by Braun, Matt;
"Very interesting, Chester. Looks a little complicated, doesn't it?"
"Complicated? Good lord, it's much more than that! No offense intended, but the word hardly does Brokaw justice. It's a marvel, Curt. An absolute marvel! The man was light-years ahead of his time."
Wilson was in his element, enjoying his authority. For a moment the complexity of the machine had unnerved him, but lecturing Ruxton was a new experience, one that quickly restored his confidence. Using his screwdriver as a pointer, he indicated the row of wheels arranged side by side within the machine and connected together by hundreds of wires.
"These are the rotors—the codewheels. Their function is to transpose plaintext into ciphertext. Normally, five rotors are considered sufficient to scramble any message. But you will notice that Brokaw engineered eight rotors into his machine. The ramifications of those extra rotors are all but incalculable. Here, let me show you."
The rotors were hard rubber disks approximately four inches in diameter. Around the circumference of all eight rotors—on both sides—were twenty-six electrical contacts. The contacts on one side of the rotor were wired at random to contacts on the opposite face; this created a double alphabet on every rotor. Thus an electrical impulse might transpose the letter b on one side of the wheel to the letter z on the other side. Since the rotors were wired together, the electrical impulse jumped from wheel to wheel, traversing a maze of sixteen scrambled alphabets in one burst of current. Any plaintext letter on the keyboard went through this profusion of alphabetic changes and appeared on the ciphertext printout with no relationship whatever to its surrounding letters.
"We call this the monoalphabetic substitution factor. Translated, it means that the number of ways all these letters and wheels can be wired together is practically infinite. In the case of Mr. Brokaw's machine, I venture to say these eight rotors are capable of producing somewhere in the vicinity of 20,000,000 cipher alphabets. So as you can see, it really is a marvel."
Ruxton looked properly impressed. "You've made your point, Chester. I'm convinced! Which sort of takes us back to square one . . . how do you solve it?"
"Oh, we're very fortunate," Wilson chortled. "Very fortunate, indeed. You see, a cryptanalyst normally has only the ciphertext to work with, and it might take him months to break the code. I not only have the full plain text message, I have the machine itself! In a sense, I'll be working backward, but it simplifies the task enormously."
Briefly, Wilson outlined the procedure. Since he knew how the rotors were wired, he could establish numerical equations that would then be fed into a digital computer. Using such esoteric tools as stochastic processes and matrix theory, the computer would program a mathematical model of the cryptography machine and simulate its operation. The end result would be a reconstructed encipherment, producing a printout of Brokaw's original codetext message.
"Quite simply," Wilson concluded, "you will memorize the codetext, then type it into this machine, and it will deliver the plaintext message that identifies you as Lucas Brokaw."
"Not to steal your thunder, Chester, but that was the purpose of this drill from the beginning. Now, let's forget all the professional gobbledygook. You've seen the machine and you know how it operates, so in words of three syllables or less, how long will it take you to reproduce the codetext message?"
Wilson blinked, aware that his lecture had been cut short. He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable, and averted his eyes. "Well, of course, we'll have to rent time on a computer. But I suspect that won't pose any problem in San Francisco. Perhaps we can find a monolithic system. Quite remarkable, real workhorses! Perform over a million calculations a second. It's done with logic circuits that—"
"How long, Chester?"
"A day. Perhaps less. I would like to program it several times to—"
"That's fine. We can certainly afford a day. Now, suppose you take your photographs and do whatever it is you have to do, and I'll see how Fallon's coming along. Okay?"
Wilson gave him a waxen smile and went back to tinkering with the machine. Quickly absorbed in the task, he began tracing through the maze of wires, and Ruxton left him muttering to himself. Apparently it was none too soon, for as he turned away, Fallon exploded, cursing fluently.
"Sonofabitch! Can you believe that? The dirty old scumbag rigged it. Suckered us!"
Birkhead glanced across at Ruxton and shrugged, clearly dumbfounded by the outburst. Fallon stood stock-still, reduced to baffled fury, glaring at the vault door. Ruxton approached and halted beside him, careful to betray none of his own apprehension.
"What's the problem, Johnny? Brokaw throw you a curve?"
"You bet your ass he did!" Fallon growled. "The bastard booby-trapped that door handle."
"The vault door handle?" Ruxton studied it a moment, thoughtful. "That's odd. Nothing was ever mentioned in his will about the vault being rigged. How can you be so sure?"
"Screw him and his will! You don't believe me? Watch!"
Fallon grasped the handgrips on the scanning device and directed it at the vault. Slowly he moved the device in a vertical path from the door handle to the top of the door and along the wall above the door. A jagged, bleeping pattern appeared in the center of the monitor screen. Then he raised the scanner overhead and ran a line across the ceiling to the entranceway. There he lowered the device and scanned the wall directly above the entranceway opening. The telltale pattern, dancing blips that varied in configuration, was apparent on the monitor the entire time. Finally, he switched off the scanner and his expression became pensive. He stepped aside, his eyes flicking from the entranceway to the vault and back again, clearly lost in thought. At length he grunted, and his features twisted in an ugly smile.
"You know, that Brokaw must've been a beaut! A real pisscutter!"
"I assume the machine told you something," Ruxton interjected. "Now suppose you tell us."
"I'll tell you one thing, he was a sneaky old bastard. It's real cute. A classy piece of work, and I thought I'd seen 'em all."
Fallon quickly briefed them on what the scanner had shown him. A steel plunger, specially engineered within the vault door, was connected to the door handle and ran on a vertical line to the upper wall. Throwing the door handle, which normally released the lock bolts, would thrust the plunger upward, driving it into the wall above the door. There it broke the seal on a hydraulic system and rammed the fluid through a tube across the ceiling. What appeared to be a massive stone slab was suspended over the entranceway, held in place by explosive bolts. The hydraulic fluid activated a piston, which in turn set off the explosive charges and sheared the bolts.
". . . and when that happens, the stone slab drops into place and seals the entranceway. There's also a string of wires running off the entranceway, and I'll lay odds it activates an alarm system. So we'd be trapped in here like a bunch of rats till the guards came to let us out."
"And haul our butts to the slammer," Birkhead added sourly.
Ruxton's gaze traveled across the ceiling to the entranceway. "You're right, Johnny. Mr. Brokaw was even more devious than I suspected." His eyes narrowed and he swung back to the vault. "Are we stalemated or not? Can it be opened?"
"I'd say it's a toss-up." Fallon walked to the vault. "I've scanned this whole area between the door handle and the combination lock, and there's nothing that connects them. So if we stay away from the door handle, we're probably in the clear."
"Probably. That seems to be the operative word." Ruxton mulled it over a while, staring at the vault, and finally shrugged. "Why not? We're here, and the only alternative is to walk away empty-handed. Let's give it a try."
Fallon opened a pocket of the knapsack and took out the final accessory for his machine. It resembled a stethoscope fitted with stereo earpads and had an electrical jack connected by a length of wire. Kneeling, he placed the scanner on the floor beside the vault and plugged the jack into its receptacle. Several quick adjustments calibrated the instrument for external operat
ion. Then he licked the tip of the audio bell, which was rimmed with a suction cup, and stuck it on the side of the door. At last, everything in order, he slipped the earpads over his head and, began slowly rotating the combination knob.
It took eighteen minutes until the last tumbler rolled into position. Fallon pulled the suction cup loose and removed the earpads. Stooping down, be switched off the scanner, laid the stethoscope apparatus to one side, and then straightened to face Ruxton.
"The combination is six left, twenty-five right, eighteen left, seventy-six right. Other than that, I can't guarantee a damn thing."
Ruxton merely nodded. "A bit like Russian roulette. But then . . . what isn't? Go ahead, Johnny. Try it."
Fallon dialed the combination and hastily backed away from the vault. A sudden stillness fell over the chamber. The men waited, staring intently at the door. Seconds ticked past in leaden silence. Yet nothing happened. The tension became oppressive, mirrored in their drawn faces. Time was suspended, an interminable quiet that held them immobile, scarcely able to breathe. Then, with an abrupt jolt, it ended.
There was a muffled thud and the lock bolts were withdrawn. Precisely one minute had passed, and on the second, the door swung open. Beyond, empty and waiting, stood the vault.
"I told you he was cute!" Fallon laughed, shaking his head. "The sonofabitch built it to open automatically . . . but with a time lapse. Anybody that wasn't wise would've grabbed the door handle instead and bingo!"
Ruxton glanced at his watch, collecting himself. When he spoke, it was with renewed authority. "Hustle it up, Johnny. You've got two safes to open, and we're running short on time. To be exact, an hour and fifty eight minutes and counting."
Fallon's mouth again crooked in that grotesque smile. Without a word, he gathered his equipment and entered the vault.
During the next hour Fallon slowly lost his smile, along with his good humor. But what he discovered inside the vault did nothing to lessen his respect for Lucas Brokaw. If anything, he grew more cautious by the minute. In fact, he was becoming unnerved. Gradually, as he moved back and forth between the wall safes, it dawned on him that he'd met his match at last. Except for the scanner, he would have been a dead man.
After he had checked and double-checked and then checked it all again, he finally accepted what he'd found. The scanner had never lied to him before, and he knew it hadn't lied to him now. Yet it seemed somehow unfair that he had to stake his life to prove the point. As he walked back to the door, where Ruxton and Birkhead waited, it was the thought uppermost in his mind.
"I'll give it to you short and fast," he informed them. "Damn near everything in Brokaws' will was pure bullshit. Just for openers, those safes aren't wired together. The wall between them is solid rock. No wires, no channels, no nothing. So it makes no difference which one we open first."
"That's hard to believe," Ruxton said flatly. "His will was explicit. If you open the answer safe first, then they'll both blow up simultaneously."
"Take my word for it, chum. It'll never happen. But if you can't hack that, wait'll you try this on for size." Fallon rapped the vault door with his knuckles. "You remember the combination for this—it's the same for both safes in here."
"Are you serious?" Ruxton demanded. "Come off it, Johnny. That's absurd! I think you better test that scanner before you get us all killed."
Fallon's jaw clenched so tight his lips barely moved. "Since it's me that has to open 'em, it's not exactly the kind of mistake I'd make. And you haven't heard the half of it yet. See, regardless of what the will says, there's nothing peculiar about those locks. They're not wired to anything—least of all explosives. If you want, you could fiddle with the combination all day."
"Wait a minute! Are you saying it's all a smoke screen? Some sort of diversion?"
"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying. Brokaw put a bunch of crap in his will just to throw everybody off the track. Then he rigged his booby traps completely opposite to the way he said he'd done it."
"Opposite? Are you trying to tell me it's—"
"That's right, chum. It's the door handles again. I don't know for sure how he did it, but there's some extra metal on the back of both doors. Centered square behind the handles. It shows up real clear on the scanner. Looks to me like that's how he rigged it—to the door handles."
"Do you think there's another time release—on the doors?"
"Hard to tell. He was so goddamned tricky, maybe that's what he wanted us to think. The only way to find out is to try the combination. Either the door opens or it doesn't."
"And if it doesn't . . . then what?"
"Yeah. I've been asking myself the same question. And you know, I keep coming back to one idea. Most people wouldn't give it a second thought, but the handle on a wall safe normally moves in only one direction—down. You couldn't force it up with a crowbar. So if the door doesn't open on its own, then I'd say the odds favor trying to turn the handle up."
A strange look came into Fallon's eye and he grunted. "One thing's for damn sure! I wouldn't try turning the handle down if you offered me the U. S. Mint and a one-way ticket to Rio."
"Perhaps it's too logical," Ruxton countered. "Suppose Brokaw carried it to the same conclusion? Then it blows if you turn it up."
"Like you said, it's Russian roulette. You go with your best hunch or you don't go at all."
"Then let's go, Johnny. We're too close to quit now."
Fallon grinned and turned away quickly. He knew it had to be done fast, almost mechanically, before he had a chance to change his mind. He walked to the safe on the right, and without an instant's hesitation, dialed the sequence. Then he waited, eyes on his watch, counting the seconds.
A minute passed. Then another. And nothing happened.
Birkhead and Ruxton quietly eased away from the vault door. Wilson joined them, eyes glazed with fear, and the three men flattened themselves against the wall of the outer chamber. Inside the vault, Fallon was sweating bullets, his gaze fastened on the safe in a look of petrified desperation. He filled his lungs with a deep breath, held it a moment, steadying himself, and exhaled slowly. Then he reached out and took a firm grip on the door handle. All thought suspended, operating on nerve alone, he twisted the handle upward.
There was an audible clunk as the lock bolts disengaged.
Fallon gently opened the door a mere crack. Holding his penlight to the slot, he clicked it on and peered inside. His face went pale and he nearly dropped the light. But again he steadied himself, breathing hard, and eased the door ajar to a handspan's width. Cautiously, an inch at a time, he slipped his arm into the safe. Working by feel, every movement slow and deliberate, he located a loop of wire hooked over the metal flange and carefully removed it. Then his knees turned to jelly, and as he swung the door open, he had to brace himself against the wall.
Ruxton stuck his head around the corner, darting a quick peek into the vault. Fallon managed a weak grin and jerked his thumb at the safe. "Plastique. About ten kilos. Enough to blow this whole goddamn cliff into the ocean."
The extent of Lucas Brokaw's ingenuity was apparent when they inspected the safe. Only by the slimmest of margins had Fallon second-guessed him on a booby trap rigged with diabolic cunning. Turning the handle down would have engaged the metal flange, stretching the wire taut, and pulled the pin on a mousetrap detonator. Simply opening the door before unhooking the wire would also have triggered the device. Had Fallon done anything, one single act, in the normal fashion, nearly thirty pounds of plastic explosive would have gutted the crypt, killing them all.
Vastly relieved, but pressed for time, the men worked at a feverish pace during the next half hour. After the second safe was opened, the envelopes were unsealed with a solvent specially mixed by Wilson. The cryptanalyst claimed to have learned the formula from the CIA. Ruxton then photographed the question-and-answer lists with the Minox; the envelopes were resealed and returned to their respective safes. While Fallon again activated the booby traps, Wi
lson and Birkhead packed their equipment in the knapsack. The last step was the vault door, and when Fallon closed it, turning the combination knob to zero, the others were waiting for him in the entranceway. Ruxton crossed off the final item on his checklist and made a quick visual inspection of the outer chamber.
Then they turned from the crypt and filed silently up the stairs.
XXI
Outside the house, Birkhead again took the lead, instructing them to wait while he scouted ahead. Without a sound, he ghosted down the walkway to the forward edge of the pavilion. Suddenly, headlights flashed on the driveway and he whirled back, hissing between his teeth. The other men instantly separated and vanished into the shadows. Birkhead went down on one knee, hidden behind the base of a massive column beside the steps. He raised the Colt Python to shoulder level and clamped it hard in a two-handed combat grip.
The car skidded to a halt in front of the mansion, and Tanner jumped out, running toward the pavilion. Stacey hurried after him, fumbling with a key ring in the dark. Tanner mounted the steps two at a time and moved quickly to the door. He twisted the handle and found it locked; wheeling around, he cursed, gesturing impatiently. Stacey caught up with him, and he stood fidgeting as she tried to insert the key in the lock.
Birkhead kept the pistol trained on his chest, slightly below the sternum, while Tanner stood sideways to the door, hovering over Stacey, urging her to hurry. But suddenly he stiffened, alert to some unseen threat, and looked around. It was nothing tangible, but rather a moment of blind instinct, an odd sense of being watched. His eyes flicked about the pavilion, probing the shadows, and for a brief instant settled on the column near the steps. Birkhead steadied the pistol, waiting for him to move or cry out, finger curled tightly on the trigger. Then Stacey finally found the lock, and there was a faint click as she opened the door. Tanner hesitated, some sixth sense still nagging at him, and she turned back, tugging at his sleeve.
