Secret Combinations (3 page)

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-fifties 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.”

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.

By the time Kenyon reached immigration, a long line had formed behind the three officers checking passports. He groaned and took his place in line, but a man in a blue uniform stepped forward and tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Kenyon? I'm wondering if you wouldn't mind coming with me.”

Kenyon accompanied the immigration officer to an adjacent office, where he was met by the
FBI
's legal attaché, Stan Fairmont.

“Jack!” exclaimed Fairmont, in a booming, midwestern voice. “How was the trip?”

Kenyon shook Fairmont's extended hand. It was big and meaty, like the man. “I feel like I've been riding in a cattle car all night.”

Fairmont laughed and slapped him on the back. “Marge called and warned me that you were coming. I'm glad I had time to see you before I head out. I'm flying to Belfast in about twenty minutes.”

“Trouble?” asked Kenyon.

“Nope,” replied Fairmont. “Ambassador Stewart's flying over in two weeks and I have to spend a few days going over security with the Royal Ulster Constabulary.”

Kenyon nodded. There had been another flare-up of sectarian violence by a break-away group of the
IRA
. The
US
ambassador to the United Nations was flying in to chair a new round of peace talks. Part of Fairmont's official duties in Britain was to protect American politicians abroad.

The immigration officer returned Kenyon's passport. “That's all, sir. Enjoy your stay in the
UK
.”

Kenyon was about to leave, but Fairmont held up his hand. “One last thing: you know you're not allowed to carry here.”

“Yeah, Marge warned me.” Kenyon felt naked without his Sig Sauer 9mm, but unless they were traveling on official business, British regulations strictly prohibited international law officers from carrying firearms in the
UK
.

Fairmont nodded. “Okay, let's go.”

Customs waved Kenyon through after giving him a cursory glance, and he was soon following Fairmont down the main concourse of the airport.

“Sorry to hear about your aunt,” Fairmont said. “The ambassador tells me she was a fine woman.”

“Thanks,” said Kenyon. “I didn't really know her, myself.”

Fairmont stopped abruptly in front of an exit and glanced at his watch. “I've only got a few minutes before I have to run, but here's the drill. I know you're here in an unofficial capacity, but if you need any help, anything at all, I want you to call my guy at Scotland Yard.”

Fairmont pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to Kenyon. It read “Detective Inspector Humphrey Arundel, Metropolitan Police.” “He's an odd duck, but don't take him lightly,” said Fairmont. “He's connected.”