Secret Combinations (38 page)

Kenyon studied the trapdoor for a moment. “Tight squeeze,” he whispered.

Harry nodded in agreement. “What's the plan?”

“We just need to find the cable to the dish and cut it.”

Harry pulled the bayonet off the end of his rifle “Give me thirty seconds.” Gripping the bayonet in his teeth, he climbed the ladder. He cautiously peered over the lip of the trapdoor, then eased himself onto the roof. In a second, he was gone.

Kenyon reached thirty seconds, but there was no sign of Harry. He climbed the ladder.

Kenyon peered over the lip of the door. The roof of the warehouse was flat, with a two-foot wooden lip at the edge of the building. To his left, he could make out the silhouette of the large dish. A function light glowed bright red at the base: it was still in operation and Harry was nowhere to be seen.

“Harry!” hissed Kenyon. “Where are you?”

Kenyon could hear a mewling sound coming from the direction of the dish. Clambering out onto the roof, he advanced, wondering what a kitten was doing out there.

It wasn't a cat making the noise, it was Harry. Kenyon found the soldier sitting against the wooden lip of the roof. He was weakly clawing at something on his shoulder.

“Are you all right?” asked Kenyon. He crouched over to peer at whatever Harry was tugging at.

It was his bayonet. Someone had forced it through his arm, pinning him to the wood behind. Kenyon felt like retching.

Harry's eyes went wide as he focused on someone behind Kenyon.

Instinctively, Kenyon rolled to the left. A machete thudded into the lip, burying itself in the wood.

Kenyon spun to face his adversary. Ali stood behind him, tugging on the shaft of the machete in an effort to dislodge it. He launched himself against the man, tackling him in the midriff, but Ali flung Kenyon to one side, and resumed tugging at the machete.

Kenyon staggered to his feet. He was unarmed, but he couldn't leave Harry at the villain's mercy.

Suddenly, it struck him; Ali wasn't up there to attack the two men, he was there to protect the transmitter. Kenyon turned and rushed toward the dish, searching for the feeder cable. He found the line, wrapped several loops around his hand, and pulled it from the base of the dish.

With a bellow, Ali freed his machete and pursued Kenyon. The agent ducked behind the dish, trying to keep the end of the cable out of the giant's hand.

For a few frantic seconds, the duo lurched around the dish until Ali stomped down on the end of the cable, knocking Kenyon off balance. He stumbled against the lip of the roof and fell backwards over the edge. He would have plunged to his death, but the cable wrapped around his hand stopped him. He pounded against the side of the building, knocking the wind out of his lungs.

Swinging on the end of the cable, Kenyon glanced up. Through a haze of stars, he could see Ali standing above. The giant grinned wickedly, his machete held high.

Ali was interrupted by a beeping sound. He turned and glanced back toward Harry.

Kenyon grinned. “Time's up, big guy,” he said.

There was a muffled clap of thunder, and the roof of the building rose. Ali and the dish hung weightless in the air for a moment, before plunging into the gaping hole in the roof.

Kenyon didn't have time to think. The cable, still entangled in the dish, whip-stocked him back onto the roof and across the tarry surface. Just as he was about to plunge after Ali, the dish came to rest, and Kenyon came to a halt at the lip of the hole. Directly below, amid the smoke from the explosion, Ali lay spreadeagled, unmoving.

The agent disentangled himself from the cable and ran over to Harry. A large pool of blood had formed beneath him, but he was still conscious.

“We'll have you out of here in a jiffy,” said Kenyon.

Harry smiled weakly. “No worries.”

“I'm going to get help.” Kenyon squeezed through the trapdoor and descended the steel ladder. He found an
SAS
commando near the base of the ladder. “Harry's up top,” said Kenyon. “He's injured. Call for an ambulance.”

Kenyon headed back to the main room. Amid the swirling dust and smoke, he could see that the steel door to the alcove sat ajar, ripped from its mounts by the explosion. Inside the alcove, Garbajian and his henchmen lay face down on the floor, guarded by
SAS
commandos.

Kenyon scanned the computer monitor. A message flashed on the screen: “Transmission aborted.” He breathed a sigh of relief, but the relief was short-lived. Arundel emerged from a passageway at the far end of the alcove. “Ilsa's escaped. She has the encryption code with her.”

Kenyon ran back through the main room. He found a door leading into the lane adjacent to the warehouse. Pushing it open, he spotted Ilsa's car racing toward the end of the lane. A commando fired, bursting one of the taillights, but it didn't stop the car, which struck the wooden gate, smashing it off its hinges.

Kenyon ran down the lane and clambered over the remains of the wooden gate, staring at the retreating car. Lady Beatrice appeared at his side and grabbed him by the arm. “Come on, young man, she's escaping.” She pushed Kenyon toward the Bentley. “I'll drive.”

“No,” replied Kenyon, climbing behind the wheel. “I'll drive. You have to let backup know where we're going.”

Lady Beatrice switched the radio to multi-broadcast. “We have a suspect in flight heading east on Tooley Street in a black Mercedes. She is armed and dangerous. Use extreme caution.”

With one of the rear taillights smashed, Kenyon soon made out its distinctive pattern. He floored the accelerator and the powerful car leapt ahead.A police van pulled from a side road, trying to block the Mercedes' path. Ilsa swerved sharply to the left, following an exit lane.

“She's heading north onto Tower Bridge Road,” said Lady Beatrice into the radio. “Can someone block the north end?”

Kenyon turned onto Tower Bridge Road and peered ahead. “Doesn't look like we'll need anyone,” he said. “They've closed the bridge.”

A ship was approaching upstream, and the bridgemaster had initiated the raising of the leaves that allowed passage of large vessels under the structure. A pair of tall blue gates had been swung out onto the roadway to block traffic but the Mercedes didn't even slow down. Ilsa swung into the empty right lane and plowed through the barrier, accelerating toward the far end.

“The woman is completely insane,” said Lady Beatrice. “What is she going to do, leap the gap?”

Kenyon sped in pursuit but by the time the Bentley reached the barrier, Ilsa's car was nearing the halfway point. The mechanical leaves had already started to inch slowly upwards, and a gap of several feet had opened. Kenyon could see the bridge master in his office frantically trying to reverse the widening gap.

It was too late. At the last moment, Ilsa tried to stop, but the Mercedes fishtailed out of control and plunged sideways into the gap.

Kenyon slammed on the brakes and brought the Bentley to a halt. He and Lady Beatrice ran to the edge and peered down.

The bridge had finally ground to a halt. There, stuck in the gap, was the Mercedes. Inside, they could see Ilsa struggling, trying to free herself.

The bridge began to lower. “Dear God, she'll be crushed,” said Lady Beatrice. She turned and shouted at the bridgemaster. “Stop! Stop!”

The two mechanical leaves pressed upon the Mercedes like a nut cracker. The roof began to buckle, and the side windows exploded. Kenyon could see that the passenger window was a possible escape route. “Hang on,” he called, clambering onto the side of the car.

Ilsa lay across the front seat of the Mercedes. “Can you move?” asked Kenyon.

Ilsa looked up. “My leg is stuck.”

Kenyon glanced down toward the floor of the front seat. There, jammed between the dashboard and the gearshift, was the picture of Lydia. Ilsa's leg was pinned beneath the frame. “Give me your hand,”

Ilsa reached out, and their hands met. The agent pulled, but Ilsa's leg was stuck fast beneath the portrait's frame.

There was a loud clap as the Mercedes' windshield imploded, showering Kenyon with glass. The agent let go of Ilsa's hand and fell back as the immense weight of the bridge crushed the car. A scream arose from the mangled wreck, then silence, as the bridge finally came to a rest.

Far below, the river Thames flowed to the sea.

Jack Kenyon walked down the
hospital hallway, the wheels of his carry-on luggage squeaking as they rolled over the spotless tiles. He stopped at the entrance to room 211. He could hear the sound of voices coming through the door. He rapped on the door, then walked in.

The room was painted in a faint peach, and the curtains had been drawn back to allow sunlight to spill through the large windows. Legrand was dressed in a standard issue hospital gown, his leg wrapped in a plaster cast and his arm covered in burn gauze. His mattress had been tilted up so that he could watch
TV
.

Tanya O'Neill sat in a visitor's chair beside Legrand's bed. Kenyon stopped short, surprised at her presence. “What is she doing here?” he asked Legrand.

Legrand smiled. “Seeing as how we both loved the same woman, I invited her here to compare notes, as it were.”

“I was just going.” O'Neill leaned forward and kissed Legrand's cheek. “I'll be back soon.”

Legrand patted her arm. “Hurry back.”

O'Neill walked toward the door and stopped in front of Kenyon. “There's something I'd like to say to you. Without your help, we never would have figured out who killed her. For that, I owe you my gratitude.”

Kenyon stared into her eyes. “You loved Lydia with all your heart. For that, I owe
you
a debt of gratitude.”

Tanya stood on her tiptoes and kissed Kenyon on the lips. She turned and waved to Legrand, then left.

Kenyon turned his attention to his father. “How are you feeling today?”

“Comme-ci, comme-ça,” replied Legrand. He shrugged, pointing to the cast. “I do not like to sleep on my back, but what can I do?”

“I'm on my way to the airport, and I thought I'd stop by and give you these.” He handed Legrand a package that he'd taken from his bag. “Señora Santucci made them for you.”

Legrand opened the package and looked inside. “What are they?”

“Brownies,” explained Kenyon. “They always make me feel better when I'm sick.”

“Thank you. I am sure I will love them.” Legrand placed the package down on his bedside table, then turned off the
TV
.

The sudden silence filled the room. Finally, Legrand cleared his throat. “Jack, there is something I wish to ask you.”

“Sure.”

“Why did you not leave me to die and save yourself?”

Kenyon stared at his shoes. “It's hard to explain.”

“Please, try.”

Kenyon continued to stare at the floor. “When I was a little kid, I wondered what my real mother and father were like. I kind of pictured them living in this wonderful house with a big yard, and a dog, and they had this special room for me all made up, waiting for me to come home.” Kenyon looked up at Legrand. “Well, it didn't quite work that way.”

Legrand stared out the window. “I am sorry.”

“Don't be sorry.” The agent turned to leave.

“Your mother had a special room for you,” said Legrand.

Kenyon turned back. “Really?”

“Yes. But it was not in her home. That would have been too dangerous.”

Kenyon advanced to Legrand's bed. “Where was it, then?”

Legrand looked up at his son. “In her heart.”

Kenyon paused for a moment, then reached down and placed a hand on his father's shoulder. “Thanks, Raymond.”

Legrand eased himself up on his elbows. “I know that I cannot be the father you really wanted, but I would like to try.”

“Me, too.” Kenyon bent forward and hugged Legrand. “I've got a favor to ask.”

“Anything.”

“I decided to keep Lydia's home. When you're better, will you stay there and watch it for me?”

Legrand smiled. “Of course. What are your plans for the gallery?”

“I think Zoë Tigger is up to handling it, so I put her in charge.” Kenyon slung his bag over his shoulder and hugged his father one last time. “You take care now. I'll be back soon.”

Outside, it was a warm, sunny day. Traffic was flowing briskly down Cromwell Road. Kenyon placed the bag down and held his hand up to flag down a cab.

“Need a lift, old boy?” Detective Inspector Humphrey Arundel stood beside his Bentley, his sunglasses tilted back on his forehead. Kenyon had the feeling the other man might have been waiting for him.

Kenyon smiled. “Yeah. I'm heading out to Heathrow.”

“I just happen to be going that way. Hop in.”

Kenyon placed his bag in the back of the Bentley and climbed into the passenger side while Arundel slid into the driver's seat and merged the car into eastbound traffic.

“How is Legrand?” he asked, as he blithely pulled a U-turn across three lanes and headed west.

“He's not sleeping that well, but he's doing fine,” responded Kenyon. “Is Harry okay?”

“Broken ribs and a punctured arm, but the surgeons expect a full recovery.”

“He's a brave man.”

“Yes, he is. I suspect Her Majesty has some special trinket in store for Commander Harold Twiggley.”

Kenyon laughed. “No wonder he prefers Happy Harry. What about Garbajian and his gang?”

“They are supplying Her Majesty's government with some very interesting information that we will be more than happy to share with our American cousins,” said Arundel. “I am constrained from saying anything further.”

The traffic slowed for some roadwork, and they sat quietly for a few minutes.