Her feet obeyed before her mind even commanded them to do so, and that one step was all it took to remove the wall from her view and replace it with the small desk. On top of which sat a familiar game board, black and white stones arranged just so and a white slip of paper anchored under the corner.
She took in the play first, frowning. It wasn’t their game. Countless times he had taken the board down and set it up again, and always each stone was in the proper position. But this was different. Had she made a different play two moves ago, it could have gone this way, but she’d been smarter than that. Because she’d considered this move, she’d guessed at his response, and she knew that if she moved her white stone like that, she’d be trapped. As he showed her now.
She snatched at the paper. Two words this time. Kikashi. When one forced an opponent into a move that would ruin their momentum. And under that, aji keshi. When one had been outsmarted.
Her fingers convulsed around the paper. “He’s not going to outsmart us. He will not.”
“No. He won’t.” Drake moved the board a bit, peered around it. Checked the desk drawer. Peered underneath it. Spun for the small shelf by the window.
“What are you looking for?” Red asked.
Drake darted a glance at her. “My poetry book. And the notebook I kept with it. They were on my desk when I left. They’re always there.”
So he could write to her. Those beautiful messages, written in code.
“Why would he take that?” The guard sounded baffled.
“Good question. I think . . . I think he intends to tell us something more. More than he can do through Go.”
Three of six. The words, the number exploded in her mind like fireworks, so sweet she nearly gasped from their splendor. They trickled down through her spirit, summer rain on parched soil. A balm. A song. A perfect proposition.
She reached for Drake. “My flat. Now. Three of six.”
“What is three of six?” But even as he asked, he took her hand and followed her out.
“Eighteen. My flat. That day, anyway. Because it’s—it doesn’t matter, just come.”
His grandfather and his attendant were in the doorway, blocking it, but they slid aside when they saw the speed of their approach. Shouted a question after them, but Drake shouted back that Red would fill them in and didn’t slow.
No more words, not on the stairs. They didn’t need them. It was enough that he trusted her. It was enough that God had spoken again in her soul. It was enough to make her hope that there was time, still, to save Dot.
Night had fallen again. It was cold and clear and only days until Christmas, but just now those days mattered not at all compared to the minutes before them now. Fingers still knotted together, they ran down the familiar streets.
Her building looked like it always did these days. All the windows were dark with blinds and curtains, the musty smell close around her when she pushed through the door. She dug out her keys as they ran up the stairs, not counting the steps or the rungs or calculating the change of pitch of the railing. Up to the third floor, down the hallway to her door.
The lights were off in there, of course, as she’d left them yesterday morning. But the light from the corridor was enough to show her the rectangle of white on the floor, where someone must have slid it under her door. She picked it up while Drake switched on the lights, slit it open while he closed the door, pulled out the single sheet of paper while he returned to her side.
Numbers, in a familiar pattern. The simple code Drake had been using, the one that used the poetry book as a key. She moved to the table, where she always kept Les Heures Claires set out, waiting for the next day’s sweet nothings.
She hated that he’d taken this. Stolen their unspoken secret and used it against them. The first time they acknowledged the notes aloud shouldn’t be like this, when it was Dieter Regnitz who had used their book to write her a message instead of Drake. It was like an inkblot on a page of newsprint. A mar on what had been perfect.
Suddenly she recalled the notes that were out of order, that night she’d gone on a whim to Drake’s flat and ended up fleeing again. The night she’d apparently collided directly with Regnitz and hadn’t even realized it. He’d been following her, not just watching Drake. He’d been in here. In her haven, in the place that had always been safe. He’d touched her belongings, and she hadn’t even known it. She’d been too focused on those stupid newspapers. Too distracted by the muddle of her own mind.
No, not her mind. Her heart.
Perhaps her disquiet showed on her face, or in her stillness, or in the way she held the letter. Because Drake rested a hand on her back and pressed his lips to the side of her head. “You know, I have two matching volumes of Don Quixote in Bilbao. I’ll send one to you.”
She leaned into him for a moment, gave him a smile. And then moved to her chair at the table. They hadn’t the time to waste on regrets and horror now. “I suppose we ought to see what he has to say.”
“I’ll help.” He sat at the chair next to her and slid the book of poetry toward him. “You read the numbers off, I’ll find them.”
It would probably take a bit longer that way, but no numbers rioted about within her to say that two extra minutes would make a difference, so she nodded. “Two. Five. One.”
He flipped to the second page, found the fifth line. Read her the first word in French. Je.
She wrote the English translation on the blank sheet of paper awaiting her pen. I.
A few minutes later, the short message looked back at them from the expanse of white.
I regret to have to use you lovely ladies for this purpose, but I have my orders. My superiors are in need of your codebooks. Acquire them however you must, if you want to see your friend alive again. Tell her brother to come with them at midnight. Deposit them at the crossroad below, in the rubbish bin at the mouth of the alley. I will signal him, and he may then proceed to the address below to collect his sister.
The final words on the page weren’t in code. They were just there at the end of the list of numbers. Two directions to somewhere in Woolwich. An hour’s ride on the tube.
Margot felt as though she were breathing for the first time in an hour. “It doesn’t sound as though he’s hurt her. If he’s being truthful.” She looked up. “Is he after the codebooks or revenge, though?”
“Both, I daresay, if he can get them. It’s a smart plan. Have me drop the codebook in one location. While I’m fetching Dot, he could fetch that and be away before I could then catch him. Assuming he doesn’t have some sort of trap planned for me, which I’m not willing to assume.” Drake checked his watch. “We have plenty of time. I can let Hall know. He can give me an outdated codebook, perhaps—”
“Oh, he’ll give you a new one.” Her lips turned up in a ghost of a smile. “We’ve long been prepared for this. In the first days of the war, he had us create a false code to pass along if necessary. I still have the original in my desk here. . . .” Sucking in a breath, she remembered again those letters, out of order.
She never should have taken that original home—why had she? But she’d wanted to improve it, have a second version. And surely the German hadn’t found it, or he wouldn’t still be demanding it. Right? She dropped to her knees, pulled out the lowest drawer of her desk, and reached up to where she’d hidden it.
Still there. Her fingers brushed the paper, gripped the stack, pulled it out. A relieved sigh shook its way out. “There. We can simply get Hall’s permission to use it.” She stood again and dropped the false codebook onto the top of her desk.
Drake breathed a laugh. “Always surprising me. Perfect, Margot. I’ll find him, we can put a team together. I’ll take you back to Abuelo and Red, or to your brother, and—”
“No.” She covered his hand with hers. When had it become such an easy move, such a comfortable one? When had his fingers begun to feel as familiar to her as her own?
He frowned at her. “Don’t insist on coming, mi alma. Please
don’t.”
“It isn’t that. It’s that he must know how you’ll respond. He must know you won’t come alone. We must think differently. We must act differently.”
His brows were still gathered over the knot in his nose. But his breath eased out. “We should listen to my mother. She always said never to neglect our prayers.”
Margot would have liked his mother. She nodded and let her eyes fall closed.
Her spirit still felt a bit raw. The ache of her own mother’s absence was no less there. But that waterfall of His voice still filled her. She sought the words to match the numbers in her mind. I’m sorry, Lord God, for shutting you out. I’m sorry for saying no when you asked me to pray. And I thank you, I thank you so much for preserving him anyway. For bringing him here, so that he could help me to see my own heart. And that it’s all right to have one.
Her fingers tightened around his. Help us now, Lord God, as only you can. Help us to find the move in this game Dieter Regnitz has set up that will turn the momentum in our favor. That will save Dot. Help us to get her back to Red. Help us, most of all, Father, to find the path that will bring you the most glory. Ten, one hundred, one thousand, ten thousand . . .
Her words ran dry, but her spirit didn’t, and the powers of ten multiplied beautifully in her mind for another long moment, a new zero marching into line each time. A perfect circle. Without beginning. Without end. Eternal, like the One who had come before.
Then all the zeros scattered away like autumn leaves in a windstorm, and only the one remained. It folded, folded again. And one of those stray zeroes settled back into place. 40.
Her eyes sprang open. Not a number the Lord had ever spoken to her before. But it had only one meaning in her mind. She looked to Drake and said the number aloud.
He was pushing to his feet. “The OB?”
“Room 40.”
Together they hurried back into the night.
32
The munitions factory had shut down for the evening. Das Gespenst had watched the workers go, laughing together in twos and threes, not seeming to give any thought to the fact that they’d spent their day producing bullets, shells, and explosives that would continue killing off the generation.
It was possible this very factory had produced the bullet that Elton had loaded into his pistol that day in Spain before he boarded the train. Not guaranteed, of course. But possible.
It didn’t matter if it was this exact factory anyway. What mattered was that when the zeppelins or Gothas flew overhead in a few short hours and dropped their loads, a blow would be struck to the enemy. He doubted he could trust whatever codebook Elton and De Wilde would get for him, but he’d have succeeded in at least one part of his directive—locating targets for the Luftstreitkräfte. He’d no doubt have something to hand over to the High Command in terms of codes, whether it be useful or not.
And he would succeed in his own mission as well. Elton would pay.
Das Gespenst shifted the limp figure beside him. If she remained unconscious as long as she had earlier, he had an hour to sneak her inside. Bind her again. Gag her this time, since there was a night guardsman patrolling the grounds. He, too, would likely die this night. Collateral damage, like Williams. Though, unlike Yūrei, the guard no doubt wouldn’t be begging for the sweet relief of death. But that was none of his concern.
He patted Dorothea’s motionless hand. She’d slept through the short ride in the little boat he’d procured to get her from one pier to the other. She’d slept as he’d eased her into the cab he’d already hired to be waiting for them. Perhaps she’d sleep until the bombs fell. That would be a kindness. Yes, he would see that she did. He’d slip a little more laudanum between her lips. Because she reminded him of Ilse, and because Heinrich wouldn’t have wanted her to suffer unduly when it was her brother who must pay.
He would come, once he and Margot De Wilde found his note. He would come with a codebook in hand, because he loved his sister. As Das Gespenst had loved his brother. He had come, hadn’t he, the moment Heinrich had called? He’d left the spot where he’d been sent to rendezvous with him and the sugar, to escort it on its final journey to England, and he’d rushed to the little town outside Madrid that Heinrich had stumbled to from the train, clinging to Elton’s discarded hat as if doing so would grant him vengeance. He’d hurried him back to the safe house they’d set up. He’d done all he could—all he could to save him.
But no tourniquet was enough to stop that much blood. Nothing could. His hands still felt red from it.
He’d had to watch the very life drain from his brother’s thigh. Watch the light go out of his eyes. He’d had to dig his grave himself, carry him to it. Send word home to their mother, to Ilse, that Heinrich was gone. Their hero had fallen.
Berlin had been no help. None. They’d give Heinrich a medal for his service, he was certain, but there had been no aid. No other agent sent to assist him. Nothing. Just instruction to move on to his next assignment.
Those blighted codes. And this factory. He’d had to map out where it was for them, send them the instructions that would enable the Luftstreitkräfte to find it from the air. And he had. He’d done his duty, and he’d sent the telegram that afternoon as he’d been instructed.
But he’d have his own revenge too. For Heinrich. Because the hero couldn’t fall without consequence.
A small beam of light passed by the windows of the ground floor of the factory—the sign he’d been waiting for. By the time he carried Dorothea over to the small side entrance, the guard would be long gone, making his rounds on the other side of the building.
Tossing a coin to the front seat of the cab for the driver to find when he awoke from his own drug-induced sleep—assuming the explosion of the factory didn’t take him out—Das Gespenst slid toward the door. Opened it, climbed out, and reached for Dorothea.
He only coughed once, which pleased him. His lips curved up just a bit. Perhaps Margot De Wilde’s prayers for him were working.
Margot unbuttoned her coat, shrugged out of it, and tossed it on her chair even as Drake slid the satchel with the false codebook to the floor under it. “What’s come in since I left?” She didn’t stop at her usual station but rather hurried to where the pneumatic tubes delivered all the newly intercepted telegrams, Drake a step behind.
De Grey looked up from his spot with an exaggerated frown. “I thought you’d been excused from the night shift since you were here all last night.”
“I was. Just couldn’t stay away. Has there been anything in the new code?”
“Not that I’ve seen. Though DID dropped off the recovered codebook not long ago. Excellent work on that, Elton. I hope he promised you a prize.”
Drake breathed a laugh. “It never came up.”
“What are you looking for?” Culbreth looked up from his work, eyes dazed enough to prove he’d been hard at it. “The new one, did you say? I think I . . . yes, hold on. I saw something. Half an hour ago, perhaps. Haven’t had a chance yet to—”
“That’s all right, I can take it.” With a smile for her friend, she snatched at the paper he pulled from a stack of them and spun for the codebook.
“What can I do to help?” Drake pulled her chair out for her.
“I don’t know yet. Give me a moment.” She set everything up as she always did. The cypher, the message, scrap paper, a sheet to write the decrypt on, a pen. “Analysis, perhaps. You’ve been doing enough of that.”
“Will it bother you if I look over your shoulder as you work? The faster to see what appears?”
She shook her head. They often worked as a team in here, looking at the same papers, correcting one another, contradicting one another. “Not a bit.”
The message was longer than the others had been. Long enough that it made her chest tighten. How much time did they have? Midnight, he’d said. What happened at midnight? They didn’t have but three hours now until they found out.
She got to it. She only paid attention to the first
words, enough to be sure they were coherent, proof that she was using the right code. But after that she ignored the actual meanings and focused on the details. Encrypted word to number, number to German word, German word to English word.
“He’s describing a location.” Drake leaned an elbow onto her desk. “‘Follow the Thames inland . . . when the river turns ninety degrees toward the south, watch for a cluster of church steeples.’ Have we a map of London and the surroundings around here anywhere?”
“Hall has one, I believe,” de Grey said.
Drake patted her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”
“Mm.” She kept working while he was gone. And it must have taken him quite a while to find what he was looking for, because she was penning the last word into place when finally he came back into the room, Hall himself a step behind him. Drake spread the map on an unused desk and began tracing a finger along it.
“What comes after the part about the steeples?”
She read it to him, turning on her chair to better face him. “‘This is the northmost apex. Follow the river another seven kilometers—’”
“That would be Woolwich.” Drake glanced up, face grave. “Keep reading. But I have a feeling I know where he’s leading them.”
She finished, up to “‘this is your mark,’” watching his finger trace along the map as she did so. The question already burning her tongue. “Is that where he told you to go? Where he has Dot?”
He nodded toward the decrypt. “Is there anything else?”
There was, and it made her pulse slow to a dull throb. “He says he recommends no fewer than two dozen Gothas set out to ensure that at least five reach the mark.”
The admiral stepped forward, blinking rapidly. “A bombing raid. He knew I would send a team with you, yes, and didn’t care. The more we send in, the more who would die with you when those bombs fell.”
The Number of Love Page 34