She had always been a voracious reader fascinated by words. Languages came easily to her, as did anagrams, codes, and logic puzzles. She’d gotten a perfect verbal score on her SATs, and when she had also gotten high marks on the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery, she’d found herself being recruited by every branch of the military. When the Army recruiter told her she would be referred to special training for linguists and codebreakers as soon as she completed basic, she negotiated for a shot at the Ranger Assessment and Selection Program to follow in her father’s footsteps. The recruiter pushed back, finally admitting that he had washed out from RASP several years earlier. He didn’t come out and say that women couldn’t pass such a grueling course, but that was what she heard. Rather than dissuade her, his unspoken judgment made her more determined. He finally caved when she threatened to walk down the street to the Navy recruitment office.
After basic, she completed RASP 1, earning her “tab.” Weeks later, she went on a classified overseas mission to decipher coded materials in a terrorist stronghold. An IED killed three of the men in her unit. She had channeled her grief into action, returning to Fort Benning to complete RASP 2, becoming one of the few women who had earned a “scroll” and joined the ranks of the Army’s elite 75th Ranger Regiment. She pushed the dark thoughts from her mind as she exited the elevator and strode toward the front security area.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Agent Vega,” the sergeant said as she approached. “We put him in a secure area to wait for you.” He gestured toward one of the interview rooms along the wall.
As soon as she opened the door, the man inside shot to his feet. Of average height and slender build, he wore a gray suit with a starched white dress shirt that contrasted with his dark skin. Dotted with perspiration, his bald head gleamed under the fluorescent lights in the small room.
“Malcolm Brown,” he said, sticking out a trembling hand.
She shook it and gestured for him to resume his seat at the small rectangular table in the center of the space. She noticed the manila envelope Brown clutched in his free hand. The seal had clearly been broken, and the top edge was torn.
“You’re an FBI agent?” he asked her.
She showed him her creds. “I’m assisting in the investigation into Nathan Costner’s death,” she said. “I understand you were friends. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Brown held the envelope out to her. “Nate was like a brother to me,” he said. “I knew he was upset over the last week or two, but he wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.”
She took the envelope from him and laid it on the table, keeping her gaze trained on Brown’s expressive features. She posed an open-ended question. “What made you think he was upset?”
Brown twisted the gold wedding band around on his finger. “I’m an attorney,” he began. “We were in practice together before he went to work for Senator Sledge. Nate was usually pretty easygoing, but he became intense . . . almost paranoid.”
“He seemed afraid?” she prompted.
“He asked me over to his apartment last week,” Brown said. “Told me he needed my help because something might happen to him. I asked him why he didn’t call the police, and he said he couldn’t trust the NYPD, or the state police, or any law enforcement other than the FBI.” He gave his head a small shake. “He even said he was lucky he was divorced and that his wife and kids were on the other side of the country, because they were out of harm’s way.”
“He never mentioned anything like this before?”
“Never. He was a solid guy, straightforward and hardworking. He was the last person you’d expect to get mixed up in anything illegal, but when I saw him, he was acting secretive and—there’s no other word for it—scared.”
“What did he tell you when he gave you the envelope?” she asked. “You must have had questions, and he had to give you some kind of explanation.”
Brown shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. “He told me to trust him and not ask questions or call the police.”
“After what happened, I think he would want you to tell us everything you could.”
“Nate got a phone call a couple of weeks ago,” Brown said after a long moment. “There was no caller ID. He said it sounded like an older male with a deep voice he didn’t recognize.”
Dani felt her brows inch up but made no comment.
“He wouldn’t share what the caller said. Told me the less I knew the safer I’d be.”
“If the information was so dangerous, did the caller tell Nate why he didn’t take it to the authorities?”
“According to Nate, the caller didn’t trust anyone in law enforcement.” Brown glanced away. “So he told Nate to choose a reporter who would run an exposé. Obviously the caller would assume Nate had a good working relationship with plenty of media representatives, based on his position.”
“You’re saying the caller wanted Nate to be like Deep Throat?”
“That’s what I gather,” Brown said. “He was supposed to be an off-the-record source, then produce the proof the caller supplied, along with whatever evidence he found on his own.”
“He was supposed to investigate too?”
Brown nodded. “Nate said the caller knew the reporter would want more than one source to corroborate the information. Besides that, he wanted Nate to satisfy himself that this was real.”
Dani drummed her fingers on the table. “So Nate did his own research and found something that got him killed.”
Brown shifted in his seat. “That’s what I think happened,” he said quietly. “And that’s why he gave me the envelope.”
She gentled her tone, trying not to sound accusatory. “And you never tried to open it?”
Security said they had opened the envelope, but she had to find out whether Brown had peeked inside and resealed it before bringing it to 26 Fed.
“He warned me not to, so I didn’t,” Brown said. “To be honest, it’s a relief to hand it over to you.”
“Did he give you anything else?” she asked. “Materials, communications, or special instructions?”
“He just told me to get it to you guys. Unlike the caller, Nate trusted the FBI to handle whatever this is.”
Dani picked up the envelope. “This could be time sensitive. I’ll get started on it right away. Did you give your contact information to the sergeant?”
Brown nodded and handed her a business card. “My cell number’s on the back. It’s the fastest way to reach me. If I don’t answer right away, I’m probably in court.”
She took the card and asked him one more time if he had anything else to offer, then escorted him from the building.
She opened the envelope in the elevator and pulled out a single sheet of paper. There were two rows of seemingly random letters at the top of the page. Beneath that was an image that looked like a copy of a vintage late-nineteenth or early-twentieth-century photograph.
SQGFHMYJKJUDSQGNS
UTQPNNWPNE
CHAPTER 8
Dani rushed from the elevator, anxious to get to the Joint Operations Center and start breaking what could only be a cipher.
“We were watching the interview remotely,” Wu said as soon as she entered. “What’s inside the envelope?”
“It’s a coded message,” she said, placing the paper on the conference table. “There’s no way whoever created this included a picture for decoration. Most codes require a key to solve them.” She tapped the image with her finger. “We need to figure out who this man is, because I believe the photograph is the key to deciphering the clue.”
“He looks familiar,” Flint said, peering over her shoulder. “But I can’t place him.”
“Can you run him through face rec?” Wu asked Johnson. “His clothing, hairstyle, and that mustache are not from this century, but if he’s well known, perhaps he’ll show up as a match in a historical database or something.”
“I don’t need to run this through any databases,” Johnson said. “This man is my hero.”
Everyone looked at her expectantly.
She stretched out the moment, breaking into a big grin. “He’s been known to keep me up at night.”
“Want to enlighten us?” Wu finally said.
Johnson sobered. “It’s Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“The man who created Sherlock Holmes,” Wu said. “Seems fitting for a clue.”
“Give me every pertinent date in Doyle’s life,” Dani said to Johnson. “Birth, death, marriage, christening, graduation, and anything else that pops up.”
“What are you thinking?” Flint asked while Johnson worked her keyboard.
“This could be what’s called a date shift code,” she said. “You use a significant date to encrypt a message. It’s simple but nearly impossible to break if you don’t have the date.” She pulled out her pen. “That would explain why whoever wrote this included the photo. The clue is based on a specific date related to Doyle. I think we should try his birth date first, since that’s what came first in his life chronologically.”
“May twenty-second, eighteen fifty-nine,” Johnson said. “I’ll put other significant dates on the screen.”
“Show me how you figure this out,” Wu said, sliding a legal pad in front of her.
“There are different ways to do it, but to get the most variety in the encryption, you would represent the date with a total of eight digits.”
She clicked the top of her pen and wrote 0-5-2-2-1-8-5-9 on the pad. She knew dates were configured differently in other countries, but she decided to try the standard American format since the crime had taken place in the US.
“The message begins with the letter S,” she said to Wu. “So you put the first number in the date, which is a zero, above that.” She scribbled the number down quickly. “You continue the same way. The next letter in the clue is Q, and the next number is five.” She wrote the number five above the Q.