Secret Breakers: The Power of Three

by H. L. Dennis

  ‘Exactly. A poem code works because the letters in the chosen phrase give the numbers and if I don’t know the phrase then I’ve absolutely no chance of breaking the code.’

  ‘So how do you think the letters in the phrase about the scabbard are numbered?’

  ‘I’m getting to that, Toots,’ said Hunter, with the tiniest note of irritation in his voice. ‘This poem system was used all the time in the Second World War. You take the phrase and you give the letter A the number 1. But, and here it gets more tricky, if there’s more than one A then the next one gets a number 2, and the third a number 3. Eventually, when you’ve used up all the As you can start to number the Bs. The first of those would get a 4 in this example.’

  ‘And what happens if there are no Bs?’

  ‘Good question. The letter C would be 4, or the letter D.’

  ‘So the numbers are totally dependent on the letters in the phrase then?’ said Brodie, trying not to sound too panicked.

  ‘Totally. And the chances for making a mistake are huge. But Van der Essen had a long time to check his code so I don’t think there’ll be many mistakes.’

  Brodie took a toffee from the shrinking pile of sweets and began to chew.

  ‘If we try this system,’ said Hunter, ‘first we have to number the letters. The letter A in “have” should be number 1 because that’s the first time A is used. Then the As in “scabbard ” are 2 and 3. Do you see?’

  Brodie tried to show she did. ‘We should all have a go at doing the numbering and compare answers just to make sure we don’t slip up.’

  As it was, Hunter finished so much faster than the others, Brodie suggested they trust him and use his numbers. Tusia didn’t attempt to disagree.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ Hunter said. ‘We’re really nearly there.’

  Hunter’s excitement was contagious. ‘So what now?’ Brodie asked.

  ‘Now, we simply decipher the code.’

  Tusia giggled but Brodie was sure this was due to a combination of exhaustion and her unusually massive intake of sugar by way of the Sherbet Dips.

  Hunter took the series of ‘handle with care’ numbers and read them aloud again. ‘41, 33, 57, 2, 24, 40, 3, 52, 23, 24, 23, 39, 29. So, the first number in our code,’ he continued, ‘is 41.’ He traced his finger along the line of letters from the scabbard phrase they’d just been numbering. ‘And the number 41 matches the letter R in our phrase. The first letter of the location is R.’

  Brodie jotted it down.

  ‘The next “handle with care” number is 33. That,’ he said, ‘gives us the letter O.’

  Brodie added an O after the R.

  Tusia blew a rather large violet bubble-gum bubble which hung for a moment in the air and then popped all over her nose. Brodie looked down and tried to make it seem she hadn’t noticed.

  For a moment Brodie thought she might’ve stumbled on the word ‘Rottweiler’, but then she remembered they were looking for a place name and decided not to share that discovery with the others anyway.

  Outside it’d begun to rain slightly and the sound of the drops against the windows kept a gentle rhythm as they worked.

  It was after midnight. Her eyes were heavy and the combination of apple crumble, Curly Wurlies and a whole packet of Starbursts was making her feel more than a little unwell.

  Hunter showed no sign of giving up. He was scribbling as if trying to scratch through the paper stuck to the wardrobe in front of him, muttering numbers as he wrote.

  At last he lowered his pencil.

  ‘I’ve done it,’ he said and his voice shook a little, maybe from exhaustion but more likely from delight.

  Brodie swallowed and the pen she was holding fell from her fingers. Every number of the code now had a letter written below it and the words that had been hidden by the code said:

  ‘So we should go and tell Smithies,’ Brodie said, stretching and standing up from the floor, her knees cracking a little as she stood. ‘Right away.’

  Tusia looked down at her watch. ‘It’s half past one in the morning.’ They’d long since exceeded their self-imposed deadline, but not one of them had mentioned it.

  ‘And the man’s made his life about trying to crack this code and we’ve done it. I don’t think he’ll mind what time it is. Not with less than one day left on that candle clock of his.’

  ‘I’m with Brodie,’ said Hunter. ‘He’s got a right to know.’

  Tusia blocked the doorway, her arms on her hips. ‘Hold on a minute. Let’s just think this through.’

  Brodie was really of the opinion they’d done enough thinking and in fact it’d be better just to get a move on, but something about the way Tusia looked at them made her hesitate.

  ‘Smithies doesn’t stay at the mansion overnight, does he?’ Tusia said, as if she were explaining the fact to a group of small children. ‘They told us that in our tour. He has a house in the village, so even if we went up to the mansion we wouldn’t be able to find him.’

  Brodie slumped despondently on to the foot of the bed. ‘Oh great. I’d forgotten. So what d’we do then? Morning’s years away. The candle will be nearly out by then.’

  Tusia flickered her eyes in thought. ‘OK. What about this? We could use the internal mail system. Leave him a note to say we’ve cracked the code and we know where the “phoenix” is hidden and then he’ll be all set to meet us tomorrow. And that way it’ll have been worth staying up half the night working. What do you think?’

  Brodie rubbed the back of her neck. She felt there was a very real possibility that with all that looking down at pieces of paper she’d never fully regain the movement of her head! ‘I say yes,’ she mumbled. ‘To at least make the pain and the headache worth it!’

  It was still raining. ‘Suppose it isn’t open?’ Hunter called as he ran towards Hut 11.

  ‘We’ll worry about that if it’s locked. I thought the idea was the hut was always open so you could pass on information in an emergency. Ingham did explain that,’ Tusia said in her best teacher voice.

  The door to the hut was indeed unlocked and after a small degree of struggling, when Hunter realised he was turning the handle the wrong way, the door opened and they were able to push inside out of the rain.

  The hut was lit in a pale yellow glow. The candle was nearly spent; the flame weak and fragile. Above their heads the internal mail vacuum system hummed gently like a sleeping animal snoring.

  ‘This Royal Pavilion,’ Brodie said as they positioned themselves below the opening in the pillar. ‘Where do you think that is?’ It was the first time they’d questioned the answer they’d found.

  ‘No idea,’ said Hunter. ‘But I’m sure Smithies will know. We just have to get him the information.’

  ‘What shall I put on the note then?’ Brodie asked, glad at least they could leave some of the problem for the adults.

  It took a while and several rejected versions before they finally agreed. Brodie wrote it down and after they all signed their names at the bottom, Hunter folded the page and slipped it carefully inside a waiting tube.

  Mr Smithies. We’ve managed to find the location of Van der Essen’s phoenix. It’s in a Royal Pavilion. Does this make sense?

  There was a gentle popping noise and then a rather inelegant slurp as the message and its tube was sucked into the overhead system and began to rattle away from them unseen across the piping in the ceiling.

  ‘So that’s it then,’ said Hunter decisively. ‘Problem well and truly solved.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Brodie.

  It was a shame really, that after all their hard work, their problems were in fact only just about to start.

  ‘There’s been a break-in,’ Mr Ingham declared over the row of breakfast cereals.

  Brodie’s glass of orange juice spilled a giant tear into her bowl of cornflakes.

  ‘A breach in security. In the early hours of the morning. Smithies is going demented.’

  Hunter kicked Brodie sharply under the
table, causing the final remnants of juice to splash on to her toast.

  ‘We have to go and check,’ Tusia hissed behind her hand, dragging Brodie by the arm.

  They hurried towards the door and across the lawn, past the ornamental fountain whose spray this time Hunter managed at least partially to avoid.

  ‘Who do you think it was?’ Brodie called, her question coming in gulping spurts.

  ‘A break-in from anyone can’t be good,’ returned Hunter, bending slightly to the left to escape the second sweep of the fountain.

  ‘Not good at all,’ added Tusia, who was trailing some distance behind mainly because the Doc Martens boots she’d chosen to wear were flapping open and she was tripping on the laces. ‘Not good at all.’

  When they reached Hut 11 the door was open and the children could make out Smithies deep in conversation with Miss Tandari. There was no flame on the candle – all trace of light now drowned by a pool of hardened wax.

  ‘Mr Smithies! Mr Smithies!’ Brodie called, trying her best to catch his attention.

  Miss Tandari hurried out of the shadows, her face set in deep lines. ‘Now’s not a good time,’ she hissed. ‘You need to get back to your huts. Keep a low profile. The last thing we want is to draw attention to this and get the police involved. There’s not much damage, only to the internal mailing system. Discretion is vital.’

  ‘But we need to speak to …’

  Miss Tandari’s eyes were deep dark pools. She was not to be argued with. Brodie backed away as Miss Tandari turned and hurried into the hut.

  ‘It’s no good,’ said Hunter as the door swung shut and the inside was cut off from view. ‘We have to get Smithies’ attention somehow.’ He paused and then his face cracked into an eager smile. ‘You two wait here. I’ll be right back.’

  It took about two minutes before he returned.

  ‘So he really rides a unicycle?’ Tusia gasped as Hunter emerged awkwardly from around the corner, the single wheel of the unicycle still severely buckled from the first-day encounter. ‘He’s really the most unusual person I’ve ever met.’

  Brodie thought this was a little rich coming from a girl who kept league tables of Russian chess matches on her wall, but decided not to argue.

  Hunter cycled perilously up to the high window and then, balancing his weight on the sill, he tapped rigorously. ‘The guy’s got to take notice from here,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘He’s just got to.’

  It was not at all likely that Smithies would notice Hunter, who was balancing precariously outside the window, if it weren’t for the fact that the unicycle’s wheel slipped from under him and left him suspended in midair, his face pressed sideways against the glass, before he crashed spread-eagled to the ground.

  ‘Rather unfortunate timing, Mr Jenkins. We’re in the middle of a crisis.’ Smithies hurried from the hut, his face etched into worry lines and his left eye twitching a little.

  Over Hunter’s pain-dominated mutterings Brodie managed to blurt out about the message in the mail and a note they’d sent. Smithies stopped short, his left eye twitching so rapidly it looked as if it were dancing.

  ‘A note,’ he said, ‘about the Firebird Code?’

  ‘We’ve cracked it, sir,’ Brodie said. ‘We wanted to let you know.’

  The colour seemed to ebb from the old man’s face, his eyes stilled and for a moment it seemed to Brodie that he’d cry. Then he shook himself and his words were just a whisper. ‘Let’s get you three up to the billiard room. You’ve some explaining to do.’

  Once Hunter was propped in the corner of the room on a rather moth-eaten sofa, Brodie talked through everything they’d discovered. Mr Smithies clapped his hands together in an obvious attempt to contain his excitement. ‘Absolutely brilliant. Absolutely marvellous.’

  From his persistent moans in the corner, Hunter was finding it hard to agree.

  ‘Have some water, boy,’ Smithies said. ‘You’ll feel fine in a moment, I’m sure. And besides,’ he added with a giggle, ‘you’ll have to be. The five of us are off to Brighton.’

  ‘Brighton, sir?’ said Brodie.

  ‘Yes, Brighton. It all fits! The Royal Pavilion’s a palace built in the middle of the seaside town and the prince who lived there created the whole place to look like a sort of fantasy world. By the time he became king he could hardly tell fantasy from reality. It all works perfectly with Van der Essen’s choice of the story of Arthur. A king who wanted to bring about a new way of living. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. And of course the dragon reference in Van der Essen’s letter fits too. The Royal Pavilion is absolutely teeming with dragons!’

  Brodie tried not to look too scared.

  ‘Not real ones of course. Ornamental dragons.’ He looked like a child thinking about Christmas. ‘What better place to hide something of such importance than a palace? Twenty-four-hour security, restricted access. It’s all perfect. Now,’ he said taking what appeared to be his first breath in many minutes. ‘You need to go quickly and collect your code work so on the train I can make sure everything you’ve explained is true. It’s important we keep our visit as low key as possible. A school trip to the Royal Pavilion. What could be suspicious about that?’ At once his eyes darkened and the excitement which had lit his face seemed to fade. ‘Tusia, take this to Ingham. He’ll understand.’

  Smithies thrust a small wooden model of an elephant into Tusia’s hand.

  ‘Mr Ingham will understand?’ she mumbled.

  ‘Jumbo Rush,’ replied Smithies, his eyes dark. ‘A code while we’re away.’ He caught his breath. ‘When the workers of Station X were in a tricky situation during the war and they really needed to be vigilant, they got out this elephant as a visual reminder to take care. An elephant never forgets, you see.’

  ‘Never forgets,’ mumbled Tusia, making it sound a little as if she were taking an oath and had been instructed to repeat snatches of everything said to her.

  ‘Yes. All the members of Veritas need to remain focused, even Ingham if we leave him in charge of the museum,’ Smithies added forcibly. ‘Because of the break-in here it looks highly likely your deciphering’s been intercepted. If that’s the case then a new race against the clock’s on the cards.’

  Hunter pulled himself up to sitting and wobbled a little before speaking. Brodie noted an egg-like lump appearing on his forehead. ‘Who do you think is after the code solution, sir?’ he said faintly.

  Mr Smithies frowned. ‘I shall explain everything on the train.’

  Kerrith Vernan sat in the foyer of the penthouse boardroom suite sipping nervously at her cup of cappuccino. She’d met the Director of Level Five of the Black Chamber on only two previous occasions and her nerves were causing the bone china cup to shake a little in her hand, light flashing from the diamond on her ring.

  When the phone rang the noise shattered the silence. The receptionist lifted the receiver and cradled it against her ear. She listened for a moment then replaced the handset. ‘You can go through now.’

  The office was oval in shape. The wooden floor was spread with a deep carpet on the centre of which was embroidered an elaborate crest. In front of three long picture-windows were two flags. One was the Union flag and the other the flag of the Chamber. In front of these was an ornately carved wooden desk and behind the desk, in a high-backed leather chair, sat the Director. He looked up as Kerrith approached.

  He was not a large man. In many ways the grandeur of his office overwhelmed him. His shoulders were hunched and his shirt loose around the collar as if it’d been chosen for someone bigger. But his eyes revealed a resolve that wouldn’t weaken.

  Kerrith mumbled an introduction and the Director leant back in his chair. ‘I know who you are, Miss Vernan,’ he said pointedly. ‘What I need to know is how reliable your information is.’

  Kerrith coughed quietly into her hand. ‘Totally reliable, sir,’ she said.

  ‘And there can be absolutely no doubt?’

  ‘None at all, sir.’

>   ‘And Van der Essen’s phoenix? What’d you suppose this is?’

  Kerrith considered her answer. ‘Since our activities in Belgium, we know Van der Essen was a professor interested in MS 408.’

  The Director’s voice showed he’d understood this point. ‘But the phoenix?’

  ‘We’re not sure, sir. But whatever it is, those has-been halfwits seemed keen to find it. It must be of interest.’

  The Director swivelled round in the chair, surveying the scene from the window. He sighed as if he were considering his options, then moved round on the chair once more to face her. ‘I suppose for someone as new to the Chamber as you, it’s hard to understand the risk we face if news leaks out.’ He ran his finger momentarily around the back of his collar and loosened his tie. ‘Here,’ he said, standing and walking towards a set of shelves along one wall of the room. ‘Perhaps this will make it clear.’

  On the shelf was a small bronze figurine of a horse and rider rearing up in battle. The Director locked his hand around the head of the rider and tilted the figurine back in his hand. To the left of the shelving a picture of a pastoral scene glided, almost imperceptibly, to the left. There was a click. The Director slid the picture further like a door to reveal a small cupboard with a keypad on the door. He tapped the keys and the door itself clicked open.

  Inside was a small leather-bound folder tied closed with a red ribbon. He took it out and waited a while, the folder in his hand.

  ‘This is a record of all the crazy and dangerous theories that’ve existed about MS 408,’ he said and his words were hushed. ‘It’s a record of careers lost and reputations ruined. A warning to us all,’ he added.

  Kerrith was unsure how to answer.

  ‘There are some who believe MS 408 is a book of great meaning, a text that will reveal a great secret. There are many who see it as a guidebook to another world in our own if we can only work out the code in which the secrets are recorded.’

  ‘And you don’t believe that?’ Kerrith asked, her desire for answers overtaking her need for politeness.