Boyd Morrison: The Midas Code

Boxes were piled on a sofa, a couple of chairs, and a table. In the middle sat an icebox, one of the old models with a latch. A manila envelope was taped to the front of the door. Tyler examined it and, when he was sure it was safe, tore it away and ripped it open.

The envelope held one page. Tyler pulled it out expecting instructions on what to do next.

The sheet may have had instructions, but they weren’t much help. The numbered paragraphs weren’t written in English. Although Tyler couldn’t read the words, he recognized the letters immediately. He had never been in a fraternity, but he’d used all the letters in equations while earning his engineering degrees.

The page was written in Greek.

Tyler scanned the text to see if there was any hidden code or some other message for him. He searched for a formula, something that would help him defuse the bomb, but he didn’t know what he was looking for. Given how much the guy on the phone knew about Tyler, he would have learned that foreign languages weren’t exactly Tyler’s strength. He could order a beer and ask where the bathroom was in French and Spanish, but even that was pushing it.

The man had mentioned that the instructions weren’t written for him. Then who were they written for?

He racked his brain trying to come up with someone he could call to translate the document, but he was interrupted when the truck echoed with the sound of pounding on the rear door. Tyler froze.

“Is someone inside?” he heard a woman’s voice say.

“I’m okay,” Tyler said, thinking that a crew member was checking on him. “I’m just repacking some items that came loose.”

“Open the door.”

Twenty minutes left. He didn’t have time for this, but ignoring her would just bring more attention than he wanted. He’d get rid of her quickly and focus on how to get the document translated.

He pulled the door up expecting to see someone dressed in the crew’s crisp blue uniform. Instead, he saw a petite woman in her thirties dressed in a black leather jacket, jeans, and stylish but functional boots. Shoulder-length blond hair framed her face, and light makeup accentuated high cheekbones and pillowy lips. It was a no-nonsense, attractive look.

Tyler recognized her immediately. Stacy Benedict, host of the television show Chasing the Past.

He didn’t know where to begin, other than to say, “What are you doing here?”

The woman had been appraising Tyler as much as he had been studying her, and his abrupt demand made her pause. “A man told me someone would be waiting inside this truck for me.”

“Did he have a gravelly voice?”

“That’s him. But he didn’t mention it would be you.” So she remembered Tyler from his appearance on her show. No need for introductions.

The instructions are taped to the fridge, the man on the phone had said. It’s all written down for you. Well, not you, but you’ll see what I mean.

“You don’t happen to read Greek, do you?” Tyler asked.

Stacy’s look told him that the question sounded as ridiculous to her as it did to him, but her answer made it clear that it seemed ridiculous for another reason.

“I have a PhD in Classics,” she said. “Of course I know Greek. Why?”

He gave her the piece of paper. “That’s why.”

As she read it, Tyler could see the blood drain from her face. But she didn’t panic. No screaming. No crying. Instead, her face contorted with barely contained fury.

She looked up from the page and said, “Where’s the bomb?”

S tacy boosted herself into the truck. As Tyler closed the door behind her, she read the first line on the sheet again. It was typewritten in modern Greek with awkward phrasing, as though it had been translated from another language by a free Web service. But she got the gist of it.

There is a bomb in the truck. Work with this man to deactivate it. If you don’t accomplish your task, both you and your sister will die.

Only an hour before, she’d been packing for her morning flight back to New York when she received a call from an unidentified man claiming to have kidnapped her baby sister, Carol. Upon seeing the video of Carol bound and gagged, Stacy unleashed a tirade of obscenities so withering that the caller had to calm her down just to tell her what he wanted her to do.

His only command had been to board the 8:30 ferry to Bremerton as a walk-on and wait for further instructions. She’d allowed herself five minutes to react after he’d hung up, but all that came was a fit of shaking. She wasn’t a crier. Neither was her sister. Except for her parents’ funerals, the last time she could recall real tears was when their dog, Sparky, died. She was fourteen and Carol was twelve. Stacy supposed their fortitude had something to do with growing up as the only children on a working Iowa farm.

But that toughness didn’t mean she was a loner. At least now she had a partner in this mess, even if it was a man she barely knew.

Stacy had met Tyler Locke only once, nine months ago, when she had interviewed him for her show that investigated ancient mysteries around the world. He was a big get after his rumored involvement in finding Noah’s Ark. Before the interview, he made it clear that he wasn’t happy being in the spotlight, explaining that his boss had arranged the appearance over Tyler’s objections. In spite of his reluctance, Tyler was naturally engaging when he talked about the engineering of centuries-old mechanisms and could have been a regular if she had been able to persuade him to return.

He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, which made him perfect for TV. His tan face showed just a bit of weathering, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors, but he didn’t have any deep lines on his forehead, so he wasn’t into his forties yet. He was over six feet tall, brown hair, blue eyes, with a jagged scar down the left side of his neck. The wind-breaker, khakis, and hiking boots were professional but casual.

“What does it say?” Tyler asked. “We have less than twenty minutes.”

Stacy examined the paper. The first four lines were in modern Greek, but the rest was in ancient Greek. Not too dissimilar from the modern form, but the punctuation and all caps made it harder to read.

“The refrigerator door has a trap,” she said. “To disable it, flip the switch on the lower part of the door.”

Tyler knelt and ran his hand under the door. “Got it.”

“You should be able to open the door.”

He pulled the latch and inched the fridge open.

All the shelves had been removed from the interior. A clear plastic barrel filled with a grayish powder took up the bottom two-thirds of the interior. The barrel was topped by something covered in canvas, and a drawstring pouch hung on a hook next to it. An LCD timer stuck to the front of the barrel counted down. Nineteen minutes were left.

Wires from the timer snaked into the barrel. They terminated at a device nestled into the powder. Another set of wires disappeared into the covered object.

“I’ve never seen a bomb like this on TV,” Stacy said. Her heart was hammering, but her voice was even. Going to pieces wasn’t going to help her sister.

“There’s a detonator in the powder,” Tyler said. “The powder is a binary explosive.”

“Could it be a fake?” She remembered his credentials from the interview because they were so unusual. He had been a captain in an Army combat-engineering unit, and one of their responsibilities had been to dispose of IEDs.

“Can’t be sure, but I don’t think so,” Tyler said. “And if it’s real, there’s enough to blow a car-sized hole in the deck.”

“So that’s bad? You don’t have to sugarcoat it for me.”

He gave her a wan grin. “Seemed like you could handle it.”