The Givenchy Code

by Julie Kenner

  “Not likely,” Stryker said, taking my elbow and pulling me aside. “The attendant’s going to be well tipped and very protective.”

  “So what are we going to tell him?”

  “Not a damn thing,” Stryker said, nailing me with a sideways glance. “We’re sneaking in.”

  I was on the verge of asking how when a car pulled into the drive. Stryker held up a finger, signaling for me to be quiet. I wasn’t thrilled about being kept in the dark about his plan, but at the moment I had no choice.

  The car—a Lincoln—stopped just inside the garage. Stryker and I watched, waiting for the attendant to show up. Apparently the driver was just as impatient, because he tapped the horn twice. I heard a door slam from somewhere toward my left, then a young kid in a blue blazer with Prestige embroidered on the breast pocket hurried over.

  As the attendant bent down to speak to the driver, Stryker’s hand pressed against my back. “Come on,” he whispered. He took my hand, and we scurried inside, keeping toward the walls as we hoofed it toward a marked stairwell near the back. Stryker tried the door, then gave me a triumphant smile when he realized it was unlocked. He ushered me inside, following right on my heels.

  “What are we doing in here?” I asked as the door closed behind us.

  “The first floor is probably short-term parking. People shopping or going to lunch. Since whoever’s behind this bullshit must have taken some time to put the pieces in place, I figure the car we’re looking for must have been left in a long-term space.”

  He was right, and I lifted myself up on my tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. I didn’t think about it; I just planted the kiss impulsively. And as I pulled away, I was relieved to see that he looked pleased. Surprised, but pleased.

  “What was that for?”

  Since I wasn’t entirely certain, I said the first thing that came into my head. “For helping me.”

  That won me a quick smile before he took my hand and led me up the stairs. We emerged on the next level and started checking space numbers. The cars were stacked three deep in the spaces, with C being closest to the wall, B trapped in the middle, and A free to pull out into the driveway.

  We’d split up when we emerged on this level, and I was having no luck. My side was all teens and twenties. I was circling back toward Stryker when I heard him call me, his voice low in case the attendant was in earshot.

  “Here,” he said.

  I hurried over and found him tugging a cream-colored cover off what turned out to be a navy blue Mercedes. The top-of-the-line kind with a keypad entry system and everything.

  “What do you think?”

  He walked the perimeter, his eyes on the vehicle. “I think the answer’s inside somewhere.” When he made it back to the driver’s side door, he scowled at the door, then started to reach for the handle.

  “Wait! It’s probably got a car alarm. You need the key.”

  “Thanks for that bit of insight,” he said, “but in case you forgot, we don’t have a key.”

  I dug in my tote and came up with the Prestige Park message, then waved it at him. “I think we do,” I said.

  I read the numbers off to him, and he dutifully punched them into the door’s keypad: 89225.

  I smiled as he gave a tug, certain we were golden.

  Since this day was not going well, of course I was wrong. As soon as Stryker gave the door a yank, the alarm system started blaring.

  “Damn it!” Stryker yelled over the din. The thing screeched at an ear-piercing level, and I gritted my teeth against the noise, afraid someone was going to come see what we were up to.

  “Shut it off,” I said. “Make it stop!”

  He looked around, as baffled as I felt, then he reared sideways, lifted his leg and struck out, smashing his heel against the window.

  Nothing happened, and the car continued to squawk.

  “Find me something metal!” Stryker called. “A crowbar or something.”

  I turned in a circle but didn’t see a thing. “Where’s your gun?”

  “I’d rather not use it,” he said. “Ballistics.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud…” At the moment, I was much more concerned with my antidote than with the crime tech analysis of some random bullet in a Mercedes. “Just blast the thing.”

  He reached toward his jacket. “Stand back.” He aimed, and then, just as he was about to fire, the alarm shut off. Silence had never sounded so good. “Well, that’s one thing going our way,” he said, slipping the gun back into his jacket. “Any bright ideas how we can get in without setting off the alarm?”

  “The keys?” I said brightly.

  “Unfortunately, I think you’re right.” He slid Jenn’s laptop case off his shoulder and passed it to me. “Wait here.”

  “Wait here?” I repeated. “Where are you going?”

  “To get the keys,” he said. “Where else?”

  I couldn’t really argue with that, so instead I just watched him leave, my fingers crossed tight beside me. I would have liked to believe he could simply ask the attendant for the keys and the request would be granted, but I knew better.

  Stryker was going to steal them.

  Feeling suddenly extraneous in my own dilemma, I started to lean against the car, then stopped myself before I triggered the alarm again. I could believe that we were supposed to steal the keys—considering the game as a whole, what was a little larceny, after all? But what I couldn’t believe was that those numbers—89225—had no meaning. I just hadn’t figured it out yet.

  I leaned against a cement pillar and ran the digits through my head, looking for a pattern. They weren’t prime numbers. Some other relationship, maybe?

  Probably, but I couldn’t think of anything.

  Stryker might not be a math aficionado, but I still wanted to bounce ideas off him, and I wished he’d hurry up and get back with the keys.

  The keys.

  Of course. Could it really be that simple?

  I dug in my tote and found a pen and a scrap of paper. I’d created the pigpen translation key by putting a 1 after the Z. But there wasn’t any real reason for doing that except habit. It made just as much sense to start a string of ten digits with 0. And so that’s what I did now. And when I translated the original message using my new key with a different number sequence, I got an entirely different last line:

  28A 78114

  I looked around, wondering where 28A was. I knew I should wait for Stryker, but I had to know if I was right. So I rummaged some more until I found my brand-new MAC lipstick. I said a little apology to the fashion industry, then used the lipstick to write “S—MP @ 28A” on the cement pillar. Then I headed off, hoping like hell I was right.

  It didn’t take me long to find the car, a late-model Jaguar two-seater, sleek and silver. And, I noticed right off, with a keyless entry system. At least my tormentor had good taste in cars.

  I took a deep breath and punched in the new numbers. Click.

  I said a silent prayer and opened the door. The heady scent of new leather accosted me, and I breathed in deep as I slid inside. I love new car smell. But I didn’t have time to enjoy. If there was a clue inside this car, it wasn’t immediately apparent. I put my hands on the steering wheel and tried to think. If I were a clue, where would I be?

  “Nice car, lady. Care to give a soldier a lift?”

  I yelped and jumped so high I almost hit my head on the roof. My heart was pounding, and I turned to glare at Stryker, but it was for show only. I was too impressed with myself—and too thrilled by his wide smile of approval—to truly be angry he’d snuck up on me.

  “Found your message,” he said.

  “I started with zero instead of one,” I explained.

  “If you say so,” he said. He dangled a set of keys. “I’m guessing we don’t need these after all?”

  “I don’t think so.” My eyes drifted out of habit to the ignition, then widened as I saw what was already there—one shiny silver key. “Looks
like this car comes fully equipped.”

  He tossed the Mercedes keys in the air and caught them. “Guess it wasn’t an entirely wasted venture. It can’t hurt to keep my burglary skills sharp.”

  “You never know when you’ll need to break and enter,” I agreed. “So do you think the key means we’re supposed to take the car?”

  “Possibly,” Stryker said. He moved around to the passenger side, then checked the empty glove compartment. “At the very least, we should write down the license plate number.”

  “Here you go,” I said, then fumbled in my bag for paper and a pen for him.

  While he did that, I flipped down both visors. Nothing. Ditto the ashtray, the cup holders and the little repository for loose coins. “I’m out of ideas,” I said. “The clue should be someplace pretty obvious, I’d think. The first level’s always easy. Relatively speaking, I mean.”

  Stryker signaled for me to pop the trunk, then he circled the car. “Nothing here,” he said after a few minutes. He slammed the trunk closed.

  My heart lurched, but I wasn’t yet ready to voice defeat. “It’s got to be here,” I said. “We just have to figure out how to think like we were in the real game.”

  “Right,” he said. Then, after a moment, “Any ideas?”

  Not one, a little fact that irritated the hell out of me. How many times had I sat in class, imagining a tall, dark stranger passing me an encoded message, absolutely critical to national defense? I’d crack the code, even while being chased by vile counteragents out to kill me. They wouldn’t succeed, though. I’d do whatever it took to survive, whether that meant a night of lipstick and Manolos or slogging across enemy lines in camo pants and military issue moon boots. In the end, it would be my quick mind and sharp wit that saved the day. Jennifer Garner might be famous, but she had nothing on me.

  I stifled a snort, disgusted with myself. Fantasy was one thing. Survival was another. So far, I might be surviving, but I’d hardly pulled out all the stops. I hadn’t turned the tables on this guy, I hadn’t even made an effort to get the upper hand. Instead, I was wandering around stunned, letting someone else call the shots—whoever was orchestrating this game, my assassin-opponent, and yes, even Stryker. Well, no more….

  He might be on my side, but there wasn’t anyone on the planet more loyal to my cause than me. That was simply a fact. My three loves are shoes and math and history—believe me when I say I know all about fashion and facts. I live and die by them. Yesterday, that had been metaphorical. Today, I feared, I was being entirely literal.

  What I needed to be, though, was analytical. That’s what I was good at, right? That’s why I’d gotten sucked into this freak show, wasn’t it? Someone out there knew I could play this game. And in the end, this was all about playing a stupid computer game in the real world.

  And that, I realized with a start, was the answer. Aloud, I asked, “Know anything about Jaguars?”

  He shot me an unreadable look. “I’ve got a Triumph Trident. Sweet little bike. I know her inside and out, but that’s it.”

  “Do you know if they’re computerized?”

  His forehead creased as he frowned, but I wasn’t sure if he was confused by my question or unsure of the answer.

  “Computer diagnostics,” I said. “This whole thing started with a computer game. So maybe…?”

  He stared at me, and I began to feel a little uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

  “What? It’s not that dumb an idea.”

  “Are you kidding?” he asked, and I was just about to defend myself some more when he added, “It’s brilliant.”

  That was more like it. I couldn’t help my grin.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  I blinked, not feeling like such a brainiac after all. “Go where?”

  “That explains why we have a key. We need to find a garage if we’re going to plug the system into diagnostics. And if that comes up flat, we can scour the car again.”

  “So I’m right? They can really do that? Stick a message in a car’s computer system?”

  He shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. I guess we’ll find out.”

  I slid to the passenger side. “Ready.”

  He got in and turned the key. The engine purred to life, and the CD player clicked on. A low hum came from the speakers, followed by a series of clicks. Then a computer-generated voice spoke: “ ‘I know something interesting is sure to happen,’ she said to herself, ‘whenever I eat or drink anything.’ ”

  “What the fuck?” Stryker asked, but I was already pushing the Eject button and carefully taking the CD out.

  “Alice in Wonderland,” I said, referring to the quote from Alice before she swallowed the Drink Me juice. “I don’t know how exactly, but I’m sure this CD is our clue.”

  Chapter

  24

  I held the disc up, examining it in the dim light. “It’s just a CD-R,” I said. “Someone burned this disc for us.”

  “So our clue is about eating and drinking?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But I don’t think so.”

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  “I think I’m supposed to be Alice. And the voice on the disc was just to get my attention.”

  “To let you know that the CD was the clue,” Stryker said. “OK. So we have to see what else is burned on that disc.”

  “Exactly.”

  “No time like the present.” He opened the computer case and slid the laptop out, then drummed his fingers on the armrest as we waited for it to boot up. As soon as it did, we slid the CD in and shut the drive door.

  At first, nothing happened, then the familiar hourglass icon appeared on the screen, telling us the computer was busy. When the hourglass disappeared, Stryker slid his finger on the touchpad, clicked on the My Computer folder, then navigated to drive D.

  “Here goes nothing,” he said as he double-clicked on the icon. The display for the drive pulled up, revealing two files. One was a .wav file, which we assumed was the Alice message. The other was a .doc file. I itched to take the computer from Stryker’s hands, but he was moving just as fast as I could have. He clicked, and the file opened—a Microsoft Word document with one line of text: http://www.playsurvivewin-message.

  com/, complete with hyperlink.

  “Do we have Internet access here?” he asked.

  “We should. Jenn’s got an aircard. She’s supposed to be able to get on the Net from anywhere.” As a rule, Jenn is as broke as I always am. Her parents, though, are a lot more generous, and they’d set her up with the wireless system last Christmas. I coveted the technology myself. Like a cell phone, the wireless aircard let Jenn connect from pretty much anywhere. I knew it would be handy to have something like that, but aircards were expensive, and my need wasn’t as strong as, say, my desire for new shoes.

  Sure enough, Stryker clicked on the link, and a Web browser opened. It took a second to pull the webpage down, and then there it was, just as I’d both hoped and dreaded. A message. Meant entirely for me.

  Close, my dear, but not quite yet….

  How long has it been since you felt my assassin’s kiss?

  Like Dorothy, the sand slips away….

  x2 + y2 = r2

  y = mx + b

  Like starlight in your pocket, a touch of the familiar

  before your lights

  go out

  and you’re lost…alone…in the dark…never

  again to be found.

  Chapter

  25

  S tryker thought seriously of smashing his fist through the monitor. He was supposed to be protecting her, not slogging through the goddamn Da Vinci Code. “This is crap,” he said. “What the hell are we supposed to do with this nonsense?”

  “We’ll be fine.” Mel’s hand pressed lightly against his wrist. “It’s okay.”

  “The hell it is.” He’d served twelve years in the Marine Corps, protecting his country and the citizens of a whole slew of countries under the thumb of desp
ots. But this damn game had thrust him into battle with unknown enemies. He was chasing ghosts—the assassin Lynx, some toxin hidden in Mel’s own blood. All unseen enemies, and each one ready to do her in at any time.

  Ruefully, he glanced again at the computer screen. He couldn’t even make sense of the clue. How the hell was he supposed to protect her?

  Beside him, Mel was pushing her door open. “Let’s go.”

  “Go? Go where?”

  “Where the message is sending us,” she said. “Circle Line Tours. The Harbor Lights Cruise.”

  “Of course,” he said. “You want to tell me how you know that?”

  She leaned close, brushing against him as she pointed to the x-y-r equation. “This is the standard form equation for a circle. And this is one equation for a straight line,” she added, pointing to y = mx + b.

  “Sure it is,” he said.

  She laughed, the first genuine laugh he’d heard since they’d first met. It was a wonderful sound, and he realized suddenly how much he wanted to hear it again. “Trust me,” she said. “That wasn’t even really a code. More like a riddle.”

  “So that’s how you got Circle Line. The Harbor Lights Cruise came from the starlight reference.”

  “Exactly.” She flashed an impish grin. “If this whole thing weren’t such a nightmare, it might actually be fun.”

  “You’re probably the type who works the Sunday crossword puzzle.”

  “Oh no,” she said, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “But I do play chess in the park on Sundays.”

  “So do a lot of folks,” he said. “The question is, do you win?”

  She looked at him as if he’d just asked if she needed air to breathe. “Of course I win. What’s the point of playing if you don’t win?”

  And that, he thought, pretty much summed up the whole damn day.

  Chapter

  26

  “W e have to hurry,” I said, jogging along Broadway with Stryker at my side. I was looking for an available taxi, but of course there were none. “The boat leaves at seven.”