purse and pulled out another file. “’Cause, you’ve been appointed executor in her will.” She handed the slim file to Kenyon. “There’s papers and stuff you have to sign.”

  Kenyon rubbed his eyes wearily. “Does Cyrus know?”

  Gonelli nodded. “I phoned his ranch in Montana. He already got a call.”

  Kenyon thought about his foster father, sitting alone in Eden Valley. Cyrus the Tyrant, Kenyon had called him; they hadn’t spoken in years. The straight-laced old man had a way of driving his children out of his home. He never even knew what the feud that had alienated Lydia was about.

  “Marge, you know I’m the computers guy. You need me here.”

  Gonelli patted the blanket over his knee. “I’ll call you every day.”

  Kenyon tried one last time. “They can handle all that stuff in London without me. I have more important things to do here.”

  Gonelli stood up and headed for the door. “No you don’t, sweetie. You gotta go to England.”

  Kenyon leaned back in the bed and crossed his arms. “Marge, there’s no way I’m going.”

  Three

  Friday, July 8. London

  The overnight flight from San Francisco touched down at Heathrow Airport a little after one in the afternoon. Kenyon pulled his carry-on bag from the overhead bin and slowly shuffled down the aisle.

  “Have a nice visit to London,” said the stewardess as he exited the plane.

  “Nice and short is what I’m looking forward to,” he replied.

  The landing gate was almost a quarter mile from the central hub, but Kenyon was glad for the opportunity to walk. The swelling had gone down considerably in the five days since he had been shot, but the last ten hours crammed into an economy seat had left him feeling stiff and sore.