Cries of the Lost (9 page)

As for Natsumi, her status had now changed from missing person to fugitive. That heightened the danger to both of us. If she were in custody in the U.S., it wouldn’t take a committed investigator long to put together the pieces of our story. I knew one in particular, that retired FBI agent Shelly Gross, who had the skills, the knowledge of the case, and the contacts with the agency, to get there very quickly.

For all I knew, he already had. He had the time, and was very, very mad at me. Witnesses could link Natsumi to a person linked to a series of events leading up to some bloody killings. The larger question, have they identified that person as me, the real me? Presumed dead, but apparently very much alive?

The Caymanian cops knew from the start she was a valuable asset. That had to connect to the bank. It could be the contents of the safe-deposit box, but it could also be our immediate past. Maybe we’d already been caught and just didn’t know it yet.

In the plus column, we had a lot of money tucked away in a lot of secure places, multiple identities with supporting documents and an increasing facility in the art of staying invisible.

Which included never lingering in any one place too long.

I looked down at the distant harbor of St. Jean and called in to Natsumi that I thought it was time to go.

S
INCE NATSUMI
had the most experience driving over the lethal coastal terrain, she had the wheel of the BMW while I played with the onboard GPS, doing an A-B comparison with the one on my iPhone. Each had their positive and negative features, and separate opinions as to our exact location. Feeling that blue dots and red pins were too imprecise a measure, I went online and downloaded a marine navigation app that tracked location by the actual latitude and longitude.

This took some doing as we lurched and hurtled down the mountainside, but before we reached the Egretta Garzetta, I’d achieved the goal and had begun to toggle between the two GPS programs and the waypoint app.

When we pulled up on the shoulder across from the hotel, I had a winner. The car GPS’s blue dot was floating in the sea several feet from the waterfront estate. The iPhone had the hotel firmly pinned to the earth, in both red and blue. I wrote down the full coordinates from the waypoint app as Natsumi patiently followed me into the hotel.

Somehow, it didn’t surprise me that Monsieur Lheureux knew the precise latitude and longitude of his family’s hotel, described in degrees, minutes and seconds. The app had tagged on a few more seconds, but that was it. The Monsieur was pleased to add the refined position to the family records.

Certain that Natsumi would find this equally engrossing, I showed her the coordinates when I met her upstairs in our rooms.

“This is fun for you?” she asked. “No wonder you love staring at numbers. Why are you looking at me like that?”

I went over to the breakfast table that had been serving as my desk and took out an unmarked copy of Florencia’s code. There it was in the middle of the third row. First the degrees, separated by three other numbers. Then the minutes, separated by three different numbers, then the seconds, followed by three other numbers, only two of which were distinct.

“The number seven is the letter ‘e,’ ” I said to Natsumi.

She walked over and I handed her the coordinates for the hotel. Then I pointed to the corresponding numbers in the code.

“It’s a catalog of locations, beginning with the Villa Egretta Garzetta. And likely some text. I’ve only got the start of a key, but it’s a good start.”

“Brilliant,” said Natsumi.

“No. Lucky. Even better.”

C
HAPTER
5

T
he Spottsworthy Mews, buried deep inside London’s Kensington and Chelsea Royal Borough, was a quick cab ride away from the room we’d rented in a monstrous hotel on the eastern edge of Hyde Park.

Florencia’s code was very precise, but not enough to pinpoint an exact location in the tightly compressed, mad tangle of ancient urban development that was London. So we were reasonably sure about the mews, but had no idea which of the thirteen residences within was the target.

Listed second on Florencia’s code, after the hotel in St. Jean, the mews was our first choice. And convenient, as it not only got us out of town, it got us all the way out of France. It was a reasonably stress-free trip, the enormity of Heathrow somehow bestowing the illusion of impenetrable anonymity. Reality being quite the opposite, of course. As the global nexus of travel both illicit and benign, no airport had greater and more sophisticated security.

I dedicated the first few days at the London hotel translating the bulk of Florencia’s code, determining there were nine designated locations, taking up three quarters of the content, with the rest normal text, or a different species of numeric expression, or a combination of both.

In addition to London, there were pinpoints in Venice, Madrid, Budapest, Switzerland, Lombardy, Edinburgh, Costa Rica and New York City.

“Do you know what’s there?” Natsumi asked.

“No idea.”

“But you have a theory.”

“No. But I do have what’s left of the code.”

What I had were the numbers for d-e-g-m-i-n-s-c, all single digits. After 9, each letter was two digits each. I ran the letter frequency query through Excel, identifying the letter ‘a’ as 23, and gaining some certainty the text was in Spanish. Thus the English-only code-breaking software was no help at all. I was facing the limit of my capabilities, and the frustration likely showed.

“I think you should find someone to help you,” said Natsumi. ”The energy needed to succeed at this must be far greater than your need to come up with a good cover story.”

She was right. My preoccupation with security was likely unfounded, since we had what should be the essence of the code. I just needed the words.

“And here we are in the UK, code breakers’ paradise,” I said. “Home to Bletchley Park,
The London Times
crossword puzzle, George Smiley.”

“I don’t know about any of those things.”

“That’s why we have Google.”

In a few minutes I had a name that fit the bill nicely. Edwina Firth, a New Zealander, Professor of Cryptanalysis, University of London, winner of a recent code-breaking contest held by
The Daily Telegraph.
In the photo taken at her award ceremony, she looked like a pleasant, open-faced woman poised to agreeably enter middle age.

“She’s cute,” said Natsumi.

“Is that an observation or a warning?”

“I’ll know better when I meet her.”

A
FTER SOME
discussion, we crafted an email to Ms. Firth:

Professor Firth:

I am an American businessman on holiday here in London. I stumbled upon the notice in the
Telegraph
of your success in the ‘Enigma 2012 Challenge.’ I have with me a much simpler cipher, created by a friend of mine with whom I’ve lost touch. It’s partially solved, and it would be most gratifying to have the task completed. I would gladly compensate you for your time if you would be kind enough to give it a look.

Sincerely,

Gilbert Freeman

“Perfect,” said Natsumi. “Just add in ‘on holiday here in London with my wife.’ ”

“You don’t really think . . .”

“Never trust a cryptanalyst. You want to talk crafty.”

We had to wait a few days for a reply, which we spent casing the Spottsworthy Mews. This was difficult, since by definition, the flats and townhouses of a mews were off the main road, and grouped around an open, paved courtyard. There was no way to approach any of the dwellings without being exposed to all. And it would be no surprise if the area were well covered by security cameras. So my cleverest idea was to walk arm in arm with Natsumi right into the mews and look around like dumb tourists.

So we did, which turned out well, because in the window of one of the homes was a prominent sign that read
TO
LET
. I pointed to the sign and we walked over to it. I pulled out my pocket notebook and wrote down the contact information. We were now dumb tourists hoping to spend an extended time in London.

The estate agent was a one-office firm a quick bus ride from the mews. I expected a quaint little Dickensian hole in the wall, but we got a modern office building with three floors and hundreds of agents manning phones and clattering away at computers.

“That would be Hunley’s property,” said the receptionist, dialing him up from her switchboard.

Hunley was a tall, sallow young man with sparse reddish hair, inadequate shoulders and a weak chin. Though his ready smile was sturdy enough.

“Well then, we’ve been to Spottsworthy, have we?” he asked, shaking our hands.

“Just now. It’s sort of exactly what we’ve been looking for,” I said.

“I can understand that,” he said. “It’s one of my favorites. It’s a year’s lease, of course.”

“That’s fine,” I said.

“Could we have a look?” said Natsumi.

Hunley acted as if she’d snapped him out of a reverie.

“Of course, yes. Let me get my jacket and the key.”

A cab was waiting for us in front of the building. The cabbie nodded to Hunley like they knew each other. Hunley said “Spottsworthy” and we were off.

“So, have business in London?” Hunley asked.

“On sabbatical,” I said. “Writing a book.”

“What can you tell us about the neighborhood?” Natsumi asked. “How’re the neighbors? We’re looking for quiet.”

“Then you’re looking well. A mews is the favored place for people wanting quiet. All tidily tucked away and all.”

“And all the flats are let but this one?” I asked.

“No flats. They’re all proper houses,” he said, “and mostly lived in by their owners. This one is owned by a couple on assignment in America, as it turns out. They rarely sell. Too desirable. Can’t say I know if they’re all fully occupied at the moment.”

“Security?” she asked.

“Of course.”

It took him a few tries before getting the door unlocked, an awkwardness he covered with increased chatter and feigned amusement. The door opened into the sitting room, which was dark, full of overstuffed furniture and lined with bookcases crammed with books and a variety of pottery, pictures, clocks and other knickknacks. The space opened up to a dining area, beyond which was a set of French doors leading to a tiny garden. It smelled freshly cleaned, in a pleasant way. The street noise was a distant swish and hum. I pulled aside the drapes and saw a clear view of the twelve other units.

“We’ll take it,” I said.

“You haven’t seen the rest,” said Hunley.

“No need.”

“I’m seeing the rest,” said Natsumi.

Hunley followed her up the stairs.

I
WENT
to my email immediately after getting settled into the mews. Edwina Firth had written back.

Dear Mr. Freeman:

I would be pleased to look at your code (no compensation necessary), though I can offer no assurances that the puzzle will be solved. I’m sure you are aware that unbreakable ciphers do exist.

My office hours are nine to eleven
A.M
. Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Pick your day and I’ll see you then.