“Roland, anyone could have gotten in here at any time and left that,” she said. “The person who wrote the letter …”
“I know that,” he waved. “They knew it was here, so the likely explanation is that they put it here. Or they’ve at least been in this room. Have we seen any evidence that anyone was in this room before we got here? Aside from whoever left it this way?”
She shook her head. “Not that I’m aware. The locks and the seals were all intact. There are no windows. There’s ventilation, but it was added when the doors were sealed. The vents are maybe six inches wide, if that.” She looked around the room, taking in the piles of boxes, desktops covered in scientific equipment, shelves crammed with reference books. “We’re just getting started here. Maybe there’s some other way in?”
Denzel called for one of the field agents to bag and catalog the manuscript. “When this is done, I want that at the top of the pile. Whatever else you find, I want that examined first. And I want it scanned and sent to my phone.”
He turned, pulling off his gloves as he moved to the door.
Ludlum followed, just on his heels. “O-ok … But Roland … Agent Denzel!” She hadn’t meant to shout, but it was the only thing that made Denzel stop short and turn to face her. “Where are you going?”
“To get Kotler,” Denzel said. “This literally has his name written all over it.”
Part I
1
TJARU DIG SITE, EGYPT
Dan Kotler was thrilled to be covered in sweat and grime and sand. He was happy to have a trowel and a set of brushes at the ready. He busied himself with gently brushing loose soil from the details of a fallen fragment of limestone, revealing a cartouche bearing the name of Thutmose III—an eighteenth dynasty Egyptian ruler, and the current focus of Kotler’s unwavering interest.
He hadn’t been this hands-on with a site for a couple of years now—at least, not without a few figurative and literal guns to his head—and it felt good to be back. It reminded him of his grad school days, where exploring the ancient world might have its dangers and risks, but typically didn’t involve kidnappings, getting shot, or having your head messed with by a brilliant villainess with the world’s most advanced smuggling empire at her disposal.
Dust the cartouche, forget the lady.
Kotler finished up and took a moment to make some notes in his field journal. He used a small, plastic marker to indicate his find, purposefully ignoring its similarity to the flags used to mark crime scenes.
He was charged with just one square of one grid of this site—a task typically left to grad students and apprentices—and he was taking his duties very seriously. This was good, honest work, and could provide some seriously intriguing insight into ancient Egyptian culture. As well as a much-needed distraction.
He left his square in search of some lunch, dusting himself off as he went.
There was a tent set up as a sort of mess hall, and thanks to a very generous grant from Kotler himself it was well-stocked with all the necessities of life. Especially coffee and scotch. But fresh food was transported to the site almost daily, and Kotler was more than ready to dig in.
He prepared a plate, poured himself a glass of iced tea, and took a seat in a back corner of the tent. The shade and the light breeze coming off of the desert helped to wick the sweat from his neck and face. He used a handkerchief soaked in water to wash away the dirt from his face, inspecting the results in a small pocket mirror he was carrying in his kit.
He sighed. He sipped. He nibbled. He kept his mind off of Gail McCarthy and Nazi U-boats and …
“Roland?” he asked, not quite sure he was seeing who he was seeing.
Agent Denzel, dressed in khaki fatigues and shouldering a desert camo backpack, stepped into the mess tent and let the flap drop back into place. The effect was a brief burst of sunlight followed by the relative shade of the tent as if Denzel had appeared in a flash of mystical energy that was now fading.
“Kotler,” Denzel said. “Finally. This is the fourth site I’ve been to today.”
At Kotler’s insistence, Denzel made a meal for himself and poured his own glass of iced tea. He downed the tea in a single gulp while standing at the serving table, and refilled his glass before joining Kotler.
A few other people lingered in the mess tent, quietly chatting as they nibbled and refreshed themselves. Officially there were scheduled mealtimes, but people more or less came and went on their own agenda, most preferring to get back to their assignments as quickly as possible rather than linger too long with the lunch and dinner crowds. It was basically a free-for-all after breakfast. The one time of day when everyone gathered, celebrating and sometimes lamenting the labor and what it meant.
“Roland, what are you doing here?” Kotler asked. He’d last seen his friend and partner over two months ago when he’d told Denzel he needed a break. Kotler had initially planned to take a couple of weeks here but had found the whole experience so cathartic and inspiring, he had asked to stay on. He wasn’t sure when he expected to come back.
“You’re not answering your phone,” Denzel grumbled. “Or emails.”
“All of my electronics are still in my bag,” Kotler said. “I haven’t looked at any of it since I got here.”
“Kotler, how is anyone supposed to reach you if you’re holed up in the desert with no phone?”
Kotler smiled. “The point was for no one to be able to reach me, Roland. I’m taking a hiatus, remember?”
“I thought it was a sabbatical,” Denzel asked, puzzled.
“It’s both,” Kotler smiled lightly. Denzel seemed agitated, his body language making it clear that he was both weary from his travel and irritated at having to hunt Kotler down. But Kotler could see something else in the way his friend hesitated slightly, in how his eyes darted to the side, considering and contemplating. He was concerned for Kotler, which was touching but didn’t necessarily change anything.
Whatever his feelings about Kotler’s hiatus/sabbatical, Denzel’s standard bull-rush approach to personal dynamics took over.
“Well, we have a situation, Kotler. And I have to ask you to come back with me.”
Kotler chuckled and shook his head. “Roland, I’m sorry, but no. I told you, I need some time. I’ll be back, I promise. I don’t know when, but …”
“You’re misunderstanding me,” Denzel said, his voice firm. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you that you’re coming back with me. We leave today. I have a helicopter and a plane on standby.”
Kotler blinked. “Roland, what’s happened?”
Denzel took out his phone and flicked the screen a few times before handing it over.
Kotler took it, looking queerly at his friend, and then turning to the screen.
He arched his eyebrows, then laughed.
“We found that at a crime scene,” Denzel said, a bit perturbed by Kotler’s reaction. “And I need to know why your name is on it.”
Again, Kotler chuckled and shook his head as he handed the phone back to Denzel. “Roland, that isn’t my name. First of all, I would never use ‘Daniel’ on anything. I’ve always preferred Dan. My books, my papers—everything is ‘Dan Kotler.’ I know that doesn’t prove anything, but it’s true.”
Denzel gave him an odd look. “I ... guess I knew that, about your books. Never hit me. What’s the second thing?”
Kotler grinned. “My middle initial isn’t ‘F.’ I don’t have a middle initial.” He shrugged, his hands out to his sides. “No middle name.”
Denzel scoffed. “This is too much to be a coincidence,” he said, sinking back and staring at the phone in one hand as he sipped more iced tea from the other.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s happened?” Kotler replied “Maybe there’s another explanation. Where did you find that manuscript?”
Denzel nodded.
“We got a letter, a few days ago. It was addressed to me.” He swiped at his phone again and handed it back to Kotler.
O
n the phone was a scan of a typed letter, indeed addressed to Agent Denzel. Kotler read through it.
To: Agent Roland Denzel, Historic Crimes, FBI
Two prominent physicists have been abducted and imprisoned in a chamber that lies under the former New York City Commercial Code building, at 225 Broadway. You will find a door made of six feet of tempered steel. The walls are made of the same material. There is no way in or out, beyond the use of that door.
Dr. Leopold Marvin and Dr. Robert Wiley were abducted last night from their respective homes, and deposited into the chamber, sealed in with only enough provisions for approximately a week. The chamber should have enough air for two people to last approximately two weeks. You have time. Do not waste it.
You will find the key to their rescue in a government-sealed apartment located at 1359 Broadway, number 070.
To open the door, run the Stepping Maze. Your tools await in the room where it all started.
Kotler looked up from the letter. “Dr. Marvin and Dr. Wiley,” he said.
“You know them?” Denzel asked.
Kotler Nodded. “They were faculty while I was getting my second Ph.D., in Quantum Physics. Dr. Marvin wasn’t really one of my biggest fans if I remember. He respected that I already had my doctorate in Anthropology but felt that was where I should stay. He ... wasn’t entirely wrong. I was never the best student of quantum mechanics. I took more of a philosophical approach than the hardcore mathematics that Dr. Marvin taught. I’m actually quite bad at math, which really irritated him.”
“What about Dr. Wiley?” Denzel asked.
“We got along much better. I liked him. A bit odd, sometimes a little presumptuous, but friendly. He was fascinated with what I was doing. He used to invite me to his student dinners, even though I only had a few low-level classes with him.”
“Have you kept in contact with either of them?” Denzel asked.
Kotler thought about it. “No, not really. Dr. Wiley came to one of my lectures, about a year ago, and we had drinks before we both had to leave for other things. I haven’t spoken with Dr. Marvin since graduation, I believe.”
“So both of these men were professors of yours, both worked in the same field. And then there’s this manuscript with your name on it—or something really close to your name.” Denzel paused, thinking, and shook his head. “Kotler, that’s just too much coincidence,” he said.
Kotler agreed, though he couldn’t immediately think of a reason for this to be so. Except for the obvious ...
Someone meant for him to be involved in this.
But why go directly to Denzel? If the goal really was to get Kotler tangled up in this, why hadn’t they addressed this letter to Kotler himself?
“There’s something else bugging me about all of this,” Kotler said.
“There should be a lot bugging you about it, but what do you mean?” Denzel asked.
Kotler couldn’t say. A lot was happening in the letter, and in conjunction with the manuscript, it merely multiplied. Certain things, however, tumbled together to scream for his attention, and the answers were slow in coming.
“Stepping maze,” Kotler said quietly.
“Yeah, we haven’t been able to figure out what that means yet. It may have just been the thread this guy wanted us to follow, to find this manuscript.”
Kotler shook his head. “It’s more than that. May I?” He indicated Denzel’s phone, and the Agent nodded.
Kotler opened a map and entered the address for the vault where the physicists were being held. 225 Broadway was still a commercial code building, handling zoning permits for city contractors. The vault must have been built alongside the building’s original construction. Its purpose—well, Kotler could only guess at this point. Six-foot-thick steel walls and doors indicated that whatever was kept inside was meant to be as secure as turn-of-the-century technology could make it. A vault like that could survive against explosives and would take considerable time to cut through even with modern technology.
All of this was intriguing, but it didn’t generate any ideas.
Kotler tried the address for the locked room, and things got stranger.
“This address …” Kotler started.
“Yeah, it’s not really an apartment building. It’s a sealed room under a cosmetics company.”
“Yardley of London,” Kotler said.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Another coincidence that isn’t a coincidence,” Kotler mumbled.
“What do you mean?”
“I think I’ve figured out at least part of this thread,” Kotler replied. “The kidnapper is referencing the American Black Chamber.”
Denzel frowned. “That’s … isn’t that the code-breaking thing?”
Kotler smiled. “Officially it was known as the Cipher Bureau. Herbert Yardley founded it as a code-breaking operation meant to rival the clandestine operations of other governments. It was more or less the forerunner of the National Security Agency. The birth of US intelligence agencies.”
“The NSA,” Denzel said, shaking his head. “Does this cosmetics company have anything to do with Herbert Yardley?”
Kotler shook his head. “No, I think this was more of a clever joke on someone’s part. This room was government sealed?”
“For most of a century,” Denzel replied.
“Funny,” Kotler said.
“Not to the two scientists suffocating in a vault,” Denzel replied.
Kotler nodded. “You’re right. Sorry. It’s just … clever. And there’s something else bugging me.” He peered at the letter, running scenarios through his mind, playing things out. “The address is weird.”
“It’s also wrong,” Denzel said “There is no number 070 in that building. We found the room after a search. The management let us in without having to get a warrant, and some of the employees knew about a locked room no one was ever allowed to enter. They couldn’t have if they’d wanted. Thing was sealed tighter than a tomb.”
“You’d be surprised how easy it can be to get into a tomb,” Kotler said absently, then shook his head. “But I think the address has more significance.”
“What are you seeing?”
“An extra zero,” Kotler said, looking up. “Why give an address as zero-seven-zero? Why not simply number seventy?”
Denzel shook his head. “I thought that was weird, too. Ludlum thought it might be a hint at what the guy does for a living. Like maybe he’s in city planning or something.”
Kotler smiled. “How is Liz?”
Denzel rolled his eyes. “She’s back home doing her job, which is more than I can say for you, Kotler. Can we focus?”
Kotler chuckled, and using Denzel’s phone he brought up a chart and held it up for Denzel to see. “The letter F,” Kotler said.
“I don’t get it,” Denzel replied.
“It’s ASCII code. The number 070 translates to the letter F, which happens to correspond with the middle initial of the author’s name, on that report.”
“What does that mean?”
Kotler shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. But the connections and coincidences are piling up.”
Denzel thought about this for a moment. “What does ‘stepping maze’ mean?” He asked.
Kotler smiled. “Ok, more history. Before there was the NSA, there was the SIS—the Signals Intelligence Service. This operation was run by William Friedman, a geneticist turned cryptoanalyst who was recruited by the Army to head a brand-new code-breaking division. Friedman recruited a team, including a man named Frank Rowlett, to help in his mission to decipher codes intercepted from foreign governments. This was following World War I, with WWII on the horizon, and code-breaking became the purview of the Army after Yardley’s Cipher Bureau was shuttered on orders from Secretary of State Henry Stimson.”
Denzel nodded. “I remember this from Quantico. Stimson was the one who said, ‘gentlemen do not read each other’s mail.’ He thought it was unethical to spy on communications from other gov
ernments outside of wartime.”
Kotler smiled. “That quote is a bit apocryphal, but that’s it. Stimson shut down the Cipher Bureau on the grounds of ethics. But the need for intelligence didn’t go away, and the Army picked up the slack. Friedman and his wife, Elisabeth, had both been go-to codebreakers for the US military since well before the Great War. William was asked to head this new division because … well, because he was a man, frankly. Elisabeth had proven herself every bit the codebreaker that William was, and went on to help law enforcement crack down on gangsters and smugglers during Prohibition.” Kotler shivered. “Hard to know who the bad guys were, during that point of history.”
“Relax,” Denzel rolled his eyes. “You have your whiskey. Carousing and legal inebriation won. But bring this thing around for me. What does all of this have to do with the stepping maze?”
“Friedman’s protege, Frank Rowlett,” Kotler replied. “He came up with a design for … well, the easiest way to refer to it was an American Enigma Machine. A device built with reversible electric rotors, or stepping motors, which Rowlett himself referred to as a ‘stepping maze.’ The result was a device called SIGABA. I have no idea what that might be an acronym for, and I’m not sure anyone else does either. But the device itself was a marvel. It was never defeated, Roland. The Nazis, the Japanese, hell the whole of the Axis forces tried and failed, and eventually gave up. The Nazis even stopped bothering to intercept US communications, because they just couldn’t crack the code. Until digital encryption took over, SIGABA was the single-most effective encryption and decryption tool ever built.”
“So the stepping maze is a reference to this cigar-o?”
“SIGABA,” Kotler smiled. “And yes, I’m pretty sure it is.”
“And what does that have to do with two kidnapped scientists?”
“Two kidnapped quantum physicists, specifically,” Kotler said, bring up the photo of the manuscript’s cover. “And the answer is Heisenberg.”
“Wasn’t that the dead cat guy?”
The Stepping Maze Page 2
