Secret Combinations

by Gordon Cope

  By the time Kenyon left Ricci’s apartment building, it was very early in the morning. It was raining hard, and the streets were deserted of traffic and people. Kenyon turned up his collar and began to walk home.

  He passed the V&A Museum, its immense, illuminated facade glistening in the rain. A street sweeper rumbled past, the driver glancing briefly at the lone pedestrian. A taxi slowed as it passed, but Kenyon waved it on; he wanted to be alone and let the rain wash away his misery.

  By the time he reached Herringbone Gardens, he was soaked through to the skin. As he walked up the steps, he heard a car door slam behind. He turned around to see deWolfe crossing the street.

  “Jack! I’ve been waiting for hours,” he said. “Thank goodness you’re all right. Did you locate the forgery?”

  “No.”

  “What happened?”

  “Ricci killed himself.”

  “Good Lord.” DeWolfe reached out and steadied himself against the iron railing. “Why on earth would he kill himself over a forgery? It defies all common sense.”

  “He didn’t kill himself over that.”

  “No?”

  Kenyon stared down the quiet street. “The police found evidence he killed Lydia.”

  “What, the laser pen?”

  Kenyon nodded silently.

  “But what about the forgery?” continued deWolfe. “Did they find that?”

  “No.”

  “We must continue looking. It has to be somewhere.”

  “I don’t give a shit about the forgery, anymore,” said Kenyon. “It’s over, Hadrian. Go home.” Kenyon turned toward the door.

  “But . . .”

  Kenyon went inside and left the other man standing on the steps.

  The interior of Lydia’s home was in darkness, except for a faint yellow light from the streetlamp pouring into the living room. Kenyon grabbed a tea towel from the kitchen to dry his face and hair, then went to the sideboard in the dining room and poured himself a good, stiff scotch. He returned to the living room and sat on the couch, facing the bay windows.

  God, how I hate this town, he thought. Everything about it stinks: the people, the cops, the weather. I’m going to sell this house and everything in it. With any luck, I’ll never have to come back here again.

  The phone rang. Kenyon glanced at his watch; it was after three in the morning. He reached over and picked up the receiver.

  It was Gonelli, in San Francisco. “Hey, watcha up to, kiddo?”

  “Not much, Marge. Just driving people to suicide.” Kenyon quickly explained what happened.

  “Hey, it ain’t your fault,” said Gonelli. “The guy was a slime. He robbed Lydia, then killed her. Why are you feeling so guilty?”

  “I feel bad for Lydia,” said Kenyon. “I feel like I let her down, somehow.”

  “You caught her killer. You done great.”

  Kenyon rubbed his face. “Thanks, Marge. You know, I really miss you guys. I’m coming home on the next flight.”

  “No, you ain’t,” said Marge. “That’s what I’m calling about. Remember I promised to run traces on Abdul Garbajian and TEQ?”

  “Yeah, what about them?”

  “Well, Garbajian’s also known as Abdul Al Zabol, among a few other aliases. He’s got a few sidelines going, like embargo-running of chemical weapons for Iran.”

  Kenyon sat up in his chair. “What about TEQ?”

  “Some high-tech outfit involved in military research. Ain’t much on it in the public records. It’s controlled by a numbered company.”

  “Any connection to Garbajian?”

  “Not to him, but you’re gonna like what we did find. Before Deaver clamped down on the Cyberworm investigation completely, we managed to subpoena Simon’s long-distance phone bills. Our boy made some calls from San Francisco to England several months ago. Guess who?”

  “TEQ?”

  “Yup. My gut feeling is this is what Deaver’s after. I want you to check these TEQ guys out. Pronto.”

  Twenty-three

  Happy Harry was busy Thursday morning, and it wasn’t until noon that the taxi driver finally picked Kenyon up at Lydia’s home.

  “Where to, guv?” asked the cabby.

  “You know a town called Reading?” asked Kenyon.

  “Yeah. Just west of London.”

  “That’s the one. Let’s go.”

  The cabby drove along Cromwell Road until it connected to the M4 motorway running west of London. Kenyon was amazed how quickly the city disappeared. As soon as they had passed Heathrow, the rows of brick houses gave way to rolling pastureland.

  Traffic was light heading out of town, and the taxi made good time. Shortly after one, they reached Reading. Kenyon had expected a quaint village, but the city was a sprawling industrial center with endless row houses, low squat warehouses, and narrow streets crowded with trucks and buses.

  Harry drove through town and descended down into the Thames River Valley where the crowded city gave way to modern buildings surrounded by landscaped parks. The taxi pulled up in front of a modern, four-story building. Three large, stainless-steel letters were affixed over the front entranceway; TEQ. The cabby parked the taxi near the entrance, and Kenyon disembarked.

  The agent noticed that the landscaping around the building looked in rough shape. Several shrubs had spilled over their borders, and the flower beds were littered with old Styrofoam coffee cups and candy wrappers.

  A large, black Mercedes sedan was parked near the front door. As Kenyon passed, he glanced down at the tires; they were a puncture-resistant style favored by security firms. He wondered who at TEQ needed a bulletproof car.

  The front door was locked. Kenyon peered through the doorway, but he couldn’t see anyone in the interior. He pushed the buzzer at the side of the door.

  “Go away!” said a man’s voice over the intercom.

  “What?” asked Kenyon, surprised.

  “Go away with you, and quit bothering me. If you have any credit enquiries, you can direct them to our solicitors.”

  “I’m not a creditor. I’m from the FBI.”

  “Oh! I do apologize,” said the voice. “Be there in a flash.”

  About a minute later, a man in a lab coat opened the door and invited Kenyon in. He was short, with a fringe of reddish hair circling the top of his head. “I’m Dr. Hamish MacQuaig, president of TEQ,” he said, shaking the agent’s hand. “And you are?”

  “Jack Kenyon, special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Splendid!” replied MacQuaig. “Agent Gonelli contacted me from San Francisco. Please allow me to inspect your identification papers.”

  Kenyon reached into his jacket and pulled out his ID. MacQuaig glanced at it briefly, then took it over to a device adjacent to the reception desk. He cleared a pile of bills off a computer keyboard and turned on a monitor. “Won’t take a sec,” he explained, as he placed the ID on a scanner.

  MacQuaig punched several keys, then waited as the machine did its work. In less than thirty seconds, a bell rang the all-clear. “International verification scanner checks out,” he explained, handing the ID back to Kenyon. “Can’t be too careful, can we?”

  “No, I guess not,” said Kenyon. “Dr. MacQuaig, I have no official police standing in the UK, but do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Ask me all the questions you like,” replied MacQuaig. “Shall we retire to the boardroom?”

  MacQuaig led the agent down a deserted hallway. Kenyon noted that most of the offices were empty, stripped bare of all furniture.

  The boardroom, however, was still furnished with a large oak table and upholstered swivel chairs. Several flatscreen monitors were mounted against one wall. Picture hooks marked the former locations of artwork on the walls. Only one remained, a portrait of an older man posing in hunting gear, deerstalker cap, and shotgun. He looked vaguely familiar, but Kenyon couldn’t place the face.

  “I’m sorry I can’t offer you a coffee or tea, but a
s you can see, we’re rather short-staffed at present,” said MacQuaig.

  MacQuaig closed the door, then sat down at the boardroom table beside an electronic panel and pushed several buttons. “Just activating the cone-of-silence,” he explained with a grin.

  Kenyon wondered if he hadn’t come out all this way on a wild goose chase. He took out a notebook and pen and placed them on the table. “Dr. MacQuaig, I specialize in counter industrial espionage at the FBI.”

  The scientist held up a hand. “We comply with all American security regulations regarding encryption. As you can see, we maintain a top level of security. Our lab uses the latest generation of security passes, computer firewalls, and eavesdropping inhibitors.”

  Kenyon made a note in his book. “That’s very impressive, doctor. Have you ever been in contact with a software engineer named Simon?”

  MacQuaig’s bushy eyebrows bobbed up and down in annoyance. “Yes, yes. I’ve already told all this to your colleague, someone named Beaver, or something.”

  “Assistant US attorney Will Deaver?”

  “Yes, that’s it.” MacQuaig pulled a pair of glasses from his lab coat and rubbed the lens in agitation. “He was here yesterday. Rather rude, I must say. All these questions about Simon, and not a word of explanation. All I know is that Simon is no longer at Nebula Labs. Would you mind terribly telling one what’s going on?”

  Kenyon leaned back in his chair and studied MacQuaig. His gut instinct told him he could build the scientist’s trust with information. “He was caught trying to sell some of Nebula’s software to spies.”

  MacQuaig’s face went white. “Not Cyberworm?”

  Pay dirt, thought Kenyon. He leaned forward, an earnest expression on his face. “Yes, doctor, it was Cyberworm. I take it you’re familiar with the software?”

  “I know it.”

  “Doctor, I’m not an expert like yourself; could you please explain what it is?”

  MacQuaig took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. “Damned computer virus, that’s what it is. Didn’t like it from the time we were first approached.” He nodded toward the portrait on the wall. “But the old boy took it on, said we’d make millions controlling the code.”

  “Doctor, what kind of computer virus are we talking about?”

  “The Pentagon commissioned Nebula Labs to design a cyberattack virus.”

  “You mean, this virus can be used in the event of war to destroy an enemy’s computers?” asked Kenyon.

  “There’s no point in taking out an enemy’s computer; they can back it up with another cheap PC,” said MacQuaig. “Cyberworm is far worse; it eats up the communications links.”

  “You mean the telephone and satellite connections?”

  “Yes. It attacks the switchers and devices that relay the data. It effectively shuts down telephones, electrical grids, air lines, everything down to the level of an outhouse.”

  Kenyon whistled aloud. “Man, that’s one nasty virus.”

  “Too nasty, I’m afraid,” said MacQuaig.

  “How so?”

  “There’s no way to stop it. Once you activate the virus, it can spread completely around the world, paralyzing the global economy.” MacQuaig tapped the boardroom table. “Thank God the code is safe here.”

  “The code?” asked Kenyon.

  “Yes. Cyberworm can’t be activated unless you have the encryption code. It’s part of a two-step security program. That’s what our company supplied to Nebula Labs on a blind basis for security reasons.”

  Kenyon began to nod in understanding. “Did Simon come here from Nebula to try and get the encryption code?”

  “Yes. But we refused to give it to him.”

  “Why?” asked Kenyon. “Didn’t he have proper clearance?”

  “Oh, he had that all right,” replied MacQuaig. “What he didn’t have was the cheque.”

  “What?”

  “Once they learned it was too uncontrollable, the Pentagon pulled the plug on the funding,” said MacQuaig. “Nebula wouldn’t pay us for the work on the code.” The scientist vaguely waved his hand in the direction of the office. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in a bit of a financial bind as a result.”

  “Is there any way of anyone getting hold of the encryption code?” asked the agent.

  “No,” replied MacQuaig. “The lab’s strictly off limits to non-technicians. Not even the president of TEQ had access.”

  “Was the code ever taken outside of the labs?” asked Kenyon.

  “It was demonstrated on occasion in this boardroom, but the room is designed to be completely secure,” said the scientist. “The walls, floors, and ceiling are lined with lead, and the room is periodically swept for bugging devices.”

  They were interrupted by a knock at the door. MacQuaig glanced at a monitor, then pushed a button. The door unlocked, and a woman dressed in a short-skirted business suit and black high heels entered.

  “Hamish, I need you to sign some papers,” she began, then stopped short when she saw Kenyon. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  Kenyon stood up and faced Ilsa Ingoldsby-Legrand. “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  The woman turned back to the scientist. “What is he doing here?”

  “He’s with the FBI, ma’am,” said MacQuaig, weakly. “He’s part of an ongoing investigation.”

  “Throw him out,” said Ilsa. “Immediately. “

  MacQuaig looked helplessly at Kenyon, then back at Ingoldsby-Legrand. “But, ma’am . . .”

  She stared at MacQuaig. “I see I am going to have to find someone with a spine do it for me.” She spun around and stalked out the door.

  Kenyon turned to MacQuaig. “What the hell is she doing here?”

  MacQuaig nodded to the portrait. “She’s the boss’s daughter.”

  Kenyon turned and stared at the portrait. The last time he had seen the man, his face had been distorted by illness, but the shotgun looked pretty familiar. “Sir Rupert owns TEQ?”

  “That he does. Or did. The old boy had a stroke last year, not been himself, daughter runs the show now.”

  Kenyon could hear Ilsa berating someone as she returned down the hall. She appeared shortly with a rosy-cheeked man dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform. Kenyon recognized Bernie, the gardener he had met on his visit to Ingoldsby Estate.

  Ilsa pointed a finger at Kenyon. “Get rid of this intruder right now, or heads will roll. Do I make myself clear?”

  Bernie shrugged helplessly at the agent.

  Kenyon held up a hand. “No need to worry, Bernie, I was on my way.” He turned and shook MacQuaig’s hand. “You’ve been a tremendous help, doctor. Thank you.”

  He walked to the entrance, Ilsa’s glare following him the entire way.

  Traffic was heavy as they headed back into town and finally ground to a halt as they passed Heathrow. Harry stared at the long line of motionless cars ahead, cursed, and put the car into neutral. “Bloody hell, I hope the trip out here was worth it,” he said. “What is this TEQ, anyway?”

  “It’s a software firm,” replied Kenyon. “They specialize in military applications.”

  “You mean, like encryption?”

  Kenyon glanced up toward Harry. “How did you know that?”

  Harry shrugged. “Oh, I must have ’eard it from one of my customers, like.”

  Kenyon caught Harry’s eyes in the rearview. “I meant to ask you, did Arundel give you a hard time the other night?”

  Harry turned his gaze away from Kenyon. “Who’s that?” he asked.

  “Nobody important.” Kenyon stared out the window. Why was Harry lying to him?

  By the time Harry dropped Kenyon off at 61 Herringbone Gardens, it was almost five. The agent sat on the living room couch and dialed FBI headquarters in San Francisco.

  “Marge, I know what Cyberworm is,” said Kenyon.

  “Spill, kiddo,” said Gonelli.

  Kenyon explained the workings of the device, including the Pentagon�
��s involvement.

  “That’s why Deaver put a clamp on it,” said Gonelli. “They want to keep its existence from leaking out.”

  “Yeah, and in the meantime, they let it walk out the back door.”

  “What about this encryption code thing?” asked Marge.

  “Simon came to England to get the code, but the Pentagon hadn’t paid up, so TEQ stiffed him,” said Kenyon.

  “Lucky day,” replied Gonelli. “Where’s that leave us?”

  Kenyon sat with his head bent, thinking. “Thanks to Simon, the spies have the cyberattack virus, but until they get the encryption code, the program is gibberish.”

  “Can they get it from TEQ?” asked Gonelli.

  “I don’t think so. MacQuaig’s a queer duck, but he’s got that place locked down tighter than a bull’s ass in fly season.”

  “Hey, I’m from New York,” said Gonelli. “Is that good or bad?”

  “That’s good,” said Kenyon. “The spies still need the second half. If they can’t get it from TEQ, they’ll be desperate to get it somewhere else. Maybe we can flush them out using the code as bait.”

  “I’m coming to London,” said Gonelli. “Don’t do anything till I get there.”

  “Sure, Marge, but listen, I haven’t told you the best part. Guess who owns TEQ?”

  “Who?”

  The front doorbell rang. From where he was sitting, Kenyon could see a police constable standing at the door.

  “Shit, it’s the cops. I’ll call you right back.”

  Kenyon hung up and went to answer the front door.

  Twenty-four

  The constable was accompanied by Detective Sergeant Ruffy, the lead investigator at Ricci’s suicide investigation.

  “What can I do for you, detective?” asked Kenyon when he opened the door.

  “If you don’t mind, sir, we’d like you to return to Mr. Ricci’s apartment.”

  “Why?”

  Ruffy’s face was fixed in the impassive expression that all cops wore. “We need your assistance in some further inquiries.”

  Sensing that it was pointless to ask further questions, Kenyon fetched his jacket from the hallway and joined the two men in an unmarked car parked outside. The driver placed a flashing light on the dash, and the heavy evening traffic parted as they moved down Cromwell Road.