Greg Rucka: The last run

Finally, his route took him towards the footbridge, fifty meters away now, and he saw the bicyclist who'd passed him earlier, still perched on his seat, one leg down to hold his balance, peering about, and Caleb was slowing his approach when the rider pushed off once more, speeding away, down the trail. Caleb waited until he was out of sight. Then he followed the narrow pathway down the embankment, to where it joined the walkway beneath the bridge.

The sound of the falling rain was louder beneath the bridge, but Caleb didn't idle to enjoy the shelter. He located the brick, shifted it, and inside there was, indeed, a scrap of paper. He pocketed it, replaced the brick, then continued down the path. It had taken him two, perhaps three seconds total to clear the drop.

He used the east entrance to leave the park, marking the south post as he passed it with the chalk he carried in his pocket. His Number One, Lee Barnett, was in their office when Caleb reached the embassy.

"Drowned rat," Barnett said.

"Pardon?"

"As in what you look like."

Caleb peeled off his jacket, nodding, then took a seat at his desk. For a moment he relished the modest relief in the safety of his surroundings. Their office was buried deep within the embassy itself, unmarked, and always locked, the only keys possessed by Caleb and Barnett. According to Barnett, they indeed had "posh digs," at least compared to other Stations the Number One had experienced. Most often SIS was stuck in something more akin to a closet, with barely enough room to allow a man to change his mind, let alone his shirt. Here, there was space for the two of them to have their own desks, with enough to spare for an ample cabinet that held the secure communications array used to speak with London. Opposite Caleb's desk was the office safe, large and ancient and impenetrable, flanked on either side by floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The room had no windows, not even ceiling lights, but was instead illuminated by two standing lamps, positioned at opposite corners. Instead of being dim, however, that gave the room a feeling of warmth, something Lewis was more than a little grateful for at the moment.

Barnett moved to their little tea table and plugged in the kettle. "Long walk this morning?"

"Had to check the flags on Mini, Cayman, and Quattro," Caleb answered, digging into his pocket. "Mini had loaded the drop, so I took an extra hour before moving to clear it, just to be sure I was clean."

"I thought Mini was keeping his head down?"

"That's what I thought." He unfolded the note. There was a pause, only the sound of the kettle beginning to chatter. "Sir?"

"Hmm?"

Caleb smoothed the note out on his desk, looked at Barnett. "Mini uses code words."

"Is that a question?"

"No. Mini uses code words, the lexicon that Ricks worked up before he got PNG'ed."

"If you need the lexicon, it's in the safe, I-"

"No, this is a number code," Caleb said. "Mini's drop, but it's not Mini's code. This one's different, in English, not Farsi. Looks like a substitution code."

"Give here."

Caleb handed the note over, watched as Barnett's thin face seemed to stretch in confusion, the normally cheerful smile absent. Caleb liked Barnett; it was, in fact, Barnett who had made him feel that his fear was both to be expected and to be managed, and there was something paternal about the man that appealed greatly to Caleb. He was a tall man, veering close to gangly, with a thick head of black hair that had begun showing the gray of distinction at his temples. If Caleb had any problems with Barnett at all, it was that the man smoked like a refinery, and had no qualms about doing so in their office, official embassy no-smoking policy be damned.

Barnett had lowered the note, was staring at the wall, deep in thought. The kettle rattled to crescendo, then shut itself off with a click.

"You weren't followed?" Barnett asked him.

"If they were on me, I never saw them."

The Number One handed the note back to Caleb, reached for the pack of Silk Cut Blue resting on his desk beside his lighter. He shook one free and set fire to it. After another moment he left his cigarette to dangle on his lip, moved to the kettle, and fixed each of them a cup of tea.

"Doesn't make any fucking sense." Barnett handed one mug to Caleb. "If they know the drop, why the hell didn't they nab you when you went to clear it?"

"Not following, sir."

"Mini uses the lexicon, Caleb. This isn't the lexicon. Ergo, Mini didn't load the drop."

"Oh, Jesus," Caleb said. "Mini gave up the drop."

"No, lad, you're not thinking it through. If Mini gave up the drop, why wouldn't he have given up the lexicon, too? And if the drop's been blown, then why didn't Shirazi's goon squad just pin you to the ground the moment you came to clear it? Or, better yet, after you'd cleared it? Did you see anyone else around, anyone at all?"

"There was a bicyclist, just before I got to the bridge, but he was gone before I moved in." Caleb examined the note again, all the more certain that he was looking at two different codes, a primary number key, followed by a rudimentary substitution code, reading:

Caleb counted up the figures in the first part, fourteen numbers, apparently grouped in twos. "The second part is definitely substitution, but I think this first part is a book code."

"Could be he's waiting until you return." The ash on the end of Barnett's cigarette dropped onto the back of his hand, narrowly missing his mug of tea. He wiped his hand against his pants, leaning forward to examine the note again. "First time to see if the drop is real. Now that it's confirmed, they'll grab you on the next trip. PNG express, if you're lucky."

"God." Caleb felt suddenly ill.

"I think you're right, I think it's a book code. Caleb?"

"No one in the network uses a book code, sir."

"Thing is, if VEVAK does have Mini, then he certainly gave them the lexicon."

"So it's not VEVAK?"

Barnett straightened up, shrugged. "Guess we won't know that until we decode the bloody thing. By which, of course, I mean until you decode the bloody thing." He grinned.

"But I don't know the book." Caleb shook his head, unsure if his Number One was making a joke or not. "It could be any book. And the substitution code-I mean, there's no way to even begin to guess the key."

"Well, the book code at least, if it's a message for this Station, it's going to be found in one of those." Barnett used his cigarette to indicate the two bookcases, filled to bursting with all manner of reference, both technical and cultural. At least three different copies of the Koran, and that many again of the collected Omar Khayyam, anything that any previous resident to the Station had thought of merit, or, at the least, of use. "Can't be more than one hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred books there, tops. Crack part-the-first, maybe that gives you the key to part-the-second."

"You can't be serious," Caleb said, and immediately regretted it. One look told him that, for all Barnett's humor, there was nothing about the current situation he found funny.

"Look, Caleb, either this is Shirazi playing silly buggers with us, or it's someone else who's discovered that we use the footbridge in Park-e Shahr as a dead drop. In either case, the location is compromised."

Caleb got to his feet quickly, suddenly possessed of a different fear, one that had nothing to do with his own well-being. "I've got to set the warning flag for Mini. Jesus, if he hasn't been made and they're watching the drop, he'll walk right into them."

"No, sit. Drink your bloody tea."

"But Mini-"

"I'll do it. If Shirazi's crew has eyes on you, there's a chance I'll draw less attention. He's in Elahiyeh?"