Secret Combinations (36 page)

“I have an unimpeachable alibi on the night of her murder,” said deWolfe.

“Who?”

“You, of course.” DeWolfe pulled out a cigar, then lit it. “By the way, how is the posterior? Any lingering soreness?”

“
You
tried to kill me?”

DeWolfe held up a protesting hand. “On strictest orders merely to wound.”

“Orders from whom?”

“Why, Ilsa, of course. I must say, I found it sublimely clever.” DeWolfe glanced at the painting. “She had a custom bug made in a replica of
Techno 69
, then suborned Ricci into swapping the real one for the fake in the boardroom of her own company.”

Kenyon nodded at the dead
CIA
agent. “How did he fit in?”

“We hired Dahg to act as a mule and pick up the Cyberworm virus. He thought he was picking up control software for an air force attack drone.”

“And you?”

DeWolfe grinned. “You mean, what benefits did I get above and beyond Ilsa's—how shall we say it—natural charms? A man of my tastes cannot satisfy them through a mere consultant's fees. Even the money we made blackmailing Lydia wasn't sufficient. When we finally turn the encryption code over to Herr Garbajian, we are to be paid one hundred million—more than enough to keep me in comfort for the rest of my life.”

DeWolfe suddenly lost interest in the agent. Bending over
Techno 69
, he carefully began tucking it back into its hiding place behind Lydia's portrait.

Kenyon stared down at his bound hands. There was no way he could reach the Luger. He nudged Legrand in the foot, and the older man glanced up. Kenyon nodded imperceptibly toward his back.

Legrand nodded back. The
PI
shifted his weight, drawing his tied hands slowly around the post.

Kenyon arched his back, bringing his waistline closer. Legrand's fingers were only inches from the gun.

The butt of deWolfe's Colt suddenly cracked into the side of Legrand's head, knocking him to his knees. The spy reached around behind Kenyon's back, drawing the gun out. “Naughty, naughty.” He glanced at the round in the chamber, then tucked the gun into the back of his own waistline. “Somebody could get hurt.”

DeWolfe turned his head, sniffing the air. “What's that, a whiff of smoke? Dear me, I do believe something may be on fire.”

Kenyon glanced up the stairs; the first traces of black smoke were curling down from the kitchen. “The police are already onto you,” he said, in desperation. “You can't get away.”

“That is a chance I intend to take.” DeWolfe picked up Lydia's portrait and headed for the cellar door. “Thank you for finding the painting.
Auf Wiedersehen
.”

“Where do you think you're going?” a woman asked.

All three men craned their necks upward. Ilsa stood at the top of the cellar stairs, a silver filigreed Perazzi shotgun cradled in her arms.

DeWolfe placed the painting slowly to the ground. “Darling!”

Ilsa descended the steps, the shotgun pointed directly at deWolfe's chest. “Drop the gun.”

DeWolfe threw the Colt down.

“Stand back.”

DeWolfe took several steps back, toward the cellar doors. “I was just coming to look for you.” He held his hands feebly in the air.

As Ilsa bent over the gun, deWolfe drew the Luger from his waistband.

He wasn't fast enough. The Perazzi flashed, and deWolfe hurled back into the cellar doors, his chest crushed by the force of the blast.

Ilsa stepped cautiously forward. DeWolfe, his breath wheezing out from his shirt in bright red bubbles, stared at the advancing woman. He struggled to raise his gun, but Ilsa fired a second round, this time at his head. His face dissolved in a pulp. She leaned over and pried the Luger from the dead man's hand, wiping the blood from the barrel.

Legrand roused himself. “Ilsa! Please, cut these bonds!”

“Shut up, worm.” His wife then ignored him, her attention drawn to the painting.

Kenyon turned to the older man. “She's not going to set us free, Raymond. She's going to kill us.”

Ilsa raised her eyes from Lydia's portrait. “I was, but now that my former partner has set fire to the family homestead, I think I shall let you burn, instead.” The side of her mouth curled up in a crooked smile. “It seems that much more cruel.”

“Why did you do it?” asked Kenyon. “For the money?”

Ilsa approached Kenyon. She stood very close, staring up into his eyes. She gently caressed his cheek with the tip of the Luger. “No, darling. I did it for revenge.”

Kenyon stared back into her eyes, looking for some spark of humanity, but the cold blue orbs were devoid of life, like a deep pool of glacial water. “Revenge?”

“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.

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 Lady 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.”