The Unbreakable Code
Page 2
James studied her. “Aren’t you in my science class? Your name is Misha, right?”
“Nisha,” she said.
“Right. Nisha. Sorry about that.”
Nisha offered them her book and a pen, but just as Emily was about to press the pen to the page, Nisha blurted out, “Could you sign it in code?”
“Code?” Emily said.
Nisha nodded, and Emily thought for a second before she wrote UNBWD. James wrote RTNUS. They were using the cipher they’d made up together and memorized until it became their own secret language. Nisha took the book back with a wispy “thanks.” Emily watched her disappear into the crowd and wondered how many more Book Scavenger players were at their school that she didn’t know about.
The words Emily and James were repeated over and over above the hum, making it apparent they were still very much the center of attention. Voices swirled and heads turned their way. Emily felt dizzy.
“I need to go the bathroom,” Emily said. “Be right back.”
She left the crowded front of the store and immediately felt comforted by the walls of books that lined her pathway to the back of the shop. She stopped to check on Herb, a bookmark in the shape of a famous San Francisco writer named Herb Caen. Emily and James liked to hide Herb around the store so customers would randomly come across his eyes peeking out from behind a row of books. Herb was where they’d left him, nose and eyes rising above a set of old Nancy Drew hardbacks. He had kind, moon-shaped eyes. She imagined him saying, It’s okay, kid. Crowds make me anxious, too.
It was tempting to pull one of the Nancy Drew mysteries off the shelf, go around the corner to where her favorite overstuffed purple chair was tucked in a nook, and forget the party and read. But she couldn’t abandon James. She continued with her mission to the bathroom, even though she didn’t really have to go, but when she stepped into the intersecting aisle, she was surprised to see her favorite chair was occupied.
Occupied by a giant floral-print purse, but still, occupied.
A man stood nearby with his back to her. Emily instinctively retreated behind the bookcase, and then felt silly for being so jumpy. She peeked around the corner and realized there was something familiar about this guy.
“Oh” escaped from her mouth.
It was her social studies teacher, Mr. Quisling. Emily knew Mr. Quisling played Book Scavenger, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise for him to be here at the book party, but it was weird to see a teacher outside of his natural habitat. And back where nobody else was hanging out. Maybe her teacher didn’t like crowds, either?
She realized that if Mr. Quisling noticed her now, hiding behind a bookcase, he would assume she was spying on him when she hadn’t been. She needed to move. She stepped forward with purpose, planning to act surprised if Mr. Quisling noticed her, but when she glanced his way, she saw him look to his right, his left, then plunge a hand inside the purse.
Now she really was spying on her teacher, because she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Why in the world was he fishing around inside a bag that obviously did not belong to him?
Mr. Quisling pulled out something thin and small—was it money? She couldn’t tell. He looked at whatever it was briefly, and then disappeared into a parallel aisle, presumably heading back to the book party.
Did she just see her teacher steal?
Emily forgot her nerves completely, as well as her mission to the bathroom, and hightailed it back to the party to find James. He was bent over the puzzle table, and she grabbed his arm.
“James,” she said.
“Hold on, I’ve almost got this sudoku solved,” he said.
“It’s Mr. Quisling.”
“He’s here?”
“There,” Emily said, spotting their social studies teacher standing at the fringe of the crowd. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he surveyed the bookstore with a stoic expression, just as he did when students filed into his classroom.
“I guess we should go say hi,” James said.
“Wait.” Emily gripped his arm once again, holding him back. “I saw him stealing from someone.”
James wrinkled his nose. “You saw him what?”
Emily looked to either side to make sure nobody was eavesdropping and whispered, “Stealing.”
“Mr. Quisling?” He shook his head. “That can’t be right. He’s the most rule-abiding guy in the history of the universe.”
That was true. Their teacher was pretty strict and black-and-white on his dos and don’ts. If she hadn’t just seen what she did, there was no way she would have believed herself, either.
“I’m telling you, there’s a purse back there. Someone left it on a chair. And Mr. Quisling took something from it.”
James frowned. She could tell he still didn’t quite believe her. “Well, let’s go say hi.”
They sidestepped a man in a turtleneck and a woman with a gray ponytail that reached her waist, who were arguing about how Poe died, and then another group trading stories about puzzle quests they had completed through Book Scavenger. When they reached the spot where their teacher had been standing, he was gone.
“Where did he go?” Emily asked.
They spent a moment eyeing the people in the room. Finally, James said, “There he is.”
A hand rested on Emily’s shoulder, and she jumped. It belonged to the reporter she’d spotted when they first entered the store. The woman leaned in like a gossiping friend, but her grip felt possessive. “I’ve been chatting with your brother. What a hoot!” The man with the video camera stood behind her, looking bored.
Matthew was across the room tossing grapes in the air and catching them in his mouth to the applause of his friends. What could her brother have said? On the opposite side of the room, their teacher was making his way through the crowd, heading toward the door. Emily strained to see what he held in his hand.
“He must keep you endlessly entertained,” the reporter said. Emily wasn’t sure if she meant Mr. Quisling or Matthew.
“My brother?” Emily finally said.
“Yes! He—”
Her words were drowned out by the screeching wail of a siren. For a second, Emily wondered if the police had been called about Mr. Quisling stealing from a purse, but then the interior of Hollister’s bookstore flashed red as a fire engine passed by. The movement and voices in the store froze. Once the sirens softened, conversations flared up even louder than before.
The reporter studied a message on her phone. “Looks like a fire in Washington Square,” she said to her cameraman.
“A fire?” James repeated.
Typing madly with both thumbs on her phone screen, she muttered, “Nothing to get worked up over. Probably something small, but you never know when something small might turn into something huge.” To the cameraman she said, “We have enough material to work with here. Let’s go.”
The woman charged toward the door, the cameraman trailing behind. They crossed in front of the shop window under the white twinkle of lights strung in the trees outside Hollister’s store. The corners of the glass were fogged up, giving the illusion of frost even though the late December weather was hardly frosty that evening.
Emily and James again followed the path of their teacher. It seemed hopeless that they would head him off before he reached the front door. But then a man intercepted Mr. Quisling. They were a couple of feet away now and could hear the man say, “Brian Quisling?”
Mr. Quisling wasn’t facing them, so she couldn’t see his expression, but Emily heard him say, “Yes?” in a calm and curious voice. His arm swiftly folded behind his back, and Emily saw a flash of white in his hand. Was this what he’d taken from the purse? She assumed her teacher meant to tuck the card into his pocket, but unbeknownst to him, it missed and fluttered to the ground, where it sat among the shuffling feet of people milling about the bookstore.
“Brian,” the man said to their teacher, “it’s me—Harry Sloan? We reconnected at the Book Scavenger literary labyrinth last Sep
tember? We used to teach together many years ago.”
Emily tap-tapped James’s arm and pointed to the white card on the floor.
Mr. Quisling said, “Harry Sloan? The literary labyrinth?”
James extended his foot, toe pointed, and tapped the tip of his shoe to the paper, drawing it toward them and away from Mr. Quisling. James had started to bend over to pick it up when the man Mr. Quisling was talking to—Mr. Sloan—leaned to the side and looked Emily directly in the eye.
Oh no, were they about to get caught for stealing a card from their teacher, who had stolen the card from a purse? This time her dress shrank about twenty sizes. She could hardly breathe until Mr. Sloan said, “Don’t tell me you’re the lucky guy who teaches these kids.”
James hastily grabbed the card and shoved it in his pocket before Mr. Quisling fully turned.
“It’s good to see you, Mr. Quisling!” Emily nearly shouted, in a voice that was way louder and way more enthusiastic than she ever talked. A little snort of laughter burst from James.
“Did you know this man was a celebrity last fall?” Mr. Sloan said. “Just like you two today.”
“A celebrity?” Emily asked. She felt grateful for this stranger who was keeping what could have been a very bizarre or awkward exchange with their teacher headed down a normal track.
Mr. Quisling sighed. “Celebrity seems a bit much.”
“Always humble, always humble,” Mr. Sloan said, clapping him on the arm.
Mr. Quisling grimaced and looked toward the door.
“Are you two familiar with the literary labyrinth event?” Mr. Sloan said. “Garrison Griswold built a maze with walls entirely constructed of books. You had to enter, find and solve three puzzle stations hidden inside the maze, and leave within a certain amount of time.” The man gave Mr. Quisling’s arm a little shake. “Your teacher here left everyone in the dust in the adult round. How quickly did you get through it? Fourteen minutes and thirty-six seconds?”
“Something like that,” Mr. Quisling said.
“The next-fastest time was around twenty-five minutes. I didn’t even come close to that.” Mr. Sloan dug in his pocket and removed a wallet. “I mentioned this when I saw you last September, Brian, but I’m getting back into teaching. Subbing for now.” He extended a plain business card. “I probably gave you one of these, but I know how easy it is to misplace them.”
When Mr. Quisling didn’t reach for the card, Mr. Sloan pressed it into his hand. “In case you need a sub. You can call me.”
“I don’t get sick,” Mr. Quisling replied.
Mr. Sloan whistled low. “You’ve done it now. You’ve jinxed yourself!” He tapped the card resting on Mr. Quisling’s open palm. “Hold on to that, my friend. I can cover any subject. Math, history, English … Took the GRE recently and got a perfect score, can you believe that?”
“I’m sorry, but I should get going,” Mr. Quisling said, accepting the business card. To Emily and James he nodded and said, “Congratulations, you two. See you in the New Year.”
As their teacher made his way to the exit, Mr. Sloan bent toward Emily and James. “Is it just me, or is he not much of a party person?”
Emily and James grinned. “It’s not just you,” they answered.
Mr. Sloan winked and slipped into the crowd.
“So?” Emily asked, once they were alone again in the sea of people. “What was the paper?”
James held it forward, and they examined it: a notecard with a bird on the front, wings spread, and a long tail of feathers. Inside was a handwritten note that read
* * *
Remember the Niantic? I sure do. To figure out my message, that is your clue.
GTTSAJN AJ LTPQKJ WAFF ET QWTTSTP KJMT WT’VT QKFVTB SIT UJEPTRDREFT MKBT
Solve the puzzle and leave the solution with the next book, and maybe you will change my mind.
* * *
“‘The Niantic’? What’s that mean?” James asked.
“I’m more curious about the cipher,” Emily said. “And why our teacher stole this out of a purse.”
“And what does ‘leave the solution with the next book’ mean?” James added.
“Pardon me.”
They looked up to see an Edgar Allan Poe standing before them. He bowed his head, and his caterpillar-like mustache sprang from his lip to the floor. The Poe swore, picked up the mustache, and turned his back to them. When he faced them again, the mustache had been reapplied, but crookedly. “Apologies, my fair children.” Poe held his book out for them and smiled, his mustache dropping from the top lip to his chin.
They signed the Poe’s book and watched him slink over to the snack table.
“What a weird night,” James said.
“You can say that again,” Emily replied.
CHAPTER
4
EMILY HAD RETURNED home from the book party hours ago and was supposed to be getting ready for bed, but she was still buzzing. Fortunately, James was up, too.
Thud. Thud-thud-thud. Thud.
Prompted by James’s knocking on the floor above, Emily went to her open bedroom window. James’s room directly over hers cast a narrow rectangle of light on the wall of the neighboring building only a few feet away. For a moment, Emily could see the shadow of the tin pail being lowered down by the pulley system that ran between their windows.
Once the bucket reached her, Emily removed the notebook paper they’d been passing back and forth. She skimmed the chain of messages written in their made-up secret code. She had the key written in her notebook, but she rarely had to refer to it anymore:
A
B
C
D
E
F
G
H
I
J
K
L
M
T
H
E
Q
U
I
C
K
B
R
O
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X
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F
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A
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G
It didn’t take Emily long to understand what James had written:
EPTEOUQ BV! “PUNUNHUP VKU
FBTFVBE” BS VKU OUDZXPQ
(Cracked it! “Remember the Niantic” is the keyword.)
A keyword cipher! Emily groaned. Why hadn’t she guessed that? James hadn’t written out the solution, so she flipped to a new page in her notebook and tugged free the pencil she kept tucked in her ponytail.
A keyword cipher was a type of substitution cipher, similar to their secret code. Emily wrote out the regular alphabet, and then underneath she wrote Remember the Niantic, leaving out any repeated letters. After that, she filled in the rest of the alphabet to come up with the key:
A
B
C
D
E
F
G
H
I
J
K
L
M
R
E
M
B
T
H
N
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A
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D
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O
P
Q
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U
V
W
X
Y
Z
&
nbsp; J
K
L
O
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U
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X
Y
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Now all she had to do was look up each letter from the coded message to see what it translated to in the key. She looked again at the puzzle in Mr. Quisling’s note:
Remember the Niantic? I sure do. To figure out my message, that is your clue.
GTTSAJN AJ LTPQKJ WAFF ET QWTTSTP KJMT WT’VT QKFVTB SIT UJEPTRDREFT MKBT
She slowly read each word out loud as she deciphered the message: “Meeting … in … person … will … be … sweeter … once … we’ve … solved … the … un … breakable … code.
“The unbreakable code?” Emily said again.
There was no better way to hook Emily’s interest in a cipher than to say it couldn’t be broken. Her skin prickled, electrified. This was the feeling she got when a book sucked her into the zone of no return. Like the time she was reading When You Reach Me and her parents gave up trying to get her attention to come to dinner and she ended up eating cold spaghetti after she finally finished the book.
Only this wasn’t a book. There were no pages to turn to find out what the mysterious message meant by the unbreakable code.
James’s voice carried down the narrow gap from his window above. “You’ll never guess what the Niantic is! I looked it up online.”
Emily leaned her head out the window and said to the dark, “What happened to our ‘no talking when we’re using the bucket’ rule?”
“This is too cool to wait,” James called back. “Guess what the Niantic is.”
Emily tried to think about what might get James so excited. “A supercomputer? A code left by aliens?”
A distant foghorn rose above the white noise of the city at night. Emily waited for James to reply. Finally, he said, a bit wistfully, “Well, a code left by aliens would be much cooler.”
Emily snorted. “Tell me already.”
“The Niantic is an old ship that’s buried under the city.”
“There’s a ship buried under San Francisco?”
“According to Wiki, there are about fifty ships buried under the city. They’re from the Gold Rush.”