Black Sunrise

by Brett Godfrey

  “Our linguistics and crypto people are working on it. We’ve run the words through our computers in every language. So far, nothing.”

  Brecht knew that when it came to codes, Fitch had the Brecht Group outdone. The NSA supercomputers were larger than Sierra or Titan and could cross-reference vast volumes of compiled data instantaneously, searching all forms of printed literature, intercepted electronic messages and recorded conversations. If the code-breakers at NSA couldn’t solve the riddle, it wasn’t solvable. Brecht recited the words: “Crew, ball, nine, virus, smoke.”

  “Assuming your man’s memory is accurate.”

  “Kenehan and Jensen both agree those were the words.”

  “We think Kim was trying to tell us about Beeman’s device when he died,” Fitch said.

  “Why would he want us to know about it?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? To avert war. He knew what will happen if that thing goes off on our soil.”

  “Have the interrogations given you anything else you can share?”

  “We’ve used potent drugs on the survivors, but North Korean intelligence is highly compartmentalized. We’ve picked up some good background information, and we’ll get more in the months to come, but of the missing vials they have no knowledge. None of them know anything specific about Beeman’s so-called insurance policy.”

  Brecht considered Fitch’s words for several seconds before he spoke. “I have to ask: if the feds had mounted the raid, would they have done anything differently?”

  Fitch grunted. “Differently? Hell, yes. This isn’t what I’ll say if I’m subpoenaed to a congressional hearing mind you, but we would have gotten there after the ship left the harbor, assuming we even found out about the ship. Then we probably would have sunk it in deep water—we had a destroyer patrolling nearby, but we wouldn’t have tried to board her.”

  “Why not?”

  Fitch’s voice took on a note of cynicism. “We wanted to cauterize the situation. Don’t forget, at that point we didn’t know about the other two vials. You scored intel we wouldn’t have gotten on our own. We probably wouldn’t have even found the ship in time to sink it. If we had, we’d know nothing about the possibility of automated release of the virus.”

  Brecht smiled sadly. “But Beeman would be dead.” He was stunned and flattered by Fitch’s concessions, but the news that Beeman was still free with samples of the virus depressed him greatly. Had the operation gone differently, it would have been the perfect way to end his career.

  But time had run out—this had been his final play.

  “What can I do to help?” Brecht asked.

  “I’ve given this information to you as a courtesy, but you’ve had your Hail Mary pass. Officially? Your official directions are to stay off the case. We’ll handle it from here.”

  “Very well,” said Brecht.

  “But if you hear anything …”

  Brecht chuckled softly. “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Chapter 54

  “Fantastic,” Christie said, closing her eyes. “I’m still high! I think I may be hooked.”

  Kenehan shut off the engine. “A skydive will do that for you. After my first jump, I felt that way for days. I couldn’t wait to get back in the air.”

  “That’s what they mean when they say, ‘skies call,’ isn’t it?”

  Kenehan smiled. “The shortest skydiving poem: ‘Man small, why fall? Skies call, that’s all.’”

  “Hmmm.” Christie nodded. “I get it.”

  The afternoon was growing late. Kenehan had driven Christie to a small airport outside Longmont, Colorado and arranged for her to make a tandem skydive with him. Some of the staff there knew him. The skydiving world is small and tightly knit. Strapped to an instructor with whom she shared a parachute, she’d experienced her first taste of free fall. Diving out of the airplane a second later, Kenehan had tracked down and gently docked with her, planting a kiss at 120 miles-per-hour, then he’d done a back flip before tracking away to pull his chute. Being with her made him want to show off.

  “Come on,” she said, clutching the thumb drive with the video of her skydive. “Let’s go inside.”

  When they reached the elevator, Kenehan hesitated. He hadn’t been inside her apartment since before her rescue. He’d searched it while she was missing, but she didn’t know that.

  “Don’t be shy,” she said, brushing a lock of blonde hair behind her ear as she smiled at him. “Come on up.” They rode the elevator together to the seventh floor.

  When they reached her door, Christie scooped up a newspaper. “Looks like I’m finally getting the Denver Post again,” she said, tucking it under her arm and unlocking the door. “The manager put my subscription on hold. They really piled up while … while I was gone.” She unlocked the door and pushed it open with her foot. “Come on in.” She dropped the paper, her keys and the thumb drive on the counter as Kenehan shut the door behind him.

  “I feel like some herbal tea. Would you like some?” she asked.

  “That would be great.”

  “Or you could have a beer.”

  Alcohol right now would be a really, really dumb idea.

  “Tea sounds better,” he said.

  A few minutes later, they were sitting at her kitchen table, sipping from steaming mugs. “Chamomile?” Kenehan asked.

  “It has a very relaxing effect.”

  Kenehan said nothing. He just stared into his cup.

  “Anything wrong?” she asked. “You seem preoccupied.”

  Kenehan shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Wondering if you should be here? In my apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it. You’re not breaking any laws.”

  Kenehan struggled to find the words that would help her understand his hesitation. “It’s just that—”

  “I know. You’re wondering if you should maintain your professional detachment.”

  He grinned. “Not quite. I gave up on that idea a long time ago.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I’m just thinking. I shouldn’t—”

  She leaned across, reached behind his head and untied the leather strip that bound his long hair. “That’s right. You shouldn’t be thinking. So stop doing it. It’s bad for your brain.” She kissed him slowly and lightly on the mouth; then, cupping the back of his head with her palm, she pulled him closer and kissed him much harder. Her lips parted.

  Kenehan’s mind was reeling. His body felt like overcooked pasta—except in one place, where he was moving more toward al dente.

  Eventually she pulled away—only long enough to utter four breathless words. “Take me to bed.”

  A great writer once said that some things demand to be done.

  Some things happen when they must.

  “Now, tell me what you were thinking so hard about,” Christie said with an impish grin, her head propped on her elbow.

  Kenehan brushed his fingertips along the curve of her hip, savoring the smooth vibrancy of her skin. “You were right—I was thinking too much.”

  She said, “I understand. You have a code.”

  He just looked at her, saying nothing.

  “You’re a warrior. You’ve killed people, and you’ll do it again. You have to live with what you’ve done, with who you are. So, you rely upon your moral compass to keep you from getting lost. Your professionalism. It’s what keeps you sane. It’s your anchor.”

  “Your dad tell you that?”

  She shook her head. “It’s obvious,” she said. “But sometimes it can hold you back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you want to be with me,” she explained, “But you’re afraid to be with me.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “It’s because you think you’re taking advantage of some unfair psychological leverage. I’ve been through a nightmare; my life was at risk—and you saved me. So you know that makes me vulnerable, and you don’t want to exp
loit that. Like a doctor whose ethics prevent him from sleeping with his patients.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “To me you are.”

  “So, what do we do about it?”

  “Acknowledge it and move past it,” she said. “So we don’t miss out on something special.”

  “How do I know that’s in your best interest?”

  “You would rather I be with someone who would never worry about what’s in my best interest?”

  Kenehan rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. “That’s part of the syndrome,” he said. “The identification of a rescuer as an ultimate benefactor, a spiritual ally, a soul mate that fate delivered. Only it’s just an emotional reaction.”

  “The Old Man teach you that?” she asked.

  “Touché.”

  “Let me ask you something—something serious.”

  He rolled back onto his side, facing her again. “Go ahead.”

  “When did I start having an unfair psychological advantage over you?”

  Kenehan laughed. Being with Christie made him feel like a man who had been trekking across an endless burning desert with a hundred pounds of gear, who finally found an oasis—green, verdant and cool, with water and shade. He’d been alone for so long he’d forgotten what this kind of experience was like. It wasn’t just the fact he’d had sex for the first time in over two years. He hadn’t felt this way for as long as he could remember.

  “Well?” Christie persisted.

  “It’ll sound silly,” he said.

  “Try me.”

  “When I first saw your picture. My first day on the case.”

  Christie sat up in the bed. “What?”

  “We saw head shots of you and Jackie in our first briefing.”

  “And you didn’t fall for Jax?” Christie asked. “Usually she’s the one who—”

  “No. It was you. The minute I saw your photo. I knew that no matter what it took, we had to get you back safe.”

  “And now you’re suddenly worried about moving too fast?”

  “A little.”

  She pointed to a scar on his shoulder. “What’s that from?” she asked.

  “I was in the Army. Got shot.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Not at the time,” he replied, “but afterward.”

  “Was that the first time?”

  “No,” he said. “It was the second time.”

  “Where was the first?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  “I mean where on your body?” She pulled down the sheet.

  Kenehan pointed to a star-shaped scar on his side.

  “Any others?”

  “No.”

  “And the men who shot you?”

  “Let’s talk about something else.”

  Christie shook her head. “Roady, you know I killed Antonio Pessoa.”

  “I’m sorry that had to happen,” he said.

  “But that’s just it,” Christie pressed. “You understand. It had to happen.”

  “I do,” he said.

  “So I’m like you—and you’re like me. We’re both killers now. You’re just more experienced and better at it.”

  Kenehan stared into her eyes. He rolled onto his back again and pulled her on top of him. She straddled him eagerly.

  He couldn’t remember ever feeling so alive and so lost at the same time.

  I’m out of control.

  Much later, when Christie was staring at the ceiling, Roady said, “Now you’re the one who looks preoccupied.”

  “I was trying to solve the riddle.”

  “You mean the man on the boat? His last words?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll never forget them. It’s very important, isn’t it?”

  “A lot of lives could be at stake.”

  “What do they think it means? The NSA, the FBI, your people?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “I thought they knew everything.”

  The sun was setting. Kenehan had fallen asleep. Christie lay beside him in her darkening room, marveling at the sinuous, sculpted form of his body, spoiled only by the smattering of scars on his arms and torso. There were signs of more injuries than just the two bullet wounds. He’d been cut, possibly hit by shrapnel, and it looked like he’d been burned in a few spots. She wondered what stories lurked behind each of the scars on his beautiful body, idly stroking the scar on her own forearm from Beeman’s hunting knife.

  Making love had made her thirsty. As quietly as she could, she slipped from the bed and pulled her robe from the closet.

  Kenehan stirred.

  “Sorry,” she said, snugging the robe around her. “Did I wake you?”

  “I’ve got an idea,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Let me take you out for dinner. Somewhere nice.”

  “I like that idea,” she said.

  “Can I use your shower?”

  “I’d rather you did.”

  When she heard the water start, she opened the paper, realizing it was the first time she’d seen one in more than a month. After the raid on the boat, she and Jackie had been in the papers, but she’d avoided reading the articles.

  When she did read the paper, Christie preferred to read the society pages. Her eyes scanned the columns, taking comfort in nonthreatening prattle about charity events, style, fashion, theater, music and food. It was mindless stuff, but it was comforting to take refuge in an imaginary world that was safe, where the biggest issues resolved around what kind of designer evening gown the mayor’s wife was wearing.

  She spotted an article about a gala ball that would take place that night in Denver—apparently one of the city’s most noteworthy social events.

  It had an odd name, a Cajun title in honor of the fact that alumni of Louisiana State University were hosting the event. It was a fundraiser, a masquerade ball. Something nagged at her as she read, so she returned to the top. What was the name of the event?

  When she found it, her hands trembled.

  She read the article again. One particular paragraph caught her attention:

  The Krewe De Colorado annual fundraiser for the Denver Children’s Home raises nearly $500,000 each year for this worthy organization. Auction prizes include a sunset champagne flight over the Rockies, box tickets to the Avalanche playoffs and other exciting items. Bidding ends with the announcement of winners at 9:00 p.m., but the ball runs till midnight with a live Cajun band and refreshments.

  Christie grabbed a pencil from her nightstand and circled three items:

  Krewe. Ball and 9:00 p.m.

  The only words that were missing were virus and smoke.

  But she wouldn’t expect to see those words here.

  Krewe—ball—nine—virus—smoke. If there’s even a chance I’m right … Oh, my God, we’ve got to do something!

  She glanced at the clock by her bed, a shock-flash ran through her when she saw how late it was. Nearly eight. The ball had started hours ago. Clutching the paper, she ran into the bathroom, where Kenehan was drying off with a towel.

  Chapter 55

  “No time to argue,” Christie warned.

  “I said go back inside!” Kenehan said sternly, holding the door of the elevator open for her to step out.

  “And I said there’s no time to argue,” she insisted, swatting his hand away from the door so that it could close. “Now let’s get moving.” She pressed the button for the lobby.

  Kenehan shook his head as the elevator started down.

  “This could be dangerous. You’re waiting in the car.”

  “Lives are at stake. You need my help.”

  They sprinted through the lobby to the parking lot.

  “Take my car. It’s closer,” Christie said, pointing to a small black Mercedes coupe her father had given her. “And it’s faster than your rental.” She handed him the key fob. “You drive.”

  Weaving in and out of traffic, the compact Mercedes blasted up Speer Boulev
ard. Steering with one hand, Kenehan pulled out his cell phone and handed it to her.

  “Dial a number for me.”

  Christie released her death grip on the door handle. “Car’s got a built-in speakerphone,” she said. “Give me the number.”

  Kenehan recited the digits, and Christie punched them into a keypad on the console.

  “David Thomas,” answered the metallic voice on the first ring.

  “Grayhound, Tomahawk. Non-secure comm,” Kenehan said. “We’ve got a Code One.”

  “Sitrep?”

  “I think CJ cracked the code. Masquerade ball in downtown Denver. Ball as in dance. Called the Krewe De Colorado something. K-R-E-W-E. Charity fundraiser. Big prize auction at nine tonight. Large indoor crowd. She’s here with me in the car. We’re headed there now. ETA five minutes. She’ll give you the address.”

  Christie turned on the dome light and fumbled with the crumpled article she’d torn from the paper. “It’s at the Denver Center for the Performing Arts, in the Seawell Grand Ballroom. I’ve been there before. I know exactly where it is.” She recited the address loudly enough to be audible over the tortured squeal of tires. Kenehan expertly snapped the wheel, swerving between two slow-moving cars, stabbing the brakes briefly; then he gunned the turbocharged engine, shooting down the median at ninety miles per hour.

  “K-R-E-W-E … crew?” The voice came over the speaker. “Are you sure it’s pronounced that way?” Thomas asked, a note of urgency in his voice.

  “It’s Cajun,” Christie said. “LSU alumni run it. There’ll be hundreds of people there.” She reiterated what Kenehan had said in more detail. “They have an auction to raise money for charity. They announce the winners at nine sharp, with everyone gathered in one place. They’re expecting 850 guests. Perfect for spreading the virus to a large number of people in a confined space. Krewe. Ball. Nine. As in nine p.m. Oh, fuck!”

  “Krewe, ball, nine, virus, smoke,” Kenehan shouted. “If she’s right—and the thing’s set to release at nine o’clock, we’ve got only twenty minutes or so to get there and find it.”

  “Tomahawk stand down. Do not enter that building. We’ll send a hazmat team to evacuate. They’ll find it if it’s there. This thing could kill you both.”