by Julie Kenner
I grinned. “Well, then, you shouldn’t have exhausted me.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” he said.
“I’d debate that,” I said, sliding out of bed and going to join him at the window. “I’m pretty sure a lot of the pleasure was mine.”
He put his arms around me and pulled me close, and we stayed that way for a while, watching the traffic move below us and the lights of Times Square spread out all around us—the steam drifting lazily into the sky from the Cup Noodles sign; the neon extravaganza that marked the entrance to Toys“R” Us; the bright flashes of the NASDAQ sign. It was nice. Comfortable. But unfortunately, we couldn’t stay like that.
“We need to get going,” I said.
“That we do,” he agreed. “Just do me one favor—put on some clothes. I’m not sure I’m up to fighting off all the admirers we’ll meet on the street.”
“Very funny,” I said, but I moved to the chair and grabbed my clothes. As I tugged my jeans toward me, the jacket fell to the ground, and I bent over to pick it up.
“Wait,” Stryker said, his voice so urgent that I froze.
“What?”
“The jacket,” he said. “The vial was in the jacket.”
I stood up, the jacket clutched to my chest. “Yeah…”
“Why?”
I started to say, “Why not?” but I kept my mouth shut as the import of what he said hit me. “Because it’s part of the clue,” I said. I felt totally and completely stupid. Since that jacket had belonged to me—and since the vial had so clearly led to a clue—I’d just assumed that the jacket meant nothing. That it was just a little dig, something meant to psych me out.
Clearly, I shouldn’t have assumed.
I finished getting dressed, then spread the jacket out on the bed, my fingers going over every inch of it. Nothing. I turned it over and was about to repeat the process on the interior when I realized I didn’t have to. I could see right away what the clue was: a care instructions tag that hadn’t been there before.
The tag in the collar hadn’t changed, but in one of the side seams there was now a plain white tag with ENIGMA printed on it. “That’s it,” I said to Stryker. “That’s our clue.”
Chapter
56
“S o I take it ENIGMA isn’t a designer label?” Stryker asked. He paced in front of the window of our new hotel room, this one about two blocks from the first and equally dingy.
“This is a Dolce & Gabbana jacket,” I said, showing him the real label. I pointed to the mysterious new label. “This one shouldn’t say anything except Dry Clean Only or Machine Wash With Like Colors.”
“Right. So the clue is‘Enigma.’ What do we do with that?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But it fits with the game. For one, the Enigma machine is one of my particular interests. It was an encryption machine made by the Germans. They used it in World War Two. Damn near unbreakable code.”
“I’m familiar with the Enigma machine,” he said.
“Sorry. I did a presentation on the Enigma machine a couple of years ago at a local high school. I guess I’m in teacher mode.” That had been fun, actually, and it was one of those moments that made me think I really was taking the right career path. The kids had been fascinated with both the machine and the story behind it. Not that I had a real machine. There is one at the NSA museum, but D.C. is a bit far to travel for a one-hour presentation. Even for the sake of academia.
“These clues aren’t random,” Stryker said, voicing what we already knew. “They touch at codes and ciphers because that’s what you like.”
True, and somehow hearing Stryker say it out loud made it less scary. Codes and ciphers were my thing. I loved them. Always had. And the fact that codes and ciphers were key meant that I was at least given a fighting chance to win the game.
And I fully intended to do that. I don’t like to lose. And the idea of dying didn’t sit too well either.
I’d been bordering on euphoria when we’d found the label in the jacket, but I was fast coming off my high. “So we know the code is an Enigma code or relates to the Enigma machine or has something to do with the word enigma. But we still don’t know what exactly it is. If it’s an Enigma code, where’s the message?”
“Saint Michael Saint Louis,” he suggested.
As guesses went, I had to admit it was pretty good. What I didn’t think, though, was that it was right.
I shook my head. “Enigma codes are nonsensical. I’ve never heard of a code that was an actual word.” I shrugged. “I mean, I could be wrong, but it doesn’t feel right.”
“The saint stuff must figure in somehow.”
I nodded. I’m sure it did. I just didn’t know how.
“So we’re back to square one,” he said. “What are we supposed to do with something that just says‘ENIGMA’?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. It was a rhetorical question. The answer was either right in front of our noses or we’d missed it entirely. Since I didn’t see a damn thing under my nose, all I could do was sit back and wait for inspiration to hit.
I hoped one of us would have a moment of brilliance soon. I don’t like waiting, and so far I’d been doing way too much of it for my taste.
Since I had no better idea, I sat down at the hotel desk and pulled out some stationery and a pen. At the top of a sheet, I wrote ENIGMA. Then I started rearranging the letters. I wasn’t particularly good at anagrams—that was my friend Warren’s bailiwick—but I figured with such a short word I had half a shot.
GAMINE Well, that was a word, but I didn’t know what it meant.
IMAGEN Wasn’t that Ron Howard’s production company? No, that was Imagine. Probably not what I was looking for in either case.
GAIN ME Real words, but not exactly a crystal-clear message. Then again, I wasn’t looking for crystal clear. Still, I had no flash of brilliance. I moved on.
GAME IN I frowned. That could mean something.
“We are in the game,” Stryker said, startling me. I didn’t realize he’d been reading over my shoulder.
“I know. We’re about as in as you can be. But so what? How does that help?”
“It doesn’t. It doesn’t help one little bit.”
I took my pen and scratched at the words until they were obliterated. “Fucking game.”
Stryker didn’t say anything—smart man—but he put his hand over mine. I closed my eyes and sighed.
“They’re wearing me down,” I said. “I’m scared and I can’t think straight. This is what I do, what I love. Codes. Ciphers. And they’re going to make it so that not only do I screw up because I’m just too damn tired, but in the end I’m going to end up hating something I love. No, correction. I won’t hate it. You can’t hate something when you’re dead.”
I sounded morose and whiny, and I hated myself for it. But I couldn’t help it. I figured I had cause. And, honestly, all I wanted at that moment was for Stryker to put his arm around me and tell me it would be all right. That he’d figure everything out. That he’d take care of me.
I shivered a bit, the thought taking me by surprise. I’d never once wanted to be taken care of. I’d always been so independent, even moving to Manhattan against my parents’ wishes. But that’s what I wanted right now. So help me, that’s what I wanted more than anything in the world.
And the irony? I couldn’t even get what I wanted. I was the one with the talent for codes.I was the one who could solve the game to the end. Stryker (I hoped) could keep me alive while I did my job, but in the end it all came down to me.
I pictured myself finding the last clue and ending all of this. That would be a happy moment. At least I thought it would. “Stryker? Once the game’s over, I should be safe, right?”
“That’s the way it is online, isn’t it?”
“Totally,” I said. “Do you think Lynx will follow the rules?”
“So far he has. He could have slit your throat in front of Todd’s.”
“Nice,” I said, swallowing. “But you’re right. Once I’ve won, he’s lost. So any prize he might get for winning is forfeited. There’s no reason to keep after me, he’d just be risking everything.”
“Besides,” Stryker added, “he can probably sign up to play another game. Hunt someone else and try to win again.” His voice was deadly serious, and I nodded. I’d thought the same thing myself about there being other games going on.
I was thinking about winning when my gaze landed on the jacket. I picked it up, turning it slowly in my hands, as if I could learn its secrets by osmosis.
“Maybe we aren’t done with it,” Stryker said. “Maybe the jacket has another clue.”
I didn’t have a better idea, so we spread the jacket out, each of us going over every inch, marking our progress with the tips of our fingers.
Nothing.
“Black light, maybe?”
“Black light?”
“Maybe there’s something written that will only show up under a black light.”
“Or with lemon juice?” I asked, raising a brow.
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s the only suggestion I have.”
“We can try,” I said, dubiously. “But where would we find a black light?”
“A nightclub. Novelty store. There’s got to be one nearby.” He nodded toward the window and Times Square below us.
“Okay,” I agreed. “It’s worth a shot.” I started to get up, then thought of one last thing. “You know, the label was sewn in by someone else,” I said.
“So maybe we should un-sew it,” he said.
I wasn’t sure “un-sew” was a word, but that was the general idea. “Give me your knife.”
He handed it over without question, and I carefully pulled out the threads holding the new label in place. It came free, and I realized that about one-quarter inch of material had been sewn into the seam. And there, on that bit of material, was a message written in tiny, perfect script. XKBFT THECF CHPTR YEDHH VQIPN G
“What the fuck?”
“It’s an Enigma code,” I said. “It’s got to be.”
“Great,” he said, “but what do we do with it? I thought the code was uncrackable.”
I shrugged. “Well, no, not really.”
“No?” He made a face and nodded at the jacket. “Go on, then. Get to it.”
“Ah.” I scowled at the code. “It’s not really that easy. We need an Enigma machine.”
“And where are we supposed to find an Enigma machine? Germany?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of Washington, D.C.”
He nodded. “Okay. Let’s go. Surely there’s a commuter flight. It’s late, but not that late.”
I laughed. “Yeah, well, I think a phone call will work just as well. And it’s faster.”
“Who knew it could be that easy?” He passed me his cell phone. “Go for it.”
I called and found out quickly enough that the National Cryptologic Museum was closed, which wasn’t too surprising considering it was after dark. Undeterred, I called the NSA directly. Most likely, I’m now considered a terrorist threat. What I’m not is someone with access. After going through about eight thousand levels of after-hours staff, I finally found a person who was willing to not pass the buck. Instead, he told me directly that if I wanted to type something into the Enigma machine, I was going to have to haul my body down to the museum.
So much for my powers of persuasion. The ultimate irony, of course, being that working at the NSA is my fantasy. Though I should point out that I want a job in intelligence, not staffing the museum.
Stryker was watching me, his expression knowing. “Don’t pass up an opportunity simply because you’re afraid. There’s very little in this life you can’t go back and fix and change.” He waved a hand around the room. “If we get this wrong, then yeah. You might have a problem. But get rejected for a job? Pick the wrong job? Babe, those are no-brainers.”
“Thanks,” I said, part of me wishing I’d kept my mouth shut on the cruise, and another part of me liking his support and encouragement. “We should probably concentrate on keeping me alive so that I can pickany job.”
“Right. So what now?”
“Might as well give your method a shot,” I said, nodding toward the laptop. “Maybe there’s someplace in New York that has one on display.”
We didn’t find an Enigma machine on display. Instead, we found something better: an Enigma applet, right there on the Internet.
“Wow,” I said, completely impressed. “Someone must have put some serious effort into this.”
“Do you think it’s accurate?”
I read the text accompanying the Java-based program. “It says it is.”
I started inputting the list of letters we’d found on the jacket. As I watched the printout, my heart started to sink. This was not good.
SJPKL XEKKO LSUCS NOIZL PSVEI K
“Gibberish,” Stryker said. “It’s just a fucking load of gibberish.”
I reloaded the applet and pointed above the keys on the little picture. “See these three letters? Those are moving rotors. Every time you type, they change, and a different electrical signal is sent. So you might type an E once and get a G as the coded version, then type another E and the second time it’ll show up as a Z.”
“Right,” said Stryker.
“Right,” I repeated. “So the only way to decrypt the message is to know the original rotor setting.”
He met my eyes. “Try PSW.”
I bent back to the keyboard and readjusted the rotors. More gibberish.
“Dammit!” Stryker’s hand struck the table.
“No, wait,” I said. “I forgot about the plugboard.” I pointed to the area at the bottom of the simulator. “Since we’ve got three letters, I can’t plug them to each other. So I’m going to plug them to the first three spots.P to A, S to B and so on.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Stryker said as I reset the machine.
I typed the coded message in again, and this time—thank God—the answer made sense. Or, rather, the answer wasn’t gibberish. At the moment, at least, it didn’t make any sense at all to me.
YOUSE EKTHE HEAVE NNEXT TOHEL L
“Nice,” Stryker said.
“The letters emerge in groups of five. It says ‘You seek the heaven next to hell.’ ”
“Like I said, nice. What the hell does that mean?”
Stryker might not know, but the answer clicked with me right away. How could it not, considering the many hours I’d spent wandering the length of Fifth Avenue, lusting over the contents of the various stores?“St. Patrick’s Cathedral,” I said. “The clue is something at St. Patrick’s.”
He gaped at me. “What hat did you pull that out of?”
“Haven’t you ever noticed? The cathedral’s right across from 666 Fifth Avenue.”
“And with the saint medal and the reference to St. Louis, a Catholic church makes sense.”
“Let’s go.”
“Can’t,” he said. “They close up for the night. Vandals.”
“Oh.” I was antsy, wanting to go, to figure out the next clue. But while Stryker might be willing to break into a restaurant, I didn’t think he’d be inclined to break into a church. “I guess we wait,” I said.
“We can sleep,” he said, his dark eyes burning into me with an intensity that made me warm and shivery. “Or…?”
What can I say? I took the“or.”
Chapter
57
A s they walked into St. Patrick’s the next morning, Stryker genuflected automatically, even though it had been years since he’d set foot inside a church. He hadn’t been to Mass since his mother had gotten sick more than two years ago. As soon as he’d heard the news, he’d left the service, calling Riley to take him up on the offer of a job as long as Stryker could work from Jersey instead of D.C.
Riley had agreed, of course, and Stryker had gone home to Jersey City to be with his mother. He hadn’t seen her in thre
e years, and she’d lost weight and her skin had taken on a sallow, plastic quality. Her eyes had been the same, though. Sparkling with warmth and humor. And when she’d opened her arms wide and flashed that familiar smile, the sick woman in the doorway had once again become his mother.
He’d prayed that night one last time, begging God not to steal this vibrant woman from him.
God hadn’t listened. And Stryker had stopped listening for God.
“Are you okay?” Mel had her hand on his shoulder, arching up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. They were at the back of the cathedral, waiting for the priest to pass and the churchgoers to filter out now that Mass had ended.
He shook his head, as much to clear it as to tell her he didn’t want to talk about it. She looked at him for a moment but didn’t argue. Good. He wasn’t up for arguing with her, and he’d been half afraid that she’d go all female on him, thinking that sleeping together gave her license to pick at his feelings. He didn’t want to be picked. He just wanted to protect her. And, so help him, he wanted her in his bed again.
Beside him, she was gazing into the church with pure wonder. He understood the expression. The cathedral was stunning, like something transplanted out of Europe. Stone columns rising to a domed ceiling, stained glass everywhere, and so much detail that you had to believe it took masons centuries to complete the place. The place seemed to be made of arches, and he leaned over to whisper to Mel. “Are any of these arches the catenary thing? Like in St. Louis?”
“Could be,” she said. She peered around. “Someone must know about the architecture of this place.”
He tugged her sideways, then, easing them over to the Information desk. An elderly man with a ruddy face and piercing green eyes smiled at them. “Can I be of some help to you, then?” he asked, his Irish lilt seeming to fill the hall. Stryker couldn’t help but smile.
“We were wondering if you knew about the architecture. Are any of these arches a catenary curve?”
“Ah, well, that I couldn’t tell you. Mildred might know, but she’s in Pittsburgh this week for her daughter’s wedding.”
