The Stepping Maze

by Kevin Tumlinson

  His wealth was greater these days, but even if he’d been poor, he would have found a way to do this anyway. This was flesh and blood. It called for a higher price.

  He wrote his brother’s name on the bill, in Farsi, to keep it secret. He slid the hundred under the glass. Room service would take it for a tip. The denomination would prevent them from panicking over what they would surely think of as “terrorist writing.” It would disappear into an apron pocket and become a story told to the family that night.

  The bottle of bourbon might go with it, depending on the temperament of whoever serviced the room.

  With the homage paid, Red turned to the task of breaking down the rifle and putting it back in its case. He had used this as an opportunity to clean it, to run through the ritual of disassembling and assembling it. Now the task was done. He placed the gun case into the compartment in the back of his suitcase, zipped it closed, and then tugged it along behind him as he stepped out into the hall.

  He would never visit his brother’s grave. There was too much risk. But he would honor him in other ways.

  His employer had reached out with condolences. That was kind of them. And they had paid Red an additional sum as compensation for his losses. A good client. Red appreciated it but would never have asked.

  This was not the client’s debt to pay. It was Red’s.

  The woman had defended herself and had won. Red had a difficult time faulting her for that. This was the game. It was Red, after all, who had made the mistakes that had empowered her. She was innocent of Cameron’s death. Merely an instrument.

  But Dr. Kotler.

  It was a simple equation to balance. Though Red now realized that the timeline and the demand for retrieving the manuscript had been a ruse, he hadn’t known that when he’d delivered it. Kotler had been told to bring the manuscript and the decoded message in thirty minutes. He hadn’t delivered. He’d failed, breaking their contract. And Cameron had died.

  That was an imbalance. It was a violation of the code by which Red lived, and he intended to set it right.

  The client had severed communications, but that was fine. Red appreciated the client’s ethics, but the job was finished. His loyalty, now, was to his own honor and his own best interests.

  He couldn’t allow anyone who failed to keep their end of a bargain to simply continue on as if nothing happened. That had to be rectified.

  Red was his own client now.

  18

  FBI OFFICES, MANHATTAN

  “He’s here,” Denzel said, pointing to a blip on the digital map.

  Kotler nodded, looking closely. “I know that area. There’s an airport nearby. You’re not worried about him making a run for it?”

  “We’re operating under the assumption that he will, but that he has other business to attend to first. We have agents in that airport, and in another one a few miles further, just in case.”

  “How do we know he hasn’t delivered the manuscript to someone and left it behind?”

  “He’s not the fish we’re trying to reel in, Kotler. We’re after his boss. If he’s the one running this, then we’ll find him when we go for the manuscript. If he’s not, then we’ll nab whoever hired him and go after Patterson later.”

  Kotler nodded. Lee Patterson was a pawn, then. The real target was the showrunner, whoever that may be.

  The plan made sense, but something wasn’t clicking for Kotler.

  What was Patterson’s motive in all of this? Money?

  Could be, but Kotler had a hard time with it. The amount of money that would motivate an agent to turn on the Bureau would have to be significant. Huge. Knowing that the FBI would pull out all the stops to find him, Patterson would need the kind of funds that would let him start over somewhere, with an all-new identity and the resources to stay off the radar for the rest of his life.

  Was the manuscript worth that?

  They had looked over everything they still had, from the initial emails that Denzel had received to the scans of the manuscript. The software that Tech had running was plowing through the pages, identifying the characters that fit with the Baconian cypher and applying the ADFGVX code to translate it. This was taking time—optical character recognition had advanced quite a bit, but training it to differentiate between intentional discrepancies and inadvertent typographical anomalies was tricky. There were a lot of false positives, which required that each translation was reviewed by human eyes.

  It was a time-consuming process, yet all of this was much faster than sitting and hand-decoding the entire manuscript. Progress was slow, but it was still progress.

  Denzel was briefing his team, pulling together a timeline and strategy, and Kotler felt superfluous at the moment. He decided to use the time. The Tech team had sent him updates with each confirmed translation, and he pulled these up now, reading through it all.

  The first few pages read like an inventory and progress report. From what Kotler could gather, someone was using Daniel’s paper to help organize an off-site backup of the contents within the government-sealed room. That off-site location would be the Black Chamber, where Dr. Marvin and Dr. Wiley were held captive.

  Kotler realized now that what they thought of as the Black Chamber was just a copy—a replica meant to preserve the work that had been done. This may have become a necessity as the team learned of an impending government seal. It would help to get hold of the records that led to that room being sealed off, though Kotler had little hope of that. With its ties to the NSA, any information about it would surely be classified well above Kotler’s level. Denzel’s as well.

  “Finding anything new?” Denzel asked.

  Kotler looked up from his tablet and shook his head. “Really just digging in. Any word on how close Tech is to having the whole thing translated?”

  “Could be another day,” Denzel replied.

  A day. A lot could happen in a day, Kotler knew, and every minute that went by was another opportunity for Patterson to escape and for the mastermind of all this to disappear as well.

  “Something that doesn’t make sense …” Kotler started.

  “What? More that doesn’t make sense?” Denzel asked.

  “… whoever was behind this, they sent us that cylinder with the cypher to decode the manuscript. How did they know how to translate the code?”

  “And if they knew that, why did they still need the manuscript?” Denzel added.

  “There was a photo of the sealed room, in the Black Chamber,” Kotler said. “We’ve assumed that was how they knew about the manuscript. But we really have no way of knowing what else was in that room, prior to it being used as a cell for Dr. Marvin and Dr. Wiley. What if they had more information than we thought?”

  “Maybe some photos of pages from the manuscript itself?” Denzel asked.

  “But not all of it,” Kotler nodded.

  Denzel thought about this. “Ok, but if they had a partial, and wanted the whole thing, why not take the scans and the translations we had to date? Why would they need the physical manuscript?”

  Kotler sank back, pressing his hands against the bridge of his nose.

  He felt out of his depth here.

  He wasn’t a cryptologist. Not in the modern sense. He was an expert in deciphering ancient languages and pictographs, and that was similar in a lot of ways. It certainly helped. But this level of codebreaking had been more of a hobby than a serious pursuit.

  Experts were working on this, though. Denzel had brought in codebreakers who were studying the scans right alongside Kotler and the rest of the team. They were just getting started but had already made a great deal of progress, helping the Tech team with refining its software, working as the eyes to help verify the scans. They were boosting the pace, which was sorely needed.

  There were questions that couldn’t be answered by the translation, though.

  Decoding the manuscript might tell them what their adversary was after, but it might not reveal why. That was too much uncertainty for Ko
tler.

  Kotler glanced over to see Denzel peering at his tablet. The agent had pinched to zoom in on a section.

  “Eyes getting old?” Kotler smiled.

  Denzel scowled. “Eye doctor says I need reading glasses. I’m resisting.”

  “Roland, he has your best interest at …” Kotler froze.

  Denzel looked up, curious. “What is it?”

  Kotler reached over and took the tablet from Denzel’s hands, looking at the image. He touched the screen and zoomed in further. “Damn,” he said quietly.

  “What is it?” Denzel asked.

  “Are these the highest resolution scans we have?” Kotler replied.

  Denzel shrugged. “They’re the only scans we have, so I’d say so, yes. What’s up?”

  Kotler pointed to a blob on the screen. It had a generally round shape, and resembled a blurry amoeba or biological cell, such as one might see on a microscope slide. A pattern of squiggles and gaps was visible, but it was difficult to make out any given shape.

  “This is the dot on a letter ‘i.’ Just a random character,” Kotler said. “Look at it. What do you see?”

  Denzel shook his head. “Couple’a wavy lines?”

  “Spaces. Shapes. You know what negative space means?”

  “Of course,” Denzel said. “Like inverse drawing.”

  “Exactly,” Kotler smiled. “Also like a photo negative. Look at it.”

  Denzel looked and shook his head. “I can kind of see it, Kotler, but it doesn’t make any sense to me. It’s too fuzzy. Are you sure?”

  “During the Cold War, spies would sometimes use micro-dot cameras to photograph enemy intelligence. They’d send that information back to their handlers in magazine clippings, books, newspapers—anything with printed text. Any dot on the page, from the letter ‘i’ to the period at the end of a sentence could disguise a message that it would take a microscope to see.”

  “You’re saying the manuscript has messages like these?”

  Kotler pointed to the screen. “It does.”

  “What about the code? The translation?”

  Kotler shook his head. “I’m starting to think that was a smokescreen. Or, it may have some useful information, but it wasn’t what our mysterious figure was after. They needed the manuscript itself, because it contains another entire level of hidden information!”

  Denzel turned back to the other agents in the room. “Get things finalized, now. We have to move earlier than expected.”

  Activity picked up, agents moved quickly, mobilizing to close in on the last known location of Lee Patterson.

  “There are already agents in the area,” Denzel said. “I have people watching the location. We’re getting an assist from local law enforcement, too. Good work, Kotler. No one noticed this.”

  “It doesn’t do us any good if we can’t get that manuscript back,” Kotler said. “Roland, all of this has ties to the origin of the NSA. There could be government secrets in this that might shake up the entire nation. Maybe the world. We need to call them in.”

  Denzel made a disgusted noise, turning his head away, a sour expression on his face.

  “Call in the NSA,” he said. “Great. This just keeps getting better.”

  19

  NEW YORK-PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL

  Liz Ludlum pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that her sister had brought by. Rachel stood against the door of the hospital room, watching as Liz got dressed.

  “You’re sure you’re ok to leave?” she asked.

  Liz was moving a little slower than she’d like, mostly due to her hands being wrapped in bandages. Her head still hurt a little, but the pain meds were taking the edge off. Still, bright light bothered her, and she winced from the slight effort as she tugged at the top button of her jeans.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said quietly, smiling at Rachel. “Thanks for bringing this. For being here.”

  Rachel moved forward and hugged her little sister, kissing her on the cheek. “This job …”

  “Don’t start,” Liz said.

  “I just worry,” Rachel replied. She held Liz at arm’s length. “You don’t look like you should be leaving the hospital.”

  “They cleared me, and I’m checked out. Time to make this bed available to someone who really needs it. Besides, I think they’ll be glad to be rid of all the FBI agents in the waiting room.”

  “They’re a mess,” Rachel said, shaking her head. “Shouldn’t they be out hunting bad guys?”

  “Most of them are off duty, but there’s less than a quarter of them here compared to yesterday. I think something’s up back at the office.”

  “And you think you’re going back there to help out,” Rachel said. Her expression was stern, and Liz knew she’d be in for a fight.

  “It’s my job,” she said.

  “It’s your life,” Rachel replied. “Has been ever since Pappy left you that bag.”

  “You watch it,” Liz said, but smiled, and then winced.

  “See?” Rachel said hugging her sister again. “Take some time off, ok?”

  Liz started to argue, opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it. She nodded, and Rachel seemed satisfied.

  They left the room, spent a few minutes saying goodbye to the agents in the waiting room, and then Liz took a seat in a wheelchair as she was rolled out of the lobby. She and Rachel shared an Uber back to Liz’s apartment.

  Rachel hovered over her as they took the stairs, and Liz let her. It slowed things down, but she knew Rachel was just trying to help. She was worried. Liz understood, even if she’d prefer to be left alone.

  Liz unlocked her door, and they were inside. Things were just as she’d left them, which was a relief. The only exception was that her grandfather’s medical bag was on the floor next to the little hall table. She had requested that someone bring it from the lab, and it was comforting, seeing it there. She picked it up, hugging it to her as she and Rachel entered the apartment and made their way to Liz’s bedroom.

  “You shower,” Rachel said. “I’ll make lunch.”

  “I’m not all that hungry,” Liz said.

  “Go!” Rachel ordered, and Liz went.

  A few minutes later she was standing under the steaming stream of water, grateful that her big sister was so bossy. It was wonderful. She could feel the past few days washing away, along with some of the stress and tension she’d been feeling since being released from the hospital.

  And the fear.

  She had admitted it to herself while she was still in the hospital. She’d felt it growing since dropping Cameron Ryba’s motorcycle to the ground outside of FBI headquarters. Agents had rushed to her, paramedics were called, blankets had been wrapped around her shoulders. Everyone had been on high alert, but her co-workers had dropped everything to make sure she was alright.

  She was. Physically. Mostly. But she was also a little shook, and that was harder to get past.

  She mentally replayed her encounter with Red Ryba, again and again. She couldn’t get it out of her head, really. Opening that door. The disoriented seconds in which she couldn’t think of why he was there, or why he was wearing a mask. The sudden terror as he grabbed her. The pain as he slammed her head against the doorframe.

  She’d held on to consciousness, struggling to keep track of details, in case they were needed. And then she was in a metal box. Everything went black, and she had passed out until the van stopped, and the man had yanked her out and carried her into the survey trailer.

  There was nowhere in that series of events where she could wedge in some idea of how she should have reacted, how she might have escaped. There was no gap in that sequence where she thought she could have fought back and won. Red Ryba was too powerful. He was too fast. He was an overwhelming and irresistible force.

  That was what nagged at her now.

  Liz hadn’t had much direct conflict in her life. She hadn’t struggled, beyond the day-to-day struggles of a woman of color working in a fiel
d dominated by white males. Those challenges were real, but she’d long ago decided that the only way they could negatively impact her life was if she let them. She had decided that she would not play the role of victim and would instead use her intelligence and her character to build the life she wanted, rather than accept that her die was cast, and her fate was set.

  It had worked. She had built a career for herself, followed by a reputation that propelled her upwards in the ranks of the NYPD. And when Agent Denzel had approached her about taking on a similar role with the FBI, she’d taken it because she knew she had earned it. She accepted increasing responsibility as part of her rise, and she’d owned it. And there, among the agents and her own team, Liz Ludlum had become the most empowered version of herself that she’d ever been. She was no victim.

  Until Red Ryba had slammed her head into a doorframe.

  Now she felt it.

  Fear was nagging at her, just under the surface. It ate at her. It burned like acid in her stomach.

  Five days ago she had been confident and secure, perhaps struggling to adjust to her role as a leader in her department but certainly not afraid of the challenge.

  Right now, though, she felt like she might jump out of her skin. Red Ryba was still out there. He was still a threat. He still loomed over her, in her mind. A man overpowering her, taking her, weakening her.

  There was a knock on the bathroom door, and Liz jumped. The sudden movement made her head hurt. “Y-yes?” she asked.

  “Just checking on you,” Rachel’s voice came back. “Take your time. I made a spread for lunch, but it’ll keep.”

  “Thank you,” Liz called back, and stood, waiting. She peered through the glass door of the shower, watching the door to the bathroom as if it might creak open and Red Ryba would be standing there. She felt her heart pound, and she swallowed. She squeezed her eyes shut, and let the hot water wash over her face, down over her shoulders.