Secret Combinations (39 page)

Finally, Arundel turned to Kenyon. “I understand if you don't want to talk, but I would be eternally grateful if you were to explain to me why Ilsa did what she did.”

Kenyon stared out the front window for a moment. “Revenge, pure and simple. She hated Lydia for stealing her man, and she hated her even worse for stealing the son she never had. When Ilsa learned that Lydia was going to reveal the truth, she snapped.”

“Exactly what did she do?”

“She used Lydia's gallery to plant the bug in her own boardroom so that she could record the encryption code. She enlisted deWolfe and sent him to San Francisco to steal the Cyberworm virus from under my nose. If it hadn't been for the fact that Lydia stumbled across the fake, she would have framed us both and gotten away with it clean.”

“Did you ever resolve who killed Lydia?” asked Arundel

“Yeah. Ilsa did it.”

Arundel looked over at Kenyon, surprised. “How did she manage that while hosting a charity auction?”

“It wasn't tough,” said the agent. “She left the auction near the end of the evening on the excuse she had to look in on Sir Rupert. Once she saw Lydia leave, Ilsa snuck down the back stairs, changed into her riding clothes in the stables, and rode up the bridle path to the Abbey Road. Then she waited in ambush until Lydia passed by, and shone the laser light in her eyes.”

“Well, it does sound plausible, but I'm still concerned that the real killer remains at large,” said Arundel. “Are you certain it was her?”

Kenyon patted the letter Ilsa had tucked in his pocket. “I'm sure.”

They reached Heathrow, and Arundel turned into the exit lane. “Well, I'm glad of that. I'd hate to think you had plans to continue investigating.”

“What do you mean?” asked Kenyon.

Arundel placed his tongue firmly in his cheek. “For starters, you seem to leave an appalling pile of corpses wherever you go.”

“Hey, without me, you guys wouldn't have had a case.”

“Would you believe me if I told you the authorities are eternally grateful for the invaluable contributions you have made to the protection of Her Majesty's realm?”

Kenyon laughed. “No.”

They pulled up in front of the terminal. Kenyon got out of the Bentley and removed his luggage from the trunk, then returned to the driver's side and stuck his hand through the window.

“Thanks for the lift, Humphrey.”

Arundel shook his hand. “You're welcome, Jack. And, do hurry back, old boy.”

“Why?”

Arundel put the car in gear. “It's so frightfully dull around here without you.”

Kenyon watched him pull away, then turned and headed for the entrance.

•  •  •

It took the
agent several minutes to find the check-in for his flight, but his first-class ticket meant he didn't have to stand in line very long. The agent flashed his
FBI
badge at security, and they waived him through the metal detectors into the departure area.

Kenyon ordered a coffee from a cappuccino stand and took his drink to a small table adjacent to the walkway. He watched as passengers streamed by, their arms full of duty free goods, heading for their homes and families, to the people they loved.

He finished his coffee and glanced up at the departures information. The flight for San Francisco was leaving from gate 32. Kenyon gathered up his jacket and bag and headed down a long corridor.

Gate 32 was packed with tourists heading home to the States. Everyone from bleached blond backpackers to grannies in support stockings. Kenyon spotted Gonelli, her big handbag clutched in her arms, a soggy cigar clenched in her teeth. She was sitting by herself, knitting a scarf. Kenyon sat down beside her. “Hi, Marge.”

“Hey, kiddo.”

Kenyon just sat and smiled at Marge for a moment. Finally, he spoke. “Did you know Lydia was my mom?”

Gonelli stopped knitting. “Yeah. It came up on your background check.”

“How come you never told me?”

Gonelli stared down at her knitting. “I don't know.”

“Marge, whenever I imagined what my real mom would be like, she always seemed a lot like you.”

Gonelli hugged him. “You're a real sweetie, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know. Speaking of sweeties, what happened to our pal Deaver?”

Gonelli laughed. “He was pretty cranky for a few days, but he's okay now.”

Kenyon tilted his head to one side. “What kind of deal did you cut?”

Gonelli made a great show of looking offended. “Whatcha talkin' about? Ain't no deal. I just told him he could take the credit for the snatch, is all.”

“Is that all?”

Gonelli winked. “Well, I do have a wonderful, glossy photo of him passed out in a wine cellar. I threatened to release it during his run for governor if he ever made any waves.”

The overhead
PA
system crackled. “Last boarding call for flight 445 to Seattle, gate 34,” said the announcer.

Kenyon leaned forward and picked up his bag.

“Hey, ain't you coming back to San Francisco with me?” asked Gonelli.

“No, Marge.” Kenyon patted his carry-on. “There's something I have to do first.”

Gonelli took the cigar out of her mouth and gave Kenyon a kiss on the cheek. “You're a good boy, Jack Kenyon.”

The flight took ten hours, and Kenyon was glad to finally get off the plane and stretch his legs when it arrived in SeaTac. He could see the remnants of a rainstorm that had just swept across the airport, drenching the tarmac. By the time Kenyon found a car agency and rented a sedan the clouds had cleared off, and seagulls circled in a brilliant blue sky.

Kenyon headed east, the flatlands around Seattle quickly giving way to the Cascade Range. His car ascended the slopes of the magnificent mountains, the road winding its way upward to a pass into the Columbia basin. Even in the height of summer, snow still clung to Mount Rainier, and the cold, wet winds that whistled down the glacial valleys filling his lungs with clean, sweet air.

Kenyon drove for several hours through the vast plain of scrub and farmland that covered the interior of Washington State, stopping only to fill up the tank at a roadside gas station and buy a burger at a drive-in restaurant.

By mid-afternoon, he had passed through the city of Spokane, and was once again climbing, this time the western slopes of the Bitterroot Range.

By early evening, Kenyon had crossed into Montana. He breathed in the heady forest perfume from the aspen and evergreens covering the eastern foothills.

It was well into the long summer twilight when he reached the turnoff. Kenyon pointed the car north, and the paved highway gave way to a gravel road that wound its way along a broad river valley.

Most of the trees had been cleared for pasture land, and herds of cattle cropped at the summer grass. Every few miles, a pick-up truck driven by a man wearing a ballcap would roll by. Without even thinking, Kenyon would lift the first three fingers of his driving hand, saluting his neighbor.

After driving for fifteen minutes, the road gradually narrowed and began to climb. The pasture gave way to stands of trees, until forest once again loomed over the road. The sun, now low on the horizon, cut horizontally through the trees. Kenyon felt as though he were driving through a long, dusty cathedral.

The road finally dead-ended at the entrance to a ranch. The gate had been built out of pine logs, and was decorated with elk antlers and the skull of a grizzly bear. A wooden plaque had two words carved into it: “Eden Valley.” Kenyon opened the gate, drove the car through, and closed the gate behind him.

By the time he reached the ranch house, Cyrus was waiting for him on the porch. Kenyon got out of the car and stood before his grandfather. The deep blue eyes that stared out of Cyrus's wind-worn face were softer than Kenyon ever remembered.

“Welcome home, Jack,” said Cyrus. “You want to come in and sit a bit?”

Kenyon looked at the setting sun. “No, I want to do it now.”

Cyrus nodded his head, as if he already knew the answer. “I'll go saddle the horses while you change.”

Kenyon carried his luggage inside the house. It was just as he remembered it: the potbellied stove, the bear rug on the floor, the guns on the wall. The
TV
was new; a big Sony flatscreen, but otherwise it was all the same, right down to the smell of pipe smoke and the old, battered enamel coffee pot on the stove.

Kenyon walked back to his room. The bed and dresser seemed so tiny. When had he ever imagined his entire world between these walls? He pulled on his jeans, then dug through the closet. His old cowboy boots were stiff and curled, but they still fit. He took a suede coat off a peg and put it on. It was going to be cool tonight. He removed a package out of his carry-on luggage and tucked it into the wide pocket of the coat.

Outside, Cyrus stood beside the porch with the horses. Kenyon took the reins and climbed up on a tall, roan mare.

“She's just broke last summer, so have a mind,” warned Cyrus.

The roan was frisky, but Kenyon kept the reins tight against her neck, and she soon settled down. As they entered a trail behind the ranch, the last of the sun shone against a string of clouds high above the mountains, filling the air with a blaze of orange and gold. A lone eagle circled overhead, a graceful, black dot.

They finally reached the top of a ridge overlooking Eden Valley. Below them, the lights of the farmhouse and barn twinkled in the inky trough of the valley.

They stopped, and both men dismounted. Kenyon stared at the vista for a moment, then turned to Cyrus. “You bring a flashlight?”

The older man dug through his saddlebag while Kenyon pulled the letter Ilsa had given him out of his pocket. The two men stood upon the ridge, Cyrus holding the flashlight, Kenyon reading the letter.

Dear Jack:

When you were one day old, I held you in my arms. You looked at me with your bright blue eyes, and you gripped my finger so hard that when the nurse came for you, I couldn't let you go. I love you now with all my heart, just as I did then.

Lydia

Kenyon took the pouch from his pocket and opened it. The wind was blowing up the slope, and when he scattered Lydia's ashes, they soared skywards, then far and wide over Eden Valley, until you could no longer distinguish them from the stars that danced in the deep, cobalt sky.

Over the course of several years, I have had the privilege of consulting many fascinating people from a variety of backgrounds in order to write this book. I would like to thank Herbert Cohrs, assistant legal attaché to the American Embassy in London, and George Grotz, special agent stationed in San Francisco, for their insight and knowledge concerning the FBI, both home and abroad. I would also like to thank London art dealers Harry Blain and Charlie Phillips for their explanation of how the international art sector functions (and, occasionally, doesn't). My gratitude to optometrist Dr. Ken Gellatly for detailing how the eye can be harmed by lasers, and to gun instructor Bill Heyder for showing me how avoid shooting myself in the foot with a Sig Sauer pistol. In addition, many, many thanks to publisher Ruth Linka and all the people at TouchWood for helping Jack Kenyon see the light of day, and to editor Linda Richards for improving my prose immensely.

GORDON COPE
is an experienced feature writer and business reporter who has lived in London and Paris and traveled around the world. His travel memoirs include
A Paris Moment
(2005),
So, We Sold Our House and Ran Away to the South Pacific
(2006), and
A Thames Moment
(2010).
Secret Combinations
is Gordon's first novel. He lives in Calgary, Alberta.

Copyright © 2011 Gordon Cope

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (
ACCESS
Copyright). For a copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca.

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Cope, Gordon, 1955–
Secret combinations [electronic resource] / Gordon Cope.
Type of computer file: Electronic monograph in HTML format.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-926971-54-4
I. Title.
PS8605.O679S43 2011a C813'.6 C2011-904171-5

Editor: Linda Richards
Proofreader: Lenore Hietkamp
Cover image: Linda Steward, istockphoto.com
Author photo: Bob Blakey

We gratefully acknowledge the financial support for our publishing activities from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, Canada Council for the Arts, and the province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.