Ted Bell - Spy

“Ah, that’s it.”

“Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.”

“Exactly.”

“Yes. Assume for a moment the widow is not a polymath with multiple degrees in higher mathematics, nominism, or cryptography. Assume she’s an ordinary woman possessed of ordinary gifts, an average human being, just like you or me. But, also assume this letter and this book are not the loving farewell of a dying husband, but something far more…sinister.”

“Such as?”

“A program sequence initiator, for instance. You use the numbers to key in some kind of unstoppable electron virus to disable worldwide communications. Or launch a missile at London. Who knows? Doomsday scenarios are your bread and butter, not mine. I’m a simple copper.”

While Congreve spoke, he was rapidly flipping the pages of the novel.

“You’ve solved far more intricate puzzles than this one. Stick to your knitting, Constable,” Hawke said, sensing an excitement in Congreve’s expression he’d despaired of ever seeing this night. “Do you see anything in it? Any connection?”

Ambrose was studying the letter, repeating numbers under his breath, and then flipping back and forth through the novel.

“I’m looking, I’m looking. Ah. Yes. Here we go, here’s something. The book has one hundred and five chapters, plus a prologue and an epilogue.”

“And?”

“And, hold on a tick…yes…the cryptic farewell message has exactly the same, wait, yes, one hundred and five individual lines of numeric code!”

“Brilliant!”

“Thank you. But it doesn’t mean anything, yet.”

“Is there anything at the end of the book itself that resembles the code’s format?” Hawke leapt to his feet and moved to the desk to look over Congreve’s shoulder.

“Yes. Two short numerical lines appended at the end like some kind of coda. It’s a match.”

Hawke squeezed Congreve’s left shoulder vigorously. “You’ve cracked it, old slug! God bless you for a common genius after all. So, how does the bloody thing work?”

“You take the book, I’ll do the code. We’ll start with something simple. The ambassador’s first handwritten line is 001005005. Take a look at the book, Alex. First chapter, fifth paragraph, fifth word? What is it?”

Hawke flipped rapidly through the book, searching for Chapter One, and then quickly running his finger down the page. “Ah, here it is, fifth paragraph, fifth word…Reckoning. That’s a good start…and I must say, Constable that you have a remarkable ability to, when all seems lost, stick to your—”

“Ah! There you are!” a cheery voice called from the doorway.

Hawke and Congreve looked up from their fevered study of the Da Vinci Code and the accompanying message.

“Pippa!” Ambrose almost came out of his chair with delight.

Hawke slipped the folded letter inside the novel and snapped it shut. Then he slid the book under some loose papers on his desk.

“We’ll finish our literary discussion later in private,” he murmured to Ambrose. Congreve nodded his agreement.

“Ah, Pippa,” Hawke said, “Here you are.”

“I was wondering where you two had run off to! My last night in Key West after all. Hullo, Alex.”

“Have a good time, did you?”

She giggled, slightly tipsy, and said, “I danced and danced, really.”

“Ah, lovely,” Ambrose smiled wistfully at the girl, seemingly at a loss for further dialogue.

“At the Hot Tin Roof?” Hawke said.

“No, some little dive called the ‘Varoom Room.’ ”

“Ah,” Alex said, instantly running out of conversation as well. Finally, he looked at Congreve and said, “Your fiancée, Diana, loves to dance, does she not?”

“We are not engaged, Alex. We simply have an understanding.”

The little minx did look rather fetching posed in the doorway, Alex thought. She had her blond hair up in rhinestone combs and it now fell in a few stray wispy curls about her blushing cheeks. She was wearing red, a sheath of silk under a red satin shawl, and it was, Hawke saw uncomfortably, an inspired choice. Her cups runneth over, he saw, despite making every human effort not to notice.

Hawke dragged his eyes away, looking pointedly at Ambrose. “Well, I’m for bed then.”

“So early, Alex?” Congreve said. “A tinge of autumn in the air, is there? Hmm.”

Hawke looked at him. “What?”

“No need to get snarky, old sausage,” Ambrose said, chuckling into his brandy snifter.

At that moment, Tom Quick entered the room.

“Skipper, you asked to be informed the minute Wally arrived back from Cancun. Pulling up at the dock right now.”

“Thanks, Tom, I’ll be right down.”

“Wally?” Pippa asked, twirling a red satin evening bag by its strap, “Who’s he?”

Alex said, “Not a ‘he,’ Pippa, a ‘she.’A new boat. You’ll see her in the morning before you leave.”

“Can’t I see her now?” Pippa asked, smiling at Hawke from under her long lashes.

“You certainly cannot. There’s a good deal of preparation to be done before dawn,” Hawke said. He was anxious to get his first real look at her and get feedback from the crew just returned from a quick shakedown cruise to Cancun. The first radioed reports from her new skipper, Gerard Brownlow, were encouraging. She was blisteringly fast and very seaworthy. Armed, she’d be lethal in a fight.

“A quick nightcap after all that preparation, Alex?” Pippa asked shyly, her long lashes lowered.

“I think not. Good night, Constable. And I wish you a very good night as well, Miss Guinness. It’s been a pleasure having you aboard. Most helpful. A pleasant homeward journey.”

“Pity about him,” Pippa said as Hawke crossed the room to confer with Tom Quick. “You’re not going to bed, too, Mr. Congreve?”

Ambrose said, “Well, I suppose I could be persuaded to have just one more brandy. Just the one, mind you! Don’t be naughty.”

“We need to crack that code, Constable. Tonight, if possible.”

Ambrose said, “I’ll read the thing straight through, Alex. Soon as I’m finished, I’ll ring you up. First light too early?”

“Not at all.”

“Code?” Pippa said, plopping herself into Alex’s still warm chair. “What code?”

“The Da Vinci Code,” Alex said, pausing at the door, “Read it?”

“Not yet.”

“You and Mrs. Zimmermann,” Alex said on his way out.

48

GUNBARREL, TEXAS

H omer crouched down on the forlorn pile of bones and waited. He was hiding in a rear corner of the trailer. He was up against the rear door, about four feet below where the top would have been if it hadn’t rusted out. He had his gun out and he was breathing hard. His shoulder burned like the devil and was bleeding pretty good now out of the exit wound. Hadn’t hit bone, just muscle. He’d stuffed his bandanna in the little hole but what he needed to do was tie it off. He could hear the man outside, maybe a hundred yards away.

He took a chance and put the gun down a second so he could wind a tourniquet around his upper arm. He wound the bandanna tight, clenched the knot in his teeth and pulled. Hurt like a bitch, but he felt the bleeding ease up instantly.

“Shitfire!” the man on the ground said. Must not have seen the tangle of wire fencing Homer had ripped down. Sounded like he’d tripped over it and gone down hard. It was a heavy thud; he was a big man. When he got up, his steps were slow and heavy.

He had a smoker’s hack and the sound of his cough was getting closer. Homer couldn’t figure out why the sound of the man’s gunfire hadn’t brought all the outside security lights on and more folks streaming out of the big brick warehouse building. Then he got it. Except for the Yankee Slugger that had pulled inside, the building must be empty. The smoker out there was all she wrote.