by JJ Marsh
As she replaced the receiver, she thought she heard him singing ‘High on a hill stood a lonely goatherd ...’ Chuckling, she headed for the bathroom.
She might even attempt to style her hair. It wasn’t every night that she had fun.
“Are you decent?”
“I’m never anything else. Come in, Madeleine, take a seat. I’ll be two minutes.” Beatrice gestured to the sofa and returned to the bathroom. Her hair refused point blank to return its previous sleek and shiny incarnation. Tonight, it was especially troublesome.
Madeleine’s voice wafted through the door. “No hurry at all. I’ll pour us a drink. We should celebrate.”
“Good idea. Oh!” She came back to the living-room to face her guest. “Have you had some good news?”
Madeleine’s blue eyes scrunched up and a huge smile lit up her wan cheeks. “You got it! Michael got promoted and we’re going back to New York! Permission to leave – as of next month!”
“Oh Madeleine, that is wonderful news. I am so pleased for you. I know you found life in Zürich awfully tough. Have you booked a flight yet?”
“Hey, I’ll get one tomorrow. But finally I can go home and start rebuilding my career, you know? So let’s drink to our successes, eh? These are Kir Royales – I think we deserve it. To us!”
The glass of blush bubbles looked elegant, appropriate and even matched Beatrice’s blouse. She tinked her glass against Madeleine’s and smiled. “To us!”
As she sipped, a flush of warmth filled her. Even a dispassionate observer could see the change in Madeleine’s demeanour. The woman vibrated with energy and good cheer.
Madeleine waved her glass. “Don’t let me hold up your preparations. Take your glass with you, and I’ll tell all when you’re ready.”
“Right. I’ll just finish my hair. And tell me anyway, I can hear you from the bathroom. When did you get the news?”
Madeleine raised her voice over the hairdryer. “Just after lunch. Which was so annoying, I can’t tell you. I had a pretzel and a Coke on the run, then found out I could have been at Brasserie Lipp, popping champagne corks and shucking oysters. Ah well, it’s almost over now.”
“You must be so relieved. Mmm, this Kir Royale is hitting the spot.”
“My own recipe. Say, how was your day?”
Beatrice despaired of trying to recreate her salon hair, gave it a pat and returned to the living room.
“My day was very pleasing. I have high hopes of soon being able to return home too. So, let’s have a toast.”
Madeleine stood and lifted her glass. “So let’s toast. To my ticket out of here, your breakthrough and future happiness for both of us! To going home!”
“To going home!”
The sweet blackcurrant and dry champagne was most appealing. One of those drinks that tasted dangerously innocent.
Beatrice smacked her lips. “But before we leave, we’re going to sample some genuine Swiss culture. I’m very excited about this.”
“Me too. To be honest, it’s not likely that I’ll ever be back, so I should see as much as I can before I ship out.” Madeleine drained the last of her cocktail. “So! Shall we go local?” She picked up her oversized handbag.
“Let’s.” Beatrice gathered her accoutrements from the coffee table. “Key card, mobile, handbag and my shawl. It’s a lovely evening, but might be chilly later. Right, I’m ready to go.”
As she pulled the apartment door closed behind them, Madeleine started to sing.
“I love Zürich in the springtime, I love Zürich in the fall ...”
“Hush, now!” Beatrice assumed her schoolmarm voice, summoning the lift with a grin. “One Kir Royale and she’s anybody’s.”
But the truth was that she was twice as high-spirited and gigglesome as her companion. Must have been the champagne.
Keep calm. There could be nothing in it.
Chris tried to ignore the adrenalin rush that charged his body.
“Steganography is a way of hiding data within data,” he began, before drawing a long breath and trying to focus his thoughts. Xavier waited, full of concentration.
“It’s been around since, oh I don’t know, the Greeks? It’s an old art. But now you can apply the ancient principle to technology. To the casual observer, the piece of music, the photo, the video file looks completely innocent. But it has been altered to include information. Text, visuals, you name it. And the resulting image looks almost exactly the same as the original. Only with the right key; like change every third pixel to 25% darker and so on, can you uncover what’s really in there.”
“I know a little about that. It is the method of data transmission used by terrorists and military spies, that sort of thing? But even if we have the images, or think we do, we can achieve nothing without the key. Can we?” Xavier’s voice sounded hopeful.
“There are two ways of going about this. We can try a universal application, taking this image and analysing it for embedded material. Depends on what’s in there, if anything. If the payload is small, we may find nothing. But if there’s significant data hidden behind this picture, there are lots of ways of slicing it up to see what’s inside. That should give us enough information to see if the image needs investigating. We have the tools to find out where to dig; but unearthing whatever is hidden could be more of a challenge.”
“And the other approach?”
“We find the key. This is not a simple ‘two steps left, one back’ code. This is a complex instruction for this algorithm which she must have recorded somewhere. Maybe it’s encrypted, coded ... goddam it to hell!” He slammed his palm onto the table.
“Chris? Is everything fine?”
“Sorry, Xav. Really. It’s just that there’s something ... I don’t know. An idea, a hint of something keeps bubbling just under the surface. But every time I try to grab it, it’s gone. There’s a clue here, I just know I haven’t picked up on a vital point. Maybe coffee would help. You want some?”
“Yes. Would it be intelligent for me to look for the key? While you try the applications to open these pictures, and maybe with luck, one of us will find out what is interred there?”
“Coffee. Come. Give your eyes a break.”
Xavier followed Chris to the rest area. Two brains whirred, clunked, hissed and fizzed in an echo of the coffee machine.
“Xav, are we wasting our time? Should we keep analysing the rest of this data and not run off after a wild card?”
Xavier stirred his coffee thoroughly, despite the fact he’d added no sugar.
“If you really feel we are gambling on a wild card, let’s call Sabine and Conceição back. They can make sure there’s nothing significant somewhere else on the hard drive. My gut tells me we have something, but you’re right. We shouldn’t run in only one direction and forget the rest. Shall I call them?”
Chris felt a buzzing between the joints of his fingers. He threw back his espresso and tossed the cup into the recycling bin.
“My gut is with your gut. We’ve found our way in and now we have to crack it. You explore anywhere she might have hidden the key, while I’ll apply every steganalysis technique I can access. We’ll pull this bastard out of there and present B with a fait accompli by the morning. Come on, this has just started to get interesting.”
Xavier threw his cup after Chris’s and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. Chris filled a paper cup with water and looked at the younger man.
“It’s a lot to ask of you, working through like this. Do you need anything?”
Xavier shook his head and met Chris’s eyes. “It is nothing to ask of a member of the team. And no, I want no more food. The only hunger I feel is for knowledge.”
Chris burst into laughter and wrapped his arm around his colleague’s shoulders. “Sometimes, Xav, you are so bloody French.”
Bahnhofstrasse was busy. Couples strolled along the wide pavements, groups of businessmen left their offices to continue talking shop in one of the many discreet bars, and a gaggle of shri
eking teenagers ran for the No. 7 tram. Crossing the street, Madeleine led the way up Rennweg. No trams, no vehicles of any sort, just cobblestones and wandering pedestrians.
“That’s the hotel we’re going to later,” Madeleine indicated to their right. The white building sported blue shutters and the image of a mountain goat. Beatrice nodded. Hard to imagine yodelling in such an enclosed space. But she supposed yodellers must practise somewhere. As the street narrowed and descended toward the River Limmat, both women were absorbed by the variety of shop windows, intriguing alleyways, courtyards with murals and, the first time for Beatrice, a display of cuckoo clocks.
“Madeleine, look! I haven’t seen a single one since arriving in Switzerland. But here they all are. There is something so kitsch and charming about them. Someone wants me to bring one back.”
Madeleine wrinkled her nose. “Not my sort of thing. I love the Swiss railway clock. Clean, functional and precise. These things are for tourists.”
“True. For people like us.” She peered closer. “But as I told her, not at those prices. I’ll buy her some chocolate and be done with it.”
Before entering the church, Madeleine suggested walking to the Stadthausquai to see the famous windows from the outside. Turning their backs to the river and the sound of swans quarrelling over scraps, they looked up. Passers-by paid them no attention. Madeleine leaned toward Beatrice.
“I thought about buying a camera. But you know what? I am going away with all these pictures in my mind. My skills in photography couldn’t do justice to this, anyhow. You wait there a second and I’ll just check it’s still open.”
Beatrice wasn’t really listening. The windows must have been 30 foot tall, such fabulously dense works of art. She stepped back to the riverbank railing, leaning back to take in the whole wall. She had no idea what the pictures signified, but they were undoubtedly uplifting.
Madeleine came back and tweaked her sleeve. “Yes, we have another hour before they close. Shall we go in?”
“This is where the bodies are buried, I’m sure of it.” Chris called over his shoulder. “The only compressed files which seem to have a data irregularity are those posted by ‘Mother-of-Pearl’.”
Xavier tapped at his keyboard. “I’ll look back at the conversations between the two of them, and see if anything comes up. ‘Mother-of-Pearl’ is definitely her favourite poster; they have a whole series of private messages to each another.”
“Print them out, and let’s take a look. Do they discuss any other artists?”
“A little. There are some comments on Paula Rego and on Freud.”
“Freud?”
“Yes, Lucien Freud. He was in that Portrait triptych. Oh, you were thinking of that Freud. No, it’s the other one.”
Chris’s head jerked up and he stared at Xavier. “The other one.”
He clasped both hands to his forehead and leant back as the realisation hit him. “Xavier, that’s it. That’s what I was trying to grasp. The other Bacon. There was another Francis Bacon, a scientist, philosopher and so on. Some people think he wrote Shakespeare’s stuff. But what’s important is he was one of the earlier print steganographers and he came up with a cipher. Shit! I think we’ve found the way to decode it.”
“Have we? Even if we have, what is it that we decode?”
“It has to be in the early communication between Richter and this ‘Mother-of-Pearl’. Did you print those personal messages? Give them to me. We’re looking for anything that looks like strange English. Or just strange.”
All of it was bloody strange. Chris scanned the bland exchanges with increasing irritation. Then something caught his eye.
Yes, the skin quality was the first thing that drew me. It’s like meat.
Is that where you got your name? Mother-of-Pearl?
Yes! I find an agony in his work. Such pain, such tragedy.
He had such pain and tragedy in his life.
Everything about him breaks my heart.
You’re right. Bacon seems so sad. There is a sadness about him, poor boy.
I understand his work. It makes sense to me.
I’m happy to hear that. Me too.
“What do you see, Chris?”
“What do you see, Xav?”
“The only thing that made me wonder was this bit. I understand, it makes sense. I’m probably naïve, but does this communication mean ‘message received’, do you think?”
“In which case, the previous sentence, or conversation above is our payload. What do you see there?”
“Nothing. I tried everything. First letters, take out vowels, I think I may need some time to work the code.”
“We already have the code. It’s Bacon’s cipher. We need to find some communication which uses a binary combination. For example, a combination of two different size fonts?”
There was a moment’s silence. “Yes! It’s there! ‘You’re right. Bacon seems so sad. There is a sadness about him, poor boy.’ That’s got two different sizes.”
“It has, but they’re pretty close. You wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it. Now what we need to do is decode. Let me drag up Bacon’s cipher. Shit, it’s so true. Keeping it simple always works best. Right, Xavier, copy this into a WORD document, then denote each use of a font with a or b, starting with a. And group them into five.”
Xavier nodded, and like a trouper, got down to work. “Twelve, twelve, eleven, twelve ...”
Chris did exactly the same in his head, and reached his conclusion minutes before his colleague. While waiting, he proceeded to do the decryption the other way. Belt and braces.
Xavier’s head snapped up. “Finished. You want to hear? I’ve got aabab, abbab, baaaa ...”
“Hang on. What you have is a series of a/b combinations. Here, look. Each combination of a/b delivers a letter. So now we apply Bacon’s cipher. For example, aabab in Bacon’s chart represents the letter F. Now we need to decode the rest. God, I hope we got this right. Go, take your text and work it out.”
Xavier’s eyes flicked from Chris’s print-out to his own handwriting, making notes and noises of satisfaction. Chris checked both his versions mentally and forced himself not to crow as he saw it.
Xavier got to the end. “It says ‘forty two LSB’. Least Significant Bit! That’s pixels, that’s the instruction for how to explore it. I think we found it, Chris!”
Chris kept the lid on his elation.
“Well, we found part of it. There must be a whole lot more, but we can get started. Keep looking for more phrases like that in their conversations, and transcribe it the same way. I’m going to begin unpacking some of these images.”
Reseated at his workstation, Xavier turned. “Are you going to look at the most recent stuff, in 2012?”
“I think I’ll start with 2007. Let’s build up a chronological picture. There’s no hurry. As B said, she’s already got her victim for this year.”
The heavy handle banged an echo to announce their entrance, but no other tourists were in sight. Stopping just inside the doorway, Madeleine carefully closed the door, while Beatrice took in the huge vaulted transept. A change in atmosphere drained her frivolity. This was obviously a perfect time to come sight-seeing – not a soul around. Jewel-bright colours up to her right caught her attention. The Giacometti window. Row upon row of men and angels robed in rich shades looked down on her. Feeling under-informed, she picked up a brochure bearing a Union Jack and began to read.
Madeleine bumped her hip up against her. “Beatrice! Come on, we can do the research later. Let’s just take a look at the real thing.”
Turning the corner, they entered the choir area and stopped in their tracks. Five Chagall windows; one right, one left, and the three they had seen from outside. The late afternoon light, contrasting with the darker interior, enriched the vivid pictures and threw reflections at their feet. Like a patchwork quilt of glass, leaded seams joining squares, triangles and parallelograms of cobalt, daffodil, cyan and turquoise. A raw joy
pulsed through Beatrice, elation at experiencing such beauty. Twin impulses rose: to cry and to laugh. She did neither but soaked up the scale of the vision. Such grandeur, such majesty; unsurprising that one should feel a sense of religious awe. Stars adorned the ceiling and the clean, palest grey stone bore engravings of angels’ wings. The collusion between Nature and Man achieved its objective – she felt small in the presence of grace.
“What’s the time?” asked Chris, returning from the bathroom.
“Twenty past seven.” Xavier stood behind Chris’s chair, reading the data extracted from Fragment of a Crucifixion. Photographs, bank details, company description, financial statements, news reports and medical history, along with a detailed record of the movements and sexual preferences of Jens van der Veld. “It’s unbelievable. So much information hidden in one picture.”
Chris scanned the bottom of the screen, packed with tiny icons indicating the various documents he had found in the file. “Like the Tardis.”
Xavier looked up in enquiry.
“Never mind. OK, so it’s taken me over an hour to reveal this. Presuming the steganalysis tool is accurate, we have eight more files to unpack. We can do two at a time. Now, if the key were different for each image, we could be here a long time. However, it seems that the same key is valid for each of these JPEGs, with some slight adjustments. All of which she has communicated through the same channels. So we could, in theory, expose the lot by midnight.”
Xavier’s expression was puzzled. “Why are there eight, Chris? There’s a pattern up to a point. This Crucifixion stuff was communicated in 2007, and obviously correlates with the Utrecht killing. There’s one image per year, so presumably we’ll find Thompson behind Three Studies from the Human Body, and Man in Blue I contains everything on Belanov, and so on.”
“Yeah. And so the only oddity is the number of images for 2011 and 2012. There are two for each. In 2011, Untitled (Marching Figures) was downloaded in January, and Blood on the Floor in April. So the latter must contain data on Ryman. Who’s behind Untitled, then? Did we miss someone?”
Xavier shrugged. “Maybe we did. Two deaths in 2011? But I’m more worried about the extra file for this year. One of them must be Esposito, of course. Probably Head IV, downloaded April 2012.”
