Lineage Most Lethal (Ancestry Detective)

by S. C. Perkins

  With a thrill of apprehension and excitement—and, I confess, the theme song from the James Bond movies going around in my head—I had my first look at the little black dot.

  What I saw almost made me dizzy. My eye was filled with a jumble of numbers. Sets of three numbers separated by dashes, actually.

  Then I noticed the letters written underneath each of the first five groupings of numbers. They formed names. I noticed the penmanship of the first two names was neat. The third was much less so. The fourth looked like it was written by a drunk person, and the fifth I could barely make out. The three groups of numbers at the bottom had not yet been decoded. And at the very bottom, so light they were hard to see, were what looked like a series of doodles.

  30-5-9 89-6-23 15-9-17 45-2-39 106-5-30 35-2-40 52-4-11 22-2-31 23-1-39 84-3-6 33-9-5 75-8-19 27-3-22 68-2-20 51-5-21 82-4-27

  PENELOPE OHLINGER

  60-3-33 27-2-48 6-5-24 33-4-7 84-8-19 10-5-13 32-6-47 72-3-7 17-3-11 47-7-15 87-5-1 3-5-19

  FIONA KEELAND

  51-2-16 67-1-23 14-3-14 43-5-36 90-6-19 1-3-100 46-3-26 23-3-3 96-4-10 23-9-2 113-7-7 35-4-32 56-5-9 20-3-13 81-7-3

  ROCCO ZEPPETELL!

  34-1-16 67-5-27 84-5-3 24-10-2 43-2-25 4-8-3 59-9-15 30-8-5 87-15-17 28-3-23 13-6-34 46-4-3

  NAOMI VAN DORN

  48-2-14 82-2-6 105-4-1 15-6-9 90-9-13 32-6-18 71-3-10 25-2-9 68-2-19 89-5-25 23-4-42 32-3-5 7-1-17 98-12-6

  ALASTAIR NEWELL

  76-7-11 15-2-5 47-5-13 20-2-17 38-5-31 3-8-19 70-2-11 6-4-5 34-6-43 14-3-7 66-5-32 18-1-10 46-3-36 91-7-57 16-7-2 27-2-24 9-2-28

  10-2-23 31-4-47 60-2-15 41-6-29 9-4-13 36-7-25 77-2-2 3-6-17 34-2-8 8-3-5 61-8-17 52-4-44 82-9-9 22-1-12

  84-4-29 14-3-3 44-9-22 90-5-10 27-3-55 3-8-19 54-4-20 31-3-26 63-9-15 12-3-30 7-3-14 42-5-6 84-4-10 24-5-18 38-2-9 49-9-27

  I lowered the viewer, blinking at Grandpa to clear my vision.

  “So?” he said. “What do you think?”

  “Well, first off, the main part is code, yes?” I said. “Partially broken by Hugo.”

  Grandpa nodded. “Yes, it’s a book cipher. The first number in the set is the page number to find in the designated key text—meaning a book, of course. The second is the paragraph number on that specific page.”

  “And the third number?”

  Grandpa didn’t immediately answer, but looked through the viewer again at the microdot for a long moment. When he straightened, he was rubbing his chin. “I could be wrong, love, but I’m betting the creator of this list used a slightly different method of encoding the cipher.”

  “How do you mean?” I said.

  Grandpa replied, “Normally, in this kind of book cipher, the third number in each set refers to a whole word in the book, not just a letter, and the decoded words are put together to form a message.”

  He asked if I had something to write with, and I gave him a pen and a sticky note. On it he wrote the numbers 76-7-11, the first set of numbers from the microdot. “For instance, this should mean you go to page seventy-six of the book, the seventh paragraph, and find the eleventh word within the seventh paragraph.”

  He gestured to the microdot viewer still in my hand. “But it’s clear from what was already decoded that the third number represents only a letter from the designated word, not the whole word itself.”

  I nodded thoughtfully, saying, “It would be hard for any book to contain all those names—especially the surnames, so I’m not surprised.”

  “I agree, but once we find the key, we can cross-reference it with these decrypts to be sure,” Grandpa said. Then he looked at me, his eyes narrowed. “Though why do you think it was Hugo who broke the codes and not someone else?”

  I said, “Because the first two names are written fairly neatly, and the others look like they’re written by a man who’s rapidly getting sicker and sicker.”

  “Excellent observation, my love,” Grandpa said.

  My mind was whirring with the sudden thrill of all this. I had a very limited knowledge of ciphers—mostly from movies I’d seen or books I’d read, naturally—but I knew that it was near impossible to break a code without its key.

  My excitement was fizzling now. I’d been expecting a clear message. Not just names, but words, in English or some other easily translatable language, that told us why Hugo Markman had sought us out. Instead, he’d left us with precious little to go on, including any clue as to where he found this book cipher he’d partially decoded in the first place.

  Maybe Hugo really had been delusional with his illness, I thought. Maybe his mind had been making up alternate realities and had given him a sense of urgency about something that simply wasn’t real.

  “But we don’t have the key to cracking the last three, do we?”

  Grandpa’s expression was grim. “We are indeed missing the key.”

  “Do you think they’re names, too? Or maybe instructions, or some sort of message?”

  “It really could be any of those,” Grandpa said. “Or a combination of all. We won’t know until we find the right book.”

  “What about the names we do have?” I asked. “Do you recognize any of them, either as the real names of your fellow spies or their code names?”

  Grandpa took a moment to look at the microdot again, answering as he lowered the viewer once more. “None of them are their code names, I can tell you that. I know the name Zeppetelli, but it was Angelo Zeppetelli I knew, not Rocco,” he said. “What about you?”

  I shook my head, then said, “Well, the name Zeppetelli sounds a little familiar, too, but I can’t think of where I’ve heard it.” I held up my palms in frustration. “I hear so many names, you know, and sometimes they all jumble up together like a big pot of alphabet soup.”

  “Then think of something else for a while and let your mind relax,” Grandpa said. “It’ll come to you.”

  What came to me just then was Ben, sitting next to me here at Big Flaco’s Tacos last fall, smiling his charming smile. I recalled him telling me to give my mind a break and let my subconscious do the heavy lifting when I knew two ideas were trying to connect in my brain but the bridge between them was being elusive. It’d been good advice, and I took Grandpa’s version of it now.

  “What about the key text, then?” I asked. “Do you think it’s at Hugo’s house? I remember seeing on his driver’s license that he lives in Houston, but I don’t remember the street. Any chance you or your contact knows where he lives?”

  Grandpa shook his head. “My contact wouldn’t have told me even if I asked. I only know Hugo traveled a lot for his work and often lived in hotels.”

  “Okay, then,” I said. “So, short of you still having another useful contact in the spy world who could use a supercomputer to help us decode this jumble of numbers, we’re out of luck.”

  But my grandfather was looking thoughtful now. “You said ‘the main part’ earlier. What did you mean by that?”

  I said, “Well, there were those doodles at the bottom. Looked like unfinished boxes and triangles, mostly. Some with dots in them. They were faint, but they were there.”

  Grandpa held his hand out for the viewer and another look at the microdot.

  EIGHTEEN

  “Well, I’ll be dashed,” he said. “It’s a pigpen.”

  “Really?” I asked. “I mean, those symbols do look a bit crude, yes, but I’d hardly say they’re as messy as a pigpen.”

  He grinned. “No, love, a type of cipher called a pigpen. Also called a Freemason’s cipher, amongst other things. The masons were known to be fond of using it, especially during the American Revolution.”

  “Oh, right,” I said, nodding. “I read about a Freemason’s cipher once in one of my favorite mystery series. Do you think it will tell us the name of the key text?”

  “I’d bet on it,” he replied, then rubbed his chin once more. “Though I do wonder why Hugo didn’t use something more sophisticated. Pigpens are dead easy to crack. The symbols’ meanings are on the internet, plain as day.”

>   “Maybe it was due to his, ah, time constraints,” I said. “Maybe he knew his time was short and he used the simplest code possible so you wouldn’t be floundering for too long.”

  Grandpa gave me his proud look again. “I’d bet you’re right. Hugo would know I’d be familiar with it and could crack it quickly.”

  I was intrigued. “Can you tell what it says just by looking at it?” I asked.

  “Nah, not anymore,” he replied. “Forty years ago, maybe. Possibly even thirty, but I haven’t had the symbols memorized completely since the war.” He rolled his shoulders back as if gearing up. “Now, do you have some more paper? We’ll need to write all the codes down.”

  But my brain had been doing some heavy lifting. Not about the familiarity of any of the names on Hugo’s list, but about other matters.

  “I have a better idea,” I said. “Let’s go eat some lunch, and then I’ll take us to a place where we can better view the list and make copies of it.”

  * * *

  After a basket of Flaco’s handmade chicharrónes, followed by two tacos for each of us, including Flaco’s newest creation, the Mucho Guapo Taco—strips of beef tenderloin combined with tangy, melty Asadero cheese and topped with slices of avocado—and some sopaipillas for dessert, we were back in the car, heading north toward the Texas State Library and Archives Commission. Just as we turned on Trinity Street, Josephine called. I put her on speakerphone.

  “Hi, Jo,” I said. Reminded of Serena’s bawdy text earlier, I hurried to add, “I’m with Grandpa and we’re about to hit up the archives. What’s up?”

  Josephine ignored my question and her clear, clipped accent went playfully husky. “George, my darling! Happy Christmas to you, a few days late. Where have you been hiding yourself, you handsome rogue?”

  Then she switched to speakerphone and Serena joined in, her own Southern drawl warm like the honey on Flaco’s sopaipillas.

  “George, sugar, we haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays. We’re simply devastated you’d spend all day with that hardheaded granddaughter of yours and not come and see us. We’ve missed you!”

  Grandpa’s face lit up and turned a bit pink, making me grin. “Well, if it isn’t my two beauties who know how to make an old man feel twenty-two again. I’ve missed y’all and your lying ways but good.” Jo and Serena laughed with delight. They were a mutual admiration society if I ever saw one. “I’m in town visiting my beautiful and hardheaded granddaughter for the day. She brought me to see Flaco’s new chef’s table,” Grandpa added. “It’s a stunner, isn’t it?”

  My two best friends and my grandfather went on kibitzing like this until I cleared my throat, saying, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but did one of you beauties actually need something from me?”

  Josephine laughed. “Yes, love,” she said, using the same term of endearment Grandpa often did, but her London accent making it sound thoroughly chic and different. “Is there any chance you and that adorable granddad of yours could come to the office for a bit?”

  “What’s up?” I asked again. “Is something wrong?”

  “Oh, not at all,” she said. “Curtis called and asked if he could come do his end-of-year check of our office today instead of tomorrow. It’s a long story involving his wife and her corn surgery—”

  “Believe me, you don’t want to hear it,” Serena added.

  “Too right,” Josephine said dryly. “Anyway, Serena and I are both leaving to meet clients. I told him I could be back by four, but he’s begging and can only come at half past two.”

  Curtis was our building superintendent, and was very serious about keeping the historic Old Printing Office running up to code. Grandpa was already giving me two thumbs up, and looking excited about the prospect, too.

  “No problem,” I told Josephine. Glancing at the clock on my dash, I said, “My adorable granddad and I have to, ah, pick up something at the archives, then we can be there. Tell Curtis two thirty will be fine.”

  There was another thirty seconds of my officemates doing a great job of making my grandfather blush again as they said goodbye, by which time I’d found a parking spot right outside the archives building. It was then that I noticed Grandpa looking a little tired. These days, he generally napped after lunch, so I wasn’t surprised.

  “You know, Grandpa,” I said, making a last-minute decision. “All I’m going to do is put the microdot on one of the microfilm machines to enlarge it, then print out a few hard copies. It will only take me ten, fifteen minutes. Why don’t you just stay here and relax? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  “I wouldn’t say no to a little catnap,” he said, pulling out the little package he’d made from my business card. I left the keys with him, noting that his eyes were already closing even as I reminded him to lock the doors. I felt better about leaving him there when I saw the building’s security guard, who understood completely when I told him Grandpa was ninety-two and said he’d keep an eye on my car until I came back.

  After signing in and waving hello to a couple of staffers I knew, I took the elevator up to the second-floor Texas Family Heritage Research Center, where I was greeted warmly by the staff members.

  Minutes later, I had a roll of microfilm that I chose at random, ending up with the 1922 to 1947 Washington County Tax Roll, Series Three. Trotting downstairs to the little microfilm cubicles, I took my time attaching the roll to the machine, while one lady slowly packed up all her genealogy charts and painstakingly rolled up the last few inches of her own microfilm.

  I was just feeling the need to scream when she finally walked away. After that, I moved quickly.

  The first few images of a microfilm are usually blank pages, or title pages with lots of white on them. It was a title page to which I carefully attached the microdot and rolled it into position under the light. Part of me had wondered if my wild idea would even work, so I was pleased to see Hugo’s list in all its dizzying glory.

  Again, I felt goose bumps as I looked at the codes and the names, wondering who the people were and what their significance was, but relief spread over me when I saw the pigpen ciphers come up more clearly than they had upon our first try. I hastened to print three copies.

  A few minutes later, I was walking back out to my car, the microdot back in its little paper package and my grandfather already coming out of his catnap, looking refreshed. I handed him the copies with a flourish. “Gotta love libraries. They always have what you need.”

  “That they do,” Grandpa said, taking the copies eagerly.

  As I drove to the office, each time we came to a stop, Grandpa pointed to the symbols Hugo had scrawled in the corner.

  “See, each one of these symbols corresponds to a letter. This one”—he pointed to one that was a square box with a dot at the bottom edge—“stands for an ‘N.’ Without the dot, it stands for ‘E,’ but the others, I’d have to map them out.” I realized he couldn’t wait to get started on decoding Hugo’s list.

  “How long will this Curtis gent’s inspection take?” he asked as we unlocked my office door at twenty minutes after two.

  “Not too long,” I said. “He just looks around for signs of foundation issues, leaking windows, and the like. We don’t even need to do anything but be there.”

  Sure enough, as I was firing up my computer, Curtis showed up, sweat beading on his bald pate, breathing much more heavily from the stairs than my grandfather had and pulling up his khakis to a higher point under his impressive paunch. Never the most talkative man, after a polite handshake and “Pleasure to meet you, sir” with my grandfather, he began slowly walking the perimeter of our five-hundred-square-foot office, looking for any signs that the building was having issues.

  I went to get us some waters, leaving Grandpa smiling down at my desk, running his fingers almost reverently over the large crosshatch that he’d so long ago carved into its wooden top so he and his reporter buddies could play tic-tac-toe for beer money when things were slow.

  When I got back, he was mark
ing on the crosshatch with a broken piece of chalk.

  “Where’d you get the chalk?” I asked, setting a glass of ice water down on a coaster at the edge of my—Grandpa’s—desk.

  “Curtis,” he said simply. I looked up to see Curtis with another piece of chalk, thoroughly oblivious to us, checking the wall behind Josephine’s sophisticated black-lacquered desk. He was inspecting a wall seam that had bulged in the past, but I didn’t bother asking if it was holding up or buckling again. I was too interested in what Grandpa was doing with the chalk.

  The crosshatch formed nine separate sections, and I watched as he filled in each section with a letter of the alphabet. Working left to right and starting with “A” in the upper leftmost section, he got to letter “I” in the bottom rightmost section. Then he started over, adding a “J” next to the “A” and drawing in a small dot in the corner, where the crosshatch’s lines came together.

  In this same manner, he continued filling in the crosshatch again, adding letters and dots, until he’d reached the letter “R” at the bottom right corner. Then, to my amazement, he moved some papers on my desk above the crosshatch and felt around with his fingers. Finding what he wanted, he pulled out his housekeys and used one to scrape at something, which turned out to be a large, wide X. I stifled a gasp. I’d known it was there, but the cuts weren’t half as deep as the crosshatch, so I’d thought it was an accident, or possibly even a bad first attempt at the tic-tac-toe area. Over the years, I’d added a little extra wood polish to it, letting the residue gradually fill in the shallow cuts.

  Grandpa glanced up once, searching for Curtis.

  “He’s in the breakroom,” I whispered, and we could hear Curtis moving the toaster oven aside to continue checking the walls. Grandpa nodded and kept working.

  With the chalk, in the top of the X, he wrote the letter “S.” Working counterclockwise, he wrote in “T,” then skipped across to write “U.” The letter “V” went in the bottom. The last four letters of the alphabet were added, each with a dot near the point that was formed where both lines of the X met in the middle.