Secret Combinations

by Gordon Cope

  “Yes.” Ilsa stared down at the stream of blood running from a cut on Legrand’s brow. “Revenge against my husband and his mistress.” She returned her gaze to Kenyon. “But most of all, against the son I never had.”

  Ilsa kissed Kenyon softly on the lips, then placed a letter in his shirt pocket. “I believe this is addressed to you.”

  The smoke was beginning to pour down the cellar steps. Ilsa picked up the painting and headed toward the basement exit. She pushed deWolfe’s corpse to one side, then opened the portal. She paused to look at Kenyon one last time, then closed and locked the double doors.

  Thirty-six

  Kenyon crouched low to the ground as the basement filled with black smoke. It was getting difficult to breath. He peered at the handcuffs in the dim light. The restraints were made of a thick band of nylon and held closed with a one-way, ratchet-and-lock. The system was impossible to pick, because it required no key. The only way you could remove the cuffs was by cutting them off.

  “You have a pocket knife or anything sharp?” asked Kenyon.

  “No,” replied Legrand, coughing.

  Kenyon rubbed the cuffs against the wood post. It chipped off a few slivers, but didn’t even scratch the tough surface.

  Legrand’s coughs grew louder. Kenyon stared at Dahg and deWolfe, two dead sentinels in their prison. It was impossible to search their pockets as they were beyond reach.

  Kenyon stood up and examined the post. The top was held in place by a large iron nail. Peering through the smoke, he could see that the wood around the nail had split.

  Kenyon’s heart rose in hope and he nudged the older man. “Raymond, stand up.”

  Legrand struggled to his feet. “What is it?”

  “If we can push hard enough, maybe we can dislodge the top of the post.”

  The two men placed their shoulders against the post. “Heave!” shouted Kenyon.

  The wood cracked and the post shifted a fraction of an inch.

  “Again!” called Kenyon.

  Legrand groaned as they pushed, but the post moved another half inch.

  “Once more!”

  The post screeched as the two men heaved one final time and, with a sudden crack of splitting wood, the post fell away. Almost simultaneously, the room was filled with a tremendous groan, and the wide ceiling beam came crashing to the ground. Kenyon was flung to one side, but the heavy beam landed squarely on Legrand.

  The agent scrambled through the thickening smoke to the older man’s side. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Legrand grimaced and pointed. “My leg . . .”

  Kenyon followed his finger. Legrand’s leg was pinned beneath the ceiling beam. He tried to lift it, but the large beam was too heavy. “Hold on,” he said. “I’ll get something to pry it up.”

  Kenyon scrambled around on his hands and knees, searching for a crowbar. He found an old axe handle discarded under a wine barrel. He returned and gently eased it under the beam, careful not to brush Legrand’s leg. Then he heaved as hard as he could.

  The beam rose an inch. Legrand tried to pull himself free, but the handle of the axe snapped, and the wooden beam fell back onto his leg.

  The smoke swirled around the two men like a black, deadly fog. Legrand gripped Kenyon by the arm and tried to push him away. “Go, while you still can,” he urged, between gritted teeth.

  The overhead light flickered, then went out. Coughing, Jack reached through the darkness and took Legrand’s hand. “It took me over thirty years to find you. I’m not going to leave without you.”

  Legrand grasped the Kenyon’s hand and held it firmly for a second, but his grip began to weaken. Kenyon gasped as stars danced in his vision. It was only a matter of seconds.

  As he stood on the threshold of unconsciousness, there was a brilliant flash of light, and the double doors exploded into shards. The agent lifted his head up in amazement as a figure clad in body armor and black helmet hurled through the door, an assault rifle cradled in one hand, a powerful strobe light in the other.

  The apparition advanced on the two men, the assault rifle pointed directly at Kenyon’s heart. Instead of shooting, however, the man flipped up the face mask and grinned at Kenyon.

  “Wot a party!” shouted Happy Harry.

  Harry slung one of Kenyon’s arms over his shoulder and carried the agent out of the basement. As they came up the steps, the agent spotted Humphrey Arundel perched on a hunter’s sitting-cane in the middle of the lawn. He was dressed in an SAS flak jacket and tweed pants, his face was lit by the brilliant fire that roared on the main floor of the mansion.

  “Are you well?” asked Arundel.

  Kenyon gulped at the fresh air and did his best to stand up. “Legrand is trapped under a pillar. I have to get him out.”

  Harry spoke into a radio receiver clipped to his body armor, and two similarly clad men came running up with what looked like a chainsaw. They dashed into the cellar, and Kenyon could hear the device cutting through wood, then a shout as they lifted the beam. Within thirty seconds, they emerged from the basement with Legrand and carried the limp man across the lawn. A field ambulance came from the other side of the mansion and met them.

  Kenyon began to follow, but Arundel stood and blocked his way. “I do believe the medics can take care of Legrand,” he said. “Right now, we have some equally important issues to attend to.” He took the agent by the arm and began leading him toward the Bentley, parked at the edge of the lawn.

  “Am I under arrest?” asked Kenyon.

  “Technically, yes, but I think Lady Beatrice might allow you some liberty if you cooperate in our investigation.”

  “Your mom’s got that much pull?” asked Kenyon.

  “Well, she is the head of MI5,” said Arundel. He opened the rear door, stepped inside, and signaled for Kenyon to follow.

  Inside, a tall, elegant woman in her fifties was sipping tea. She placed her own cup down and reached for a thermos on a sideboard. “Young man, you look distinctly dreadful,” she said. “May I pour you a cup of tea?”

  Kenyon noted the same elongated nose and thin hands as her son. “Tea would be great, but we have to catch Ilsa. She’s getting away with the painting.”

  Lady Beatrice turned an eye toward Arundel. “Humphrey, where is Ilsa now?”

  The deputy inspector pressed a key on an electronic monitor embedded in a panel. “She appears to be moving northwards, toward London,” he said.

  Kenyon stared at the monitor, which displayed a roadmap of the region. “Hey, that’s my GPS!”

  “Thank you for your prescience,” said Lady Beatrice. “I am afraid we are as surprised as you at her involvement.”

  Happy Harry appeared at the Bentley’s open door and saluted.

  “Harold, you smell abominably of smoke,” said Lady Beatrice. “How is the operation proceeding?”

  “Everything’s secure and ready for inspection, ma’am.”

  Lady Beatrice got out of the car, followed by Kenyon and Arundel.

  “Two men previously dead in the basement, ma’am, both hostiles,” said Harry. “All our men accounted for and unharmed.”

  “What about Legrand?” asked Kenyon.

  “He suffered a broken leg, but he’s gonna be all right,” replied the cabby.

  “And what of Sir Rupert?” asked Lady Beatrice.

  Suddenly, the air was rent by a horrible scream and they all turned toward the house. The noise hung in the air for several seconds, rising in pitch, until it was abruptly cut off as the roof collapsed in a brilliant shower of cinders and ash.

  “That would be him, I reckon,” said Harry.

  They all watched silently for several seconds, until Lady Beatrice spoke. “Harold, if you would be so kind as to drive us into London?”

  Harry snapped a salute. “Yes, ma’am!” He hopped into the front of the car.

  Lady Beatrice beckoned to Kenyon to join her. “Perhaps we can compare notes?”

  Kenyon followed Arundel and L
ady Beatrice into the rear of the Bentley.

  Sitting in a fold-down jump-seat, Kenyon faced Lady Beatrice and Arundel. “Thanks for pulling me out of that mess, but I have to get something straight: do you still think I’m the mastermind behind all this?”

  “Oh, heavens, no,” said Lady Beatrice. “We never did.”

  Kenyon pointed to Harry in front. “Then how come you’ve been following me from the moment I came to town?”

  Arundel cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should backtrack a trifle. Several months ago, we received word through the chaps at MI6 that someone might make a play for the Cyberworm virus. It seems there was interest in it from certain well-funded terrorists in the Middle East.”

  “You mean, someone like Iran?”

  “We weren’t certain. All we really knew was the target. When we learned through our legal attaché in San Francisco that it had been stolen out from under the nose of the FBI, we focused our attention on TEQ labs and the encryption code, here in England.”

  “And me,” said Kenyon.

  “And you,” agreed Lady Beatrice. “We were, of course, saddened when Lydia was killed.” She reached forward and placed her hand on Kenyon’s. “I offer you my condolences. Lydia was a wonderful woman.”

  “Thank you,” said Kenyon.

  Lady Beatrice sat back. “But we were also curious as to the coincidence of her association with TEQ and her nephew Jack Kenyon’s involvement in the San Francisco theft. We assigned commander Harold Twiggley to place you under observation.”

  “Twiggley?” Kenyon turned toward Harry, who was grinning widely. He returned his attention to Lady Beatrice. “So, you didn’t even know Lydia was murdered?”

  “My apologies for downplaying the manner of her death,” said Arundel. “We were, of course, grateful you had made the discovery, but we didn’t wish to tip the cabal off.”

  “Because you didn’t even know who they were,” said Kenyon.

  “Guilty as charged,” replied Lady Beatrice. “We had our suspicions of the man whom you knew as Hadrian deWolfe, but we correctly assumed he wasn’t acting alone. We needed to learn more, and quickly.”

  “So, you kept me in play as a stalking horse, just like deWolfe.”

  “Correct,” said Arundel. “We wanted to round up the senior conspirators and regain control of the virus.”

  “Then why did you try to arrest me?” said Kenyon.

  “You can thank assistant US attorney Deaver for that,” said Lady Beatrice. “When he appeared in London with his accusations, we were compelled to go through the motions, as it were.”

  Kenyon turned to Arundel. “That’s why you didn’t put up a fight when I escaped.”

  “You were far more useful on-the-prowl, as it were,” Arundel said, “than in jail.”

  Kenyon stared out the window. They were back in London, approaching the center of town. They passed Waterloo Station, then headed east along a major road. Kenyon caught sight of a road sign that read “Southwark Street.”

  Harry eased up on the accelerator and consulted a monitor in the front of the car. “She’s slowed down, ma’am,” he said. He tapped a hot key on the console, and the monitor flashed an enlarged map version of the neighborhood. There was a soft buzz as the console spit out a printed version of the map.

  “Her destination appears to be in the warehouse district,” said Arundel, studying the map

  Lady Beatrice glanced at her son, nodding. “Prepare an assault.”

  Thirty-seven

  The Bentley eased forward through the dark street. The neighborhood had an empty, hollow feel to it. Except for a few large trucks trundling past, the streets were deserted.

  Southwark Street was flanked by long, low, two-story brick warehouses, many of them dirty and rundown. A brightly painted billboard advertising Woolwright’s Guild, a condominium development, was nailed to an abandoned warehouse. Kenyon could smell a salty, tidal odor; they must be somewhere near the Thames, he concluded. Every minute or so, the air was filled with the roar of a large jet passing overhead, making Kenyon think that they were under the approach to Heathrow.

  Harry dimmed the headlights and crept forward. Keeping a careful eye on the GPS console, he turned down a lane. Through the gap at the end of the street, the distinctive dome of St Paul’s cathedral gleamed in the distance.

  Harry finally came to a halt. He pointed to a warehouse directly ahead. “She’s in there, ma’am.”

  The warehouse was two stories tall, made of cut stone and thick oak beams. It appeared to be abandoned. The front door was boarded-up and the windows on the second floor were broken. The interior was dark.

  “Are you certain this is the one?” asked Arundel. “I don’t see her car.”

  Harry pointed to several sets of double wooden doors covering archways at the front of the building. “You could fit a lorry through one of them,” he said. “It must be inside.”

  “Right,” said Arundel. “Where are the lads?”

  Just as he spoke, three small buses with their lights out pulled up behind the Bentley. Each was painted flat black, had heavily tinted windows and the thick, knobby tires often seen on assault vehicles.

  Kenyon, Arundel, and Harry got out of the Bentley and joined two dozen troops as they poured out of the vehicles. The men were all dressed in black and looked like they could snap a lumberjack like a twig. A Scotsman with strands of flaming red hair poking from under a dark cap stepped forward. “SAS Lieutenant Farnham here, sir. Fox, Viper, and Wolf units reporting for duty.”

  “Excellent,” said Arundel. He spread the map out on the trunk of the Bentley. One of the men leaned forward with a flashlight, hooded so that it only cast a tiny light on the map. “Alert Thames patrol not to approach closer than Southwark bridge. Have them patch into communications band three. We’ll call if we need them.”

  “Air support, sir?” asked Farnham.

  “Bring in the helicopter, but keep it above three thousand metres,” said Arundel.

  “Right, sir.”

  As Farnham conveyed the commands through the radio, Arundel turned to the rest of the men. “Anybody familiar with the building?” he asked.

  The men glanced at one another, then shook their heads no.

  “I can have city planning check archives, sir,” said Harry.

  “I’m afraid we can’t dally,” replied Arundel. “Does anyone have a nightscope?”

  One of the soldiers drew out a large pair of binoculars. Arundel lifted them to his face and peered at the building for several moments, before turning to Harry.

  “Commander, what’s your opinion on the second-story window to the right?”

  Harry took the night scope and stared at the building intently. “Half-inch iron works held on by bolts, sir. Looks like the window’s busted out behind it. Piece a cake.”

  “Right,” said Arundel. “Wolf unit guards the rear and Viper stations out front, ready for assault. I shall lead Fox on the infiltration.”

  Kenyon took the nightscope from Harry’s hands and peered at the building for a second. “Anybody know computers?” he asked aloud.

  Several men turned back, blank looks on their faces.

  Kenyon pointed to the roof. “See that dish? That’s a satellite uplink.”

  “What of it?” asked Arundel.

  “You don’t put a fifteen-thousand-dollar dish on an abandoned building for nothing. They’re going to launch Cyberworm from here. I’m going in with you.”

  Arundel glanced at the dish for a moment. “We’ll secure the building, then we’ll let you in.”

  “You want to take that chance?”

  Arundel stared at Kenyon for a moment, then made up his mind. “You wear full body armor. No weapon. Keep to the rear. I don’t want any heroics. Agreed?”

  Kenyon smiled. “You got it.”

  The men quickly suited Kenyon up in body armor and a helmet. The helmet was made of light steel. The body armor was a long vest with a flap that extended over the cro
tch. It was much lighter than he expected. He pulled a plate out and hefted it. It appeared to be made of some resinous material.

  “Graphite laminate,” explained Harry as he walked past. “Stop a titanium-tipped bullet, it will.”

  Kenyon tucked the plate back into the flap and joined Fox unit as they crowded into the first bus. Arundel closed the door, then tapped the driver on the helmet. The bus moved slowly forward.

  The driver eased the vehicle over the curb and pulled it up adjacent to the building. Arundel waved his hand once, and two men slipped out the rear door and took up positions clutching automatic pistols. The rest of the soldiers exited the front and waited beside the vehicle.

  Farnham lifted a small, dual-tank torch mounted on a backpack and slipped the straps through his shoulders. He then grabbed the top of the rear door and vaulted onto the roof of the bus. Keeping against the wall, he lit the tip of the portable torch and quickly burned the heads of the main bolts holding the rusty grille over the window. He waited until a plane was passing directly overhead providing sound cover, then jerked the grille off its mounts.

  The men below waited for a second, their guns ready, but no one appeared at the window.

  “Right,” said Arundel. “In we go.”

  The lead man quickly scaled the bus and clambered through the window, careful to avoid the red-hot bolts. He turned on a flashlight and examined the room. It was empty except for a moldering pile of carpet. He stuck his arm out the window and gave the all-clear. The rest of the soldiers entered the building, Kenyon following last.

  The upstairs of the warehouse consisted of several large rooms connected by a wide hallway. Fox unit moved quickly down the hall, the large men astonishingly quiet on crepe-soled boots. When they got there, Kenyon was relieved to see that, except for some rubble and discarded machinery, the upper rooms were empty.

  The hallway ended at a large steel staircase. Arundel crept to the top of the stairs with the nightscope and peered down. He returned a few seconds later. “No sign of anyone moving about,” he said. “There’s light coming from a room at the far end. I think they’re inside.”