Ixeos: Book One of the Ixeos Trilogy (20 page)

Abacus wound around on small streets for an hour until they got to Watford, then he headed northeast and picked up the M1. The M1 was a major highway, the first they’d been on. Up til now, they’d avoided any main roads, trying to stay invisible to any other traffic and watchers. Neither Neahle nor Clay risked a word when Abacus stopped at the entrance ramp and told them his plan.

“The M1 goes straight to Northampton, skirts it on the west side. I want to ride fast and this route will save us several hours. Stay in a line and follow me, but if something happens, stick together. Make your way to Shipman’s in Northampton or find a map and go back to Corsham. Got it?” He looked grim; they merely nodded and waited for him to lead.

They sped along at over a hundred and twenty kilometers per hour and were in the city of Northampton within an hour. Shipman’s had been built in the Middle Ages and added on to over the centuries. It was an odd of a mix of wattle and daub, stone, timber and brick. Next door was a small gas station and garage; they kicked the back door in and left the bikes. Abacus didn’t speak.

As they walked down the old cobblestone street, Neahle felt an oppressive sadness around her. So many long years of history now totally ignored and going to seed. Weeds grew up among the cobbles. Trash collected in corners. Tree limbs, blown by the wind, littered the walk.

The door to Shipman’s was ajar. Neahle tried not to stare at the reddish brown stain leading from the front door, through the pub, down the stairs. She tried not to imagine Abacus, his long hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and his clothes stained with his wife’s blood, carrying her body all the way through this pub, through whatever tunnel lay beneath, then through the damp, cold, narrow tunnels in Paris. She tried not to imagine the depth of his despair.

Clay put his arm around her as they walked through the dark ancient cellar. Abacus opened a door and they passed through into a rough hewn tunnel. There were no torches here, but Clay still had the small flashlight. Without a word, he clicked it on and handed it to their leader. The man’s jaw was clenched tight as they followed the red stain to the portal.

Chapter Twenty-Six

M
arty had a headache. He
had been combing through old emails for days, looking for any that seemed awkward or out of place. What he hadn’t counted on was the Firsts being so monumentally boring. He rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose hard to try to release the tension. It didn’t help.

“Told you,” Marissa said. Marty looked up and raised his eyebrows. “I told you—there’s nothing.”

“It’s worse than nothing. Nothing doesn’t give me a headache. What’s the point of these aliens even existing? They don’t
do
anything. They don’t
feel
anything. They don’t joke, they don’t put smileys in their emails, they don’t plan dinner, they don’t do anything! It’s all information, going from one place to the other, written in the most boring way possible.”

“There’s aspirin in the kitchen,” Marissa said sympathetically. “At least we didn’t have to sit and read them all in one go. Did you find anything?”

Marty shook his head. “Nope, and trust me, anything weird will stand out like a sore thumb. There is nothing at all in this entire stack…” He gestured to the pile of papers resting precariously on a closed laptop. It was at least five inches high. “… that is the least bit unusual. It’s dates, times, temperatures, quantities, schedules. Awful.” He threw the last page down and stood up. “I’m going to get some aspirin and a bite. What meal would this be, anyway?”

“Lunch,” Marissa said with a smile.

“Day?”

“Wednesday. You’ve been reading for three days.”

Marty groaned and left the vault. Three days, and nothing to show for it. Well, the process of elimination meant that they hadn’t found Simon Lockwell’s assistant yet. If Clay’s theory was right. If.

He found the last bit of venison that he’d brought with him from the tunnels and paired it with stale bread and a peach. He didn’t know where anyone had found a peach, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Sitting at the table, he grabbed the bottle of aspirin and took three, chugging half a bottle of water.

Travis came in when Marty was halfway through his meal. Also grabbing a peach and a bottle of water, he sat down. He chugged the water, set down the empty bottle and stared at the peach.

“No luck?” he asked.

“Nope, nothing. Zero, zip, nada.” Marty chewed on the bread.

“I might have something,” Travis said. His brown eyes were so dark they looked black.

Perking up, Marty raised his eyebrows at him.

“You know Rebel Seven is working on the comm center, figuring out the best way to take it out.”

Marty nodded.

“Okay, so one of the things I been doin’ is monitoring that, seeing what kind of traffic the Firsts’ll lose if we blow it, what they’d have to move to La Defense, like that. Before now we’ve mostly been monitoring La Defense because that’s where the big-wigs are and they have their own comms set up there. Servers, satellite network connections, like that. Right?” He looked at Marty to make sure he understood. Marty nodded again. “Right. So we figure all the hotshots like Lockwell, they’ll be using La Defense, and the comm center in town, that’s for the regular stuff like when the next shipment of milk is coming, and when the grain’s gonna be harvested, like that. That’s mostly all it is. Boring but necessary stuff, basics. Food, clothing, power, water treatment, fuel, like that.”

Marty nodded again. This was the most he’d ever heard Travis say. Usually the twenty-five year old black man from Southern California kept his eyes on his screens and his communications to monosyllables. Marty thought he might like that method better but he kept smiling encouragement.

“Right. So today this weird message runs through. It’s supposed to be about some bunch of wine coming from somewhere down south. But man, the thing don’t make any sense. And I never knew anything about Firsts drinking wine, or any other alcohol, either.”

Marty was on his feet. “Did you print it or save it?”

“Sure, I got it over at my station.”

“Did you backtrack it?” Marty held his breath.

“Nah, I was monitoring a hundred emails an hour this morning. I don’t have time to backtrack all of them; that’s not my job. All’s Rebel Seven wants to know is how much impact blowing the comm center will be. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Marty grinned at him and ran out of the kitchen.

The printout was where Travis had said; Marty snatched it up, reading the email as he walked back to his station.

Dear Nathan,

X needs feedback Monday during evening unless Susan knows the height. John will be calling her later, quietly. Per Don, delivery killed. John leaves French Xteaux after Friday. Quickly deliver pieces express, plan xtra wine by quitting. I’ll leave Rick note.

“Yes!” Marty yelled, and grinned at Marissa. “Got ‘em.” He sat for a few minutes, then got up and ran back to the kitchen. Travis was still sitting at the table reading
Harry Potter
.

“Dude, can you forward me this email?” he said, waving the piece of paper in front of him.

“Nah. I printed it ‘cause it was weird, but that’s all. You’ll have to hack the server at the comm center and see if you can find it. Timestamp’s on it; that’ll help.” Travis never looked up from his book.

“Thanks!” Marty said and ran back to the vault. He slid into his chair and started typing, worming his way into the comm center’s servers. Three hours later he flung himself back in his chair and threw his hands in the air.

“Yes!” he shouted.

“Got something?” Marissa asked, laughing.

“I’ve got some
body
. Somebody who’s somebody. Here, look at this.” He handed Marissa the email Travis had printed out and watched as she read it.

“It’s gibberish,” she said.

“Yep, beautiful, isn’t it? And I found more of those,
and
I found who sent them. Somebody named Alex Verestyuk. Ever heard of him?”

Marissa frowned, thinking. “Verestyuk sounds familiar. Let me look at my files. It’s been awhile, but I’ll do a quick search.”

Fifteen minutes later, Marissa handed Marty several pieces of paper. “I thought I recognized the name. Alexandra Verestyuk, Ukrainian, came to Paris from Istanbul, but she’d been some kind of professor in Odessa before the war.” She flipped through the pages. “Yeah, Professor of Genetics, specializing in crops. Bio-engineered food. Supposedly she came to Paris to oversee food production.”

“She might be doing that but she’s working for Lockwell, too.”

“Everybody works for Lockwell,” Marissa said.

“I mean she’s sending messages for him. It looks like the email went to Boston to somebody in the Logistical Resource and Task Division. There’s no name on the recipient, though. It went to a logistics@LRTD address.”

“LRTD are kind of like the coordinators. They get trucks where they need to go, supplies to revamp a factory, slaves to a new farm. That kind of thing. Like… Air traffic control, sort of.”

“Okay, so someone at LRTD is managing the prison, making sure that it has supplies, workers, whatever they need to run a prison. It would be helpful to know who, but I guess it doesn’t really matter as long as we can decipher the messages. It must have to do with the prison!” Marty pulled over a notepad and clicked his pen.

“I don’t know how you’ll decipher that. It doesn’t make any sense.” Marissa slid her chair over beside his.

“Clay said one possibility was that the first letter of each word was actually the code. And he said the Enigma machine grouped letters into sets of five. So let’s see… That would be D, N…” He scowled as he worked, writing the letters out. When he was done, he turned it to Marissa.

“Oh, that’s so much better…” she said.

The letters read:

DNXNF MDEUS KTHJW BCHLQ PDDKJ LFXVA FQDPE SPXWB QILRN

Chapter Twenty-Seven

N
o one spoke as they
trudged through the dark tunnels, winding their way through the maze to their living quarters. Abacus held the torch and walked in front of them, striding quickly and confidently. It took twenty minutes to reach the living room, and as soon as he’d put the torch in its sconce, the older man disappeared into his office.

“That was intense,” Clay said, watching Abacus walk away.

“Awful. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him. Think how far he had to carry her, even once he got to Paris.” She shuddered. “I’m going to get a sweatshirt. You want the rest of the code books?”

Clay nodded and Neahle swung her pack around, unzipped the main compartment, and pulled the well worn books out.

“I hope we got at least one of the right ones,” she said.

“I’d be happier with a machine,” Clay said.

“True. Where do we go next?”

“If they needed twenty-seven or more, there’s no point in looking in any of the most likely spots. All those would definitely be gone. I’ll have to check the list; I’m thinking it would be faster to check private collections.”

“Private collections?” Neahle asked, confused. “I thought we were going to universities and museums and things.”

Clay hitched his back pack up. “Those would be the easiest, and for all we know the Firsts are only using the machines from Bletchley. But if they did put a machine at every prison site, those will be gone.” Neahle made a face. “Some of the machines were sold at auction and were in private collections when the war hit. We don’t have the internet to track down home addresses, but the buyers should be recorded somewhere. If we can find out when and where the auctions were, we should be able to find at least one private collector. Then we find his house, break in, take it, and come back.”

“Oh yeah, sounds like a no-brainer,” Neahle said.

“I was thinking about it while we were walking. The good thing is, it’s likely that any private collector who shelled out a bunch of money for a machine also has a code book. I mean, wouldn’t
you
want to play around with it, if you bought one? So we’d at least know that we had a machine and a code book that went with it.”

Neahle pondered that. “It’ll take time to track someone down, but in the end it could save us time.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. We can spend a lot of time tunnel hopping to museums and colleges, only to find out that all those are already gone. Or we can go find some records, do a little old fashioned detective work, and maybe hit the jackpot.” Clay grinned at her and put the code books under his arm. “I’m going to put these in the library. See you at dinner?”