And so, it was in this downbeat mood that I sat, staring at the page. Staring at the words True Shape, the name of the events company The Order had used as a front, because it was precisely the true shape of Drexler’s designs we were failing to grasp.
Then, just when things had seemed like they’d hit rock bottom, Mort, who was sitting by the desk, pivoted to face me, and said solemnly:
‘You’re in the news.’
My heart jumped into my throat. Had American Counterterrorism come to a consensus after all, and decided I was their man? Had they announced to the whole country to be on the lookout for Saul Marshall, the mastermind behind The Order of Babylon? All of a sudden I saw in my mind’s eye my face on every television in the country, on every computer screen, on the front page of every newspaper.
I saw an entire nation hunting me down.
I scrambled to the end of the bed. ‘Does this mean I’m public enemy number one?’
Mort shook his head. ‘You’re a footnote in an article on CNN. Something to do with that serial killer you put away, and a prison riot?’
Mort shifted so I could see the laptop screen. On it, underneath a headline reading The Silent Ripper Killed in Prison Riot Raid, there was a sneering-eyed mug-shot of Ernest Philipert. Next, there was a body of text describing how the Utah prison riot – which had been instigated a week beforehand by Philipert, and had led to a hostage situation – had come to a close when state troopers raided the prison, killing Philipert. Then, finally, there was a rundown of Philipert’s past: how I’d gotten him arrested back in the 1990s; and how it’d then come out that he’d in fact legally changed his name so that it was an anagram of “The Silent Ripper” – the private nickname he’d created for himself.
At first, all I felt was relief: I had not, as I’d first assumed, been publicly named as the mastermind of The Order. But then, suddenly, I was struck by a staggering realization…
I grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote in block capitals across the top the words “True” and “Shape.” Then, a moment later, I wrote underneath the word “Euphrates.”
‘Look,’ I said thickly, brandishing the page at Mort. ‘True Shape, the name of The Order’s front in Mineral – it’s an anagram for Euphrates. The Order’s word for apocalypse.’
Mort’s eyes widened with tentative excitement. ‘So Drexler encoded a hidden message within the name he used?’
‘Yes, but there’s more to it than that. Don’t you see? When Drexler used the name True Shape, it was before he wanted the authorities to know about The Order. In other words, he’d left a clue hinting at The Order’s responsibility which he hadn’t wanted anyone to find.’ I stood and started pacing the room. ‘All this time I’ve been wondering how Drexler had been so restrained about claiming responsibility. Typically, psychopaths are desperate for acclaim. Typically, they suffer from an overwhelming urge to show-off their achievements. But here was this psychopath who was very patiently waiting for the optimum time to reveal himself. Only, he hadn’t waited. Just like Philipert, he’d found a conduit by which he could secretly claim responsibility. He’d left a mark, but one which he’d paradoxically hoped – calculated, even – nobody would find.’
Mort looked at me hard.
‘But are there more of these codes?’ he asked seriously. ‘And more importantly, if there are, do any of them contain information Drexler still wishes to keep secret?’
I nodded, then lowered my eyes in thought. Mort was right: though the discovery of this code was promising, it would amount to nothing if there were no further codes – or, equally, if there were more codes, but they told us nothing we didn’t already know.
The only thing to do was to look for more. And, if we found any, to see what information they contained.
On this thought, my mind turned back to The Order’s early killings – the six initial deaths. Then, almost in the same moment, I saw it.
‘Larder Vixen,’ I said at once. ‘The front he created to perpetrate the Aimes murder. It’s an anagram for—’
‘—for Ivan Drexler,’ Mort broke in, snapping his fingers.
There was no need to double-check: it was clearly the case.
‘Alright,’ he said. ‘So clearly these names are intentional anagrams, but we need more. On what other occasions did Drexler give something a name?’ Then, before I could answer, he added: ‘Didn’t one of the cultists who perpetrated the Aimes murder use a pseudonym? I think it might’ve been Aimes’s daughter herself…’
I knew exactly what Mort was referring to. The one female member of Larder Vixen – who later transpired to be none other than Aimes’s daughter – had used a pseudonym during her dealings with the Mayflower Hotel. I’d seen the name written in the dossier I’d been given at the briefing in Hoover. And though I couldn’t bring it to mind, I’d written it down the day before when my mind had been fresher.
I went over to my notes and produced the relevant page.
‘Sofi Halltun,’ I read aloud. ‘Spelt S-O-F-I H-A-L-L-T-U-N. The one who claimed to be their managing director.’
‘Precisely,’ said Mort. ‘You remember I told you that the kids behind that attack were arrested the other day? Well, somebody repeated that name to me just after their arrest; and I remember it struck me as slightly odd that the cult used that less common spelling – as opposed to S-O-P-H-I-E – for the sake of a pseudonym.’
I nodded thoughtfully; then I wrote the name in block capitals on a clear page, and began rearranging the letters. After a minute, I looked up.
‘I’ve got the word South,’ I said. ‘And with the remaining letters I’ve got Fallin. F-A-L-L-I-N. Could that be a place name?’
Mort consulted the search engine, then shook his head slowly.
‘It’s a place, alright – there’s a South Fallin Avenue in Oklahoma. But it doesn’t look promising: it’s a tiny residential street in the middle of nowhere…’
I looked at the map Mort had brought up on the screen. Sure enough, the road in question was underwhelming – a four-hundred yard stretch of dirt-track in the back of beyond. And then suddenly I felt increasingly pessimistic again. After all, just because the names Drexler used for his fake companies were intentional anagrams, it didn’t guarantee that this pseudonym was also a code. Perhaps it wasn’t and we were seeking hidden information where there was none.
And even if it was a code, there was no guarantee the information it contained was going to change the game – no guarantee it’d tell us something Drexler wanted to keep secret. On the contrary, it seemed more likely – if Sofi Halltun was in fact code for South Fallin – that South Fallin Avenue simply had a personal resonance for Drexler. In other words, the chances were this was another dead-end—
‘How about Laflin?’ Mort said, pulling me from my thoughts.
‘What?’
‘South Laflin. L-A-F-L-I-N. Same letters as Fallin.’
Mort keyed these words into the search engine then cocked his head in interest.
‘South Laflin Street, Chicago,’ he said. ‘It’s over ten miles long, and runs from north to south through the Englewood district of the city.’
Peering over his shoulder, I had to admit this place looked more promising – like the sort of place Drexler could have something to do with. But nevertheless, my reservations remained. I turned to Mort.
‘Mort, clearly this is the more promising place of the two. But there’s a big problem here: this pseudonym may not even be a code at all. And even if it is, what’s to say the information it contains will help us track Drexler down or scupper his plans? Surely it’s just as likely, if not more so, that one of these locations just has some personal meaning to Drexler, and that’s it.’
Mort nodded slowly. ‘I was thinking the identical thing.’
At that, a thoughtful silence stretched out between us. I lit one of the Marlboros Mort had bought down the road and sat on the bed. Then, after a good few minutes, Mort said:
‘Look, I understand that even
if there are more codes here, there’s a high chance that cracking them won’t help us. But all the same, I still think it’s out best line of inquiry.’
I chewed my cheek in contemplation.
‘You say that because of True Shape, don’t you?’ I replied.
‘Yes. That choice of name, at least for a period of time, constituted a rare vulnerability. So if there are more codes, then there remains an outside chance one of them may leave Drexler vulnerable yet again, and that’s reason enough to keep pursuing this.’
I gave a slow nod, then again lowered my eyes in thought.
Mort had a point: so far, the only vulnerability we’d identified in Drexler’s designs – the only thing that could’ve caused him trouble had it been spotted earlier – was this anagram of Euphrates. And so, because a code had left him vulnerable once, I decided to allow myself to entertain the possibility it could happen again.
With that decision, my thoughts turned to the two locations Mort had brought up on his laptop – South Fallin Avenue and South Laflin Street – but no matter how much I thought about it, I couldn’t see how either had anything to do with Drexler. So, instead, I once more cast my mind to the six initial murders, and ran through them one by one. But this also appeared to be a dead-end: not one seemed to throw up a clue.
And then, almost involuntarily, my mind wandered back to Mineral, and began, very slowly, replaying the events: my arrival with Vannevar; my conversation with Clint; the storming of the house and my capture; my conversation with Drexler and my brief glimpse of Samuel; my being handed over to the police—
Suddenly, something clicked.
I looked up at Mort.
‘Mort, what was it you said about South Laflin Street?’
‘Over ten miles long. Runs north to south through Chicago.’
‘No, the other thing. The district it cuts through.’
‘Englewood. It cuts through the Englewood district of the city.’
Calmly, I rummaged through the papers on the bed, found the page detailing the events in Mineral, and looked it over.
‘Just as I thought,’ I said, as I stood and approached the desk. ‘After I was captured in Mineral, their ringleader gave his name to the sheriff as Owen Lodge – I remember, he even spelt it out. But look –’ I took a blank piece of paper, wrote the name, then rearranged the letters ‘– it’s an anagram for Englewood.’
For a second time, Mort eyes rounded with tentative excitement.
‘So that means—’ he began.
‘It means,’ I cut in, ‘that these pseudonyms are indeed intentional codes that are supposed to be taken together – it’s simply too far-fetched to suggest that they just happened to contain the words Englewood and South Laflin, and that there also just happened to be a South Laflin Street in Englewood, Chicago.’
I took a step back, and looked at Mort. Then he said what we were both thinking:
‘So now we have a ten mile stretch of road in Chicago which may be absolutely pivotal, and may be completely inconsequential. Merely a place of personal significance to Drexler.’
‘Right,’ I said.
‘So what do we do now?’ he asked.
Once more, I began pacing the room.
‘Well, there’s only one thing we can do,’ I said. ‘We need to go through this road with a fine-tooth comb and investigate every single property. See if we can find anything that grabs our attention.’
I trailed off and continued my pacing.
And then, without warning, I stopped. I’d remembered something – a detail that I knew could be crucial. And this time, I wasn’t calm.
‘Mort,’ I said excitedly. ‘Quickly, have a look and see if there are any metal cutting enterprises on or near South Laflin Street.’
‘Why?’ asked Mort, clearly taken aback by my sudden intensity and by the seeming randomness of my request.
‘When I was on the phone to Drexler in Mineral,’ I explained hurriedly, ‘our conversation was repeatedly interrupted by a noise from his end that sounded like metal cutting metal; a noise that, judging by his reaction to it, was beyond his control to stop. So if there’s a metal-cutters on South Laflin, then there’s a chance that’s what I heard…’
Hardly had I finished speaking than Mort typed what I’d asked into the search engine. A second later, it came up with a single result – Lakeside Steel, at 7504 South Laflin Street – and my first thought was: this is promising. But then, when Mort brought up a satellite image of the address, which gave us a view of the surrounding area, I started feeling positively excited. Because not only was there a dilapidated warehouse directly next door to the north of Lakeside, but these two warehouses were alone on what was effectively a cul-de-sac: to their north, South Laflin was interrupted by an abandoned-looking railway running east to west; and to their south, the road was traversed by West 76th Street. And this meant that this dilapidated warehouse, located as it was at the end of this cul-de-sac, was precisely the sort of place someone who knew what they were doing would locate their hideout in an urban environment. A property that nobody was ever likely to walk past or see in day-to-day life.
I had no doubt this was where Drexler had called me from when I was in Mineral. And finding it was a big deal. It was somewhere Drexler had used as his base – somewhere he still might be using as his base…
I turned to Mort. ‘Mort, you beautiful bastard. We might’ve just sniffed out our rat.’
The next thing I knew, Giles had scooped me up into an enormous bear-hug, completely forgetting my injuries. But I didn’t mind. Not a goddamn bit.
*
‘So we need to get to Chicago,’ said Mort.
I was sitting poised on the edge of the bed and Mort was standing in the middle of the room, rocking foot-to-foot. All of a sudden, he’d become a different man, a man full of energy and life. And so too had I.
Our discovery had changed everything. We now had purpose, hope, direction.
‘Right,’ I replied. ‘But we can’t fly there – for one thing, we’re packing heat, for another, the CIA will undoubtedly be alerted if I attempt to go through security – so we’ll have to drive. How long do you reckon that’ll take?’
‘Maybe nine hours,’ replied Mort. ‘So if we leave in the next half hour, we’ll be there sometime between eleven and midnight local time, given that Chicago’s an hour behind.’
I nodded resolutely. ‘Then, when we get there—’
‘Then,’ Mort broke in forcefully, ‘we’re going to ambush the place. Though we’re not doing it as a two-man army. I know you’ve gotten used to those kinds of odds this past week; but this time, we’re bringing reinforcements.’
‘Reinforcements?’
Mort grinned. ‘Saul, my boy. You forget I oversee an entire division at the largest law enforcement agency in the country. I’ll make some calls to DC and rally some of the best agents from The Organized Crime Unit. No, they may not be quite as elite as Parkes’s lot at The Office of Intelligence, but they can definitely handle themselves. And frankly, I bet they’ll be only too glad for a chance to outdo Counterterrorism at its own game.’
‘Can we trust them, though? – to keep my whereabouts secret, and with the truth about Samuel?’
Mort smiled. ‘Would I suggest we use them if we couldn’t trust them?’
‘Fine, let’s bring in reinforcements,’ I said decisively, then added: ‘I suggest I find the floor-plans to Drexler’s warehouse and organize a command post in Chicago right now – since these jobs will be a lot faster using the laptop – while you pack up. Then let’s hit the road immediately and organize reinforcements from the car.’
With that, we both got down to business. Then fifteen minutes later – with the floor-plans and satellite images of the warehouse downloaded, a house round the corner from the warehouse rented, and all our stuff packed – we departed the hotel. And before we knew it, we were back on the Interstate, with Mort behind the wheel.
Then, as I churned my way throug
h the remaining Marlboros, Mort got to work organizing his reinforcements from Washington. First, he called each of his five most trusted agents in turn, explained to them the situation – that he was with Saul Marshall, and that we’d found what could well be the leader of The Order’s base – and asked them if they’d come to Chicago to aid in an off-the-books operation. Then, after receiving five affirmatives, he expressed his desire in a series of follow-up phone-calls that the men coordinate with one another, and make the journey to Chicago in two separate parties. The first was to come in a white surveillance van, bringing with them silenced firearms and walkie-talkies; the second in a rental car, bringing with them three pairs of Illinois number plates. And the men were quick to comply: no more than ninety minutes later we received confirmation that they’d split themselves into two groups, that the equipment and vehicles were in the process of being secured, and that both parties, if all went to plan, would be in Chicago by 5 a.m. CST.
And then, with this job done, we fell into a relaxed silence. For now, there was nothing more we could do.
Chapter 43
Sunday, March 3, 2013. 8:23 pm. EST. – LaGrange, Indiana.
Resh knew that he shouldn’t do it; that if he was caught, it’d be critical. But the urge to take a brief look inside the house at the end of the road – small and isolated, with the white shutters – was just too much to bear.
Resh had been eating dinner at the bar and grill in the small town of LaGrange, Indiana, when he’d spotted a waitress who looked uncannily like his mother. The likeness had fascinated him. But then, when she’d finished her shift, a friend of hers had dropped off the waitress’s son – no older than ten – and Resh had overheard the friend ask the waitress whether she was starting to cope better with the strains of single motherhood.
At that, Resh was no longer fascinated: he was spellbound. It was like a time warp; like glimpsing into a scene from his own past.
So, when the waitress left with her son, Resh slipped out the restaurant and followed them. Followed them through Main Street, and then through the unlit residential streets, where the modest houses were set back from the road and sparsely distributed. And now he was standing at the end of their drive, in the pitch blackness of an overcast night, watching the downstairs lights pop on and illuminate the windows.
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