by Fiona Quinn
I spent the evening watching tapes of Julio in his cell. Julio read, paced, and went to the bathroom. Day after day. Week after week. I was glad for Julio that he had reading material. It would have helped me enormously during my imprisonment to have an escape through the words on a page. Living in solitary was beyond hard. My experience down in Honduras made me wonder even more about Julio’s visits.
If someone had come reliably, every Sunday of my captivity, I would have used that day as motivation to get through my week. I would have had a million questions and begged for news and new thoughts. Anything, absolutely anything, to help me walk back into that cell and not die a little more each time the door clanged shut.
The very last thing I would do is sit there stoically, with a number in front of me, during a visit. Not a single word. I wouldn’t have fully understood how bizarre and ludicrous these non-exchanges were had I not lived through the last six months in solitary myself.
There it was again, on the tape where the prison officials monitored Julio’s activity in his cell. Sunday morning held the only deviation from the rest of the week. Instead of reading and pacing, Julio took out a marbled notebook, the kind sewn together instead of a spiral binding. He pulled out the front page and wrote, moving his hand from left to right, and the second line from left to right, and then he wrote moving his hand right to left.
I moved the video back, and watched it again and again. There was more to this. First, Julio tore out the top sheet from the notebook. He took his pencil and shaded on the top of his page. Then he wrote from left to right, then left to right again. There was a slight down tick before he wrote each character from right to left. He reopened the notebook, placed the sheet he was working on over the top of the page, and hunkered over this while he wrote. He must be leaving an imprint for next week. A reminder. He closed the notebook and pushed it back out of the way. The rest of the page was confettied and flushed down the toilet. This left Julio with a seemingly blank notebook and a code in his pocket.
We ended up with a number. A number that increased from line to line and week to week. This must have been a calculation. A numeric code? That didn’t feel right. This felt more like a key. A key to a lock that changed from week to week. Ugh! My brain. I needed a white board. I needed to pace. I couldn’t think like this.
Actually, what I needed were meds and a nap. My brain thrummed. Bright arcade lights of flashing color blurred my vision. I popped a couple of pills. Chris produced an ice pack that I draped over my neck. I momentarily rested my head on the desk. Even though my mind whirled with the light show, I was a bloodhound on the hunt. I wasn’t willing to let up.
The papers that Julio displayed for his visitors were numbers. I needed to figure out the equation he was using to produces those numbers, so we could get the next codes. If I could produce the next code, we might be able to trick Brody. Take him aside, show him our code. Tell him we know everything, let him go in and see Julio to get the same code from him. This would verify that we knew what was going on. We would hold Brody for questioning – he’d tell us everything. My brain stumbled forward. Yes. He’d tell us everything that we could use to leverage Maria and Julio. We’d crack the case. The bad guys would get punished. Omega would go away. I would get to go home. Easy peazy.
I took out my sheet of numbers and stared at it. I willed my mind to cooperate and make sense of what I was seeing. I looked up as Striker came in my room.
“Are you pouting?” he asked.
“Mulling.”
“Migraine?”
I propped my head into my hand. “Yes. Whisper, please.”
He put the box he was carrying down by the door, and strode over on his long legs. Striker stood six-foot-three. His build was like the SEALs he commanded in DEVGRU – very distracting.
He pulled a chair over to sit beside me. “What are you mulling?”
“Look at this and tell me what you see.” I handed him a page with the numbers from Julio and Maria’s first five visits:
1-297-121-5073
1-480-752-6976
1-777-874-2049
1-258-626-9025
1-203-650-1107
1-329-512-8009
“Where did you get these?” Striker asked.
“Each time someone goes and visits poor mute Julio, he puts a piece of paper out on the table in front of him with a number on it. Each visit is a new number. They never replicate.”
He ran a finger down the sheet. “Phone numbers?”
“That’s what I thought but none of the three digit sets following the number one are actual area codes except for the 480 number – that’s Phoenix and the 203 number – that’s Bridgeport, Connecticut.”
“He wrote them that way to look like phone numbers to cover up what they really represent?”
“Here’s my thought process. Phone numbers are handy, aren’t they? They’re convenient for several reasons. The first one is yes – they look conventional.” I pointed at the list. “Heck, some of these may actually be working phone numbers. Let’s say an operative like me takes the trouble to write out each of these numbers, culls through to find out which are working phone numbers and which are not, and then sends an agent out to check on things.”
“That would suck a whole lot of resources,” Striker said.
“Exactly.” My ice pack had thawed. I set it aside on the table. My meds had done their job. My head had settled down to the beat of a single kettledrum.
“If they’re not phone numbers what are they?” he asked.
“Key codes. It’s interesting that they are in numeric form. Most people can remember words better than numbers. As far as numbers go, there were some psychological studies done in the 1950s that came to the conclusion that human beings can hold seven digits, give or take two, in their short-term memory. Other studies indicate that human number memory is more consistent with four or fewer digits. If we take the two studies together, we find the advent of modern phone numbers. The seven digit numbers have a division to reduce the segments to bite sized morsels, and we get a memorable phone number sequence.”
“What about the area code?” Striker asked. “That expands the sequence to ten.”
“You can look at it as a sequence of ten or a sequence of three numbers- three numbers- four numbers.” I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. My task here is to try to figure out how he’s developing this week’s code.”
“They’re not randomly constructed or numbers he’s memorized?”
“Nope. They’re calculated.” I rubbed my fingers over my scalp and fluffed at my hair. “I’ve been at this for two days, and I haven’t got a clue. Deep put them into a cryptography program, but the computer hasn’t generated anything, either. I guess I can’t feel but too much like a failure.”
“Julio could be using a cypher gadget. This might be indicators from a piece of literature or something.”
“Sunday mornings he does a calculation. Here, I’ll show you.” I pushed the play button on the computer, and Striker watched.
“He indents the last set of numbers into the top of his notebook and shades the reveal on the next week. Clever boy. What’s the plan from here?” asked Striker.
“I think I’m going to take some more pain meds for my head, and then take the problem into my dreams. Maybe my subconscious can work this out.” I reached for the bottle, tipped two blue pills onto my palm, and swallowed them down.
“You tried that last night, and it wasn’t very helpful.” Striker handed me my glass of water.
“How do you mean?”
“Last night when I came in, you were asleep over your notes. I had to carry you to bed. You told me you were dreaming about pineapples and pine cones, and I should tell you in the morning.”
I sat perfectly still. The color drained from my face. My voice dropped to barely audible. “You didn’t tell me that this morning, Striker.”
“No. I didn’t think anything of it. You’re always having crazy dreams and telling me
stuff when you’re half asleep.”
I turned from him and pulled up a Google search. I ran my finger down the list of numbers that came up on my screen. I shouted out a victory whoop and slapped my hands over my forehead. I clunked my head down on Striker’s shoulder. No yelling. Lesson learned. When I lifted my head, Striker was quietly waiting for an explanation.
“These are Fibonacci numbers, Striker.”
“The number continuum where you use the sum of two numbers to create the next number in the order 1+1=2, 1+2=3, 2+3=5, and so forth?”
“Neverending,” Excitement painted my voice.
“Neverending,” Striker said.
I turned my computer for him to see. “Look, Julio started at number 47 on that continuum. The sum at this point is 2,971,215,073. If you divide that number with dashes instead of commas, where one would normally make a division for a phone number, and then add the necessary 1 in the front to depict a long distance call, use the first 10 digits you have, then you can see the progression for the next three codes.”
“And the fourth code doesn’t continue the pattern?”
“It does, but he didn’t add a one in the front because this number begins with a one. And look.” I scrolled back in the films to find the 4th Sunday. “That time, he underlined the one. I’d bet he did it so Maria would know that that one was part of the code.”
“This works all the way through?” Striker shifted his gaze back and forth between the list on the computer screen and the list in his hand.
“Looks like it.” I felt like a parade - a combination of jubilation and drumming head.
Striker put the paper down. “Couple of questions. One, pineapples and pine cones?”
“Fibonacci developed his number sequence based on his observations of nature. When I was a little girl, my mom and I used to observe the Fibonacci effect in pine cones and pineapples.”
“Okay, second question, how would your subconscious have figured this out in your sleep?”
“Because Julio started with number 47. If he started much later in the sequence, I would probably never have guessed.”
Striker slipped down in his chair until his head rested on the back. “More information.”
“When Spyder mentored me, one of the computer training programs he had me work through taught me to see number series quickly and hold them in my memory. One of my tasks was to memorize the first fifty Fibonacci numbers.”
“That’s a hell of a task.”
“The first thirty-five weren’t as hard as the last fifteen.”
“Because…”
“Number thirty-six was an eight digit number.”
Striker shook his head at me, wrapped his arm around my neck, planting a kiss on top of my head the way he used to do at the safe house. “Still my little surprise party. I never know what’s going to pop out of your head or your mouth next.”
“Now that I can set aside this particular puzzle, tell me what’s in the box.” I pointed towards the door.
“Are you up to this? Do you need to lie down?”
“I think that second round of pills did the trick.”
Striker brought the box to my table. It needed two hands to carry. He opened the flaps, and shut them again, laying his hand over the top.
“I’m not sure about this, timing-wise. I’m going to depend on you to know your limits here, okay?”
Curiosity wrinkled my brow. “Okay,” I agreed.
Striker opened the box again. “This is from the time you were in prison. They’re your letters and gifts your friends sent to you. A lot of them are from your twenty-first birthday; those came in from all over the world. Much of this is from closer to home. . .your neighbors.”
Oh.
Tears stung the inner rim of my eyelids and held there, blurring my vision. Now I understand Striker’s hesitation. This was going to claw at my heart, and he wasn’t sure I was strong enough to handle it. I wasn’t sure, either. Missing everyone was a knife in my heart. I peeped in. There were letters on top that someone had slit open with a blade at the fold. I spread the envelope open and glanced at Striker.
“We looked at all your mail. We were hoping for clues, Lexi, not prying. I promise you.”
“I know.” I rifled through the top layer.
“We contacted each person and told them what was going on, in case they heard from you or had any information.”
I reached in to take out a mauve piece of paper folded in half. I opened it and there was a baby’s handprint in black ink surrounded by a hand drawn heart. It simply said, “Ruby.” I couldn’t catch my breath. The last time I saw baby Ruby, Maria’s hunting knife poised over her heart. Then they thrust the bag over my head.
Striker lifted the drawing from my hand and put it back into the box. He lowered me to my chair and knelt down beside me.
We were there together for a long time, with my forehead resting against Striker’s. Sometimes the enormity of my emotions engulfed me. I felt like that tiny sailboat floundering in the Gulf waves as I flew overhead on my escape – both of us desperately struggling towards safety before the full brunt of the storm hit. Tossed by reality, trying valiantly to stay afloat. That was where I was in this moment.
Striker stood up and pulled me to my feet. He undressed me, tugged his T-shirt from over his head and put it on me. It hung almost to my knees. He put me into bed and climbed in behind me. There, spooned against his warmth and stability with a blanket of melancholy covering us both, we fell asleep together.
Eighteen
I looked up. “You’re in uniform again.”
“I’m back on grid today.” He glanced at his phone. “I only have a couple of minutes. Laura’s going to be here, and I don’t want her to see anyone other than Andy, Chris, and Cook.
“Does Cook have a name?”
“As far as I know, it’s Cook or Cookie. I’ve never heard him called anything else. It’s hard to communicate with him; Cookie’s English is limited.”
“What does he speak?” I asked.
“Polish. I’m surprised you didn’t hear him cussing this morning. He’s having little trouble figuring out how to make your nutritional parameters work with Puerto Rican cuisine.”
“Why?”
“Too spicy, from what I can gather. That’s why we’re having flan and fruit for breakfast,” he said with a smile.
“I’m not complaining. Abuela Rosa gave me flan all the time when I wasn’t feeling well.”
“Listen, I’m not going to be around for the next few days. I need to head over to Somalia.”
“More information, please.” I let the cool sweetness of the flan slide down my throat.
“It’s a private contract. A CEO and his family were captured on their yacht when they were coming around the cape in the Gulf of Aden, and are being ransomed,” he said.
“And you are. . .”
“Delivering the ransom, safeguarding the family, taking out the pirates.”
“Oh, just a walk in the park then,” I said, hiding my anxiety for his safety behind my napkin as I wiped my mouth.
Striker laughed.
“Good thing you’re a super-hero.” I reached for his hand and held tightly. It was his job, but it still made my heart leap around in my chest. I tried to smile past my feelings so he wouldn’t think I doubted his success.
“Yeah, good thing,” he said with a wink.
I needed to change the subject. I felt a big, sloppy sob gathering strength. “I never hear a car leave when you guys are heading out. Are you teleporting?”
“Next best thing. Most of the time, we take the sub.” He grinned at me, full dimples.
My eyelids stretched wide, and my brows were at my hairline. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all. See the boathouse?” Striker turned me and pointed out the window to the far right where a long, low boathouse hovered over the water. “It houses my Cigarette boat, a cabin cruiser for day sails, and a six-man submarine for getting to the of
fice.”
I shook my head, confused. “There’s no dock at Iniquus. Is there?”
“No dock. There’s a tunnel from the Potomac up to one of the McMansions on the edge of the Iniquus campus. We have a small fleet of subs under there.”
“The bad guys can’t find their way to the tunnel?”
“We protect the mouth by an electrified gate. Only a few people know about our subs.”
“Why do we have them?”
“Fun.” He gave me a boyish grin. Good god, but he was cute. “I don’t think they’ve been deployed on a case yet,” he said. “Iniquus took down some high-volume drug runners. Command kept their run-boats and submarines. They gave me a sub since I live on the Bay. Each of the Company Leads got one of the cigarette boats as their Christmas bonus that year.”
“That’s a hell of a bonus.” I leaned back into him, and Striker wrapped his arms around me.
Striker snorted. “Shit, yeah.”
I turned around now so we were hugging, and I could rest my ear against his heart. “Can I see it?”
“The sub? Not today.” He brushed his hand through the length of my hair. “My communicator just buzzed. Laura must be driving up the driveway. I’ll take you for a ride when I get back.”
There it was again, that wave of fear for his safety. Striker must have felt it in my tightening grip because he bent down to kiss me and whispered, “I promise,” and kissed me again. Boy, he was good at that kissing thing. Any bad feelings melted away. The waves I was feeling now had absolutely zero to do with safety.
***
Laura came. Laura tortured. Laura left. I wandered over to the west wing. No one was in the puzzle room. I moved down the hall to the command center, where I found Deep sitting in front of a bank of computers.
“Hey, Deep. Are we alone in the house?”
“Cookie, Andy and Chris are here. I think they’re downstairs playing pool. Do you need something?”
“Nope. I’m letting my thoughts marinate.” I picked up a file on his desk and leafed through it. “Striker says that he commutes to the office by submarine. He took the rest of the team with him?”
