A.: Okay, which words are bound to appear in this letter? This is Ambrose to his best friend, Caleb, speaking from the grave; which words is he likely to use?
[Niamh starts writing at once; he starts pacing around, carelessly stepping over the papers.]
“Dead.” “Society,” I guess. “Secret.”
NIAMH: [Shows notepad.]
A.: [Reading.] “Crystal sphere,” yeah, good. Also, “friend.” He has reason to get emotional; he did with Knox. “Love.”
NIAMH: [Shows a new word.]
A.: “Sorry,” yes, not bad. But none of those words helps; look.
[He retrieves the cipher, shows it to her.]
Check the first line; see how it begins. This digraph, L I, is repeated.
QH TB AG LI LI OG NE DW …
Every digraph in Playfair is encoded in the same way, so this word also contains a series of two letters repeated, like … “coconut.” Think of words like that.
[Niamh seems to consider it, but she soon shrugs off the question. A. resumes his wandering.]
It’s right in the beginning; how do you begin? You don’t put the date, nor the address; you don’t say, “Dear Caleb”; you just go straight to the point.
NIAMH: [Starts scribbling.]
A.: “Come at once.” Or, “I need you.”
NIAMH: [Delivers her line.]
A.: [Stopping to read.] “I am dead.” Okay, maybe not that blunt.
[Resumes.] “If I am dead …”
[Stops, points at Niamh.] No, “If you read this … then I am dead.”
NIAMH: [Lips something for him.]
A.: Right, “If you’re reading this.” “If you are …”
[EPIPHANY.]
“If you are … ARE, RE … reading this!” [Frantic.] That’s it! That’s how it begins!
The sentence is likely to go on, “I am dead / will have died,” whatever; but the string if you are reading this is long enough: We have eight pairs to start with.
if yo ua re re ad in gt hi s?
QH TB AG LI LI OG NE DW RB RN
We know each digraph has been encoded using the same five-by-five grid of letters (which we must reconstruct), following these rules:
1) If both letters fell in the same row in the grid, Ambrose picked those on the right of each one. (Horizontal rule.)
2) If both letters fell in the same column, he picked those below each one. (Vertical rule.)
3) If they didn’t share a row nor a column, he picked the letters diagonally opposite them. (Diagonal rule.)
Now, one property of the diagonal rule is that it encodes every two letters into two different letters. So it can’t produce pair #3 in our list, ua = ag. This one must have followed either the horizontal rule or the vertical rule, meaning that all three, u, a, and g, shared either a row or a column in the grid. Same goes for pair #6, in = ne.
Another property of the diagonal rule is that it always places the first half of both plain and encoded digraph in the same row. An example: pair #5, ad = og, follows the diagonal rule.9 This means that a and o share a row, and so do d and g. This way, #5 proves that a and g do not share a row; pair #3 cannot follow the horizontal rule then; it must follow the vertical one. That gives us a piece of the grid.
(There could be other columns between these two—hence the line—but that’s not important at this stage.)
Similarly, pair #4 (re = li), which is diagonally encoded too, proves that i and e don’t share a column. Therefore, pair #6 follows the horizontal rule, and thus it gives us a second piece of the grid.
Let’s now shuffle the first piece of the grid with pair #7 (gt = dw). This will locate new letters t and w relative to g and d.
IF PAIR #7 IS HORIZONTAL:
IF PAIR #7 IS DIAGONAL:
(It can’t be vertical, because that would require g and d to share a column, and we already know they don’t.)
Let’s go further: If we shuffle it with pair #2 (yo = tb), letters y and b fit only in the second scenario. (The first one is discarded because pair #2 would not abide by any rule: o and t must share either a row or a column.)
Now let’s shuffle the second piece with pair #8 (hi = rb). This will place letters h and b relative to i and r.
IF PAIR #8 IS HORIZONTAL:
IF PAIR #8 IS DIAGONAL:
Combining this with pair #1 (if = qh), only the first scenario applies. (The second doesn’t, because i and h don’t share a row or a column.)
We can now merge these two pieces together using their only common letter: b. This is tricky because of the lines: Only letters with no lines between them are truly stuck together, so we don’t know in which order they fall. But we do know the five letters comprising the b column: b, h, i, r, y. Which one is right below b? It can’t be y (piece I shows clearly a gap between b and y); it can’t be i (it’s above b); it can’t be r (it’s below h); therefore it’s h.
Since letters i, n, e are known to be stuck together, but they don’t follow the alphabet, it is safe to assume that they are part of the key word, so we put that row on top. And the letter q is in the key word too. And q is usually followed by u. In our drafts, though, u carries along a and g. So:
And that’s enough to solve the key word.
NIAMH’S NOTEPAD
* * *
—There’s this thing that’s been bugging me since I talked to Knox yesterday. I asked him when was the last time he saw Wells alive, and he answered June the twentieth. Just like that. Month and day. How come he remembered the exact date?
—Birthday?
—Maybe. But there’s a cooler answer.
—Summer solstice!
—Exactly. I think the Society used to hold another regular meeting—one with Ambrose’s nearest colleagues, Ford and Knox. This year Ford was in Africa, so only Knox attended. However, if you hold regular meetings every solstice, and need to call an emergency meeting in between … What is there between solstices?
—Equinox.
—Which means unscheduled meeting, red alert. Equinox is the key word.
LETTER (DECIPHERED)
* * *
IF YOU ARE READING THIS, I QUIT THE GAME. I ENCOURAGE YOU TO FOLLOW MY EXAMPLE, IN A LESS DRAMATIC FASHION IF POSSIBLE. IT IS NOT A BOURGEOIS PASTIME ANYMORE. SHOULD THE OTHERS FAIL TO SEE THIS, YOU AS THE SECRETARY HAVE THE LAST WORD. AXTON HOUSE, THIRD FLOOR, STUDY DESK, RIGHT THIRD DRAWER. I SHALL TALK TO YOU THERE.
LETTER
* * *
Axton House
1 Axton Rd.
Point Bless, VA 26969
Dear Aunt Liza,
We’re fucked. […]
A blank paper. That’s the thing most resembling a message you’ll find in the right third drawer of the desk in the study on the third floor.
We searched the entire room—which, by the way, is a rather dark, maroon-colored, seldom-explored chamber decorated with sordid illustrations à la Gustave Doré. It holds the last of Ambrose’s workspaces, the one devoted to his personal affairs. We browsed through it once weeks ago, looking for the red notebook with the twenty’s names.
And that’s the point. All this encryption, all this secrecy, just to make us look into a drawer that wasn’t even locked?
Obviously Ambrose trusted that no one stumbling upon what is hidden in this desk would deem it vital information. Certainly nobody did after his departure. Strückner had his own cipher to worry about. Had Glew, the lawyer, been looking for legal documents here, he would have dismissed it as what it seems: a blank paper, barely concealed under an old phone book, next to a family album, a deck of cards, and a stock of staples and paper clips, somehow containing a piece of information worth of all this conspiranoia.
EXCERPT FROM SAMUEL MANDALAY’S ARS CRYPTOGRAPHICA
* * *
As much as computer algorithms are called to open a new era in cryptography—and will surely not disappoint us—machine ciphers still have one obstacle to overcome: They are conspicuous. Algorithm-generated code can hardly be camouflage
d or disguised as plain text, and whenever there is visible code, it will stoke the enemy’s curiosity.
What traditional methods (even the most childish of them) still do better than computers is to comply with the third of Sir Francis Bacon’s rules: hiding the code—not only the information. Acrostics, Cardan grilles, invisible ink, and other techniques have been used since ancient history to conceal even the existence of a message to be concealed. Secret texts can be camouflaged within longer texts, or the environment. There is an infinite number of writing patterns hidden everywhere around us. It is human imagination that finds new ways, not artificial intelligence.
Consequently, computers cannot yet guarantee the simultaneous application of the RIB principles of cryptography (randomness, invisibility, brevity: § 4.1.1). As long as we adhere to these rules, our man-made ciphers will remain a challenge for both human and mechanical attackers.
VIDEO RECORDING
* * *
KITCHEN THU DEC-7-1995 18:11:45
Several objects gathered on the table: The blank paper presides; a saucer of sliced lemon, a knife, some cotton balls, a hair dryer, and NIAMH sit around it.
A., on a stool, is now taking a lemon slice. He squeezes a few drops onto a pinch of cotton. Then, leaning close enough to sniff the paper, he rubs the cotton over the top. Niamh gently applies heat with the hair dryer.
[They sit back, as though yielding room for whatever emerges from the paper.]
[Suspense.]
[Bordering on boredom.]
A.: Aw, fuck this.
[He squeezes half a lemon with his hand, squirting juice all over the paper and half the counter, then sweeps a few cotton balls over it, Niamh providing heat at maximum power all the while.]
[She turns off the dryer. He releases the paper onto the table, hoping it has learned the lesson.]
[It hasn’t.]
[WALL PHONE RINGS. They exchange looks.]
[RING. She nives. A. reaches for it.]
[Grumpy.] How come you can call an ambulance but can’t tell somebody to fuck off?
[Picks up on the third RING.]
Yeah?
[He stares at the receiver. Then, to Niamh.]
They hung up.
[He does the same. Niamh just finished writing; she shows.]
—They calling more & more often.
—I noticed. It just adds pressure.
—?
—Because winter solstice is coming. And we’re nowhere close to finding what’s supposed to happen in this house. We’re probably behind schedule. And members begin to wonder if everything’s all right.
—So? If we don’t find out in time, they won’t come. Nothing will happen.
—I’m beginning to fear that something will happen anyway. With a crystal ball, or some other evil thing hidden around. What if it’s due to happen at the winter solstice—and we’re not ready?
[Both stay silent for a second.]
[Or two.]
A.: [Suddenly.] Okay, let’s see what the Internet has to say about this: ways to bring up invisible ink. Go!
[Niamh jumps off the counter and out.]
[Cont’d.]
We tried iodine. Actually, we tried Betadine; it was supposed to do the trick. Only it didn’t.
We tried ammonia vapor—filled a bucket in the coal room with two bottles of ammonia and poured in some bleach to bring the fumes up, to no avail. Then Help peeked inside the room without wearing a mask and he threw up.
We tried ultraviolet light: took the car, drove to Clayboro, had a beer, told a barman that I’d been taken to a disco in the vicinity recently that featured UV lights and couldn’t remember where it was, collected the names of three spots between Clayboro and Virginia Beach, drove another forty miles for the closest one, paid the tickets, elbowed our way to the stage, checked the paper, swore our brains out, had two shots, and left. People really liked Niamh’s hair.
I don’t know. I have theories, but I don’t feel like writing them down. But hey, you feel free to jump in anytime. I mean, you don’t have to wait until I’m throwing myself out of a window; your input is always welcome.
You should get yourself an e-mail account; it would improve our communications. When you have it, notify me at theycallmemister [email protected]. We miss you here in the twenty-first century.
Kisses,
A.
* * *
9 Quick proof: If it didn’t, all letters in pairs #3 and #5, u a g d o, would make up a whole column/row. That would make pair #7 impossible.
DECEMBER 8
NIAMH’S NOTEPAD
* * *
(At Gordon’s.)
—Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree.
(He stares at my line for a while.)
—I have no idea what that means, but I do think we’re trying to extract an answer from something that can’t give it to us.
—Maybe there was a real message & they took it.
—But why just leave it in an unlocked drawer?
—False bottom?
—No, we checked that. I’m not hungry; have my toast. Oh, you had it already. Good for you.
—Maybe Ambrose not all that smart.
—If there was a real message and they took it, what’s that blank paper doing there?
—Where else would you keep a blank paper?
VIDEO RECORDING
* * *
KITCHEN FRI DEC-8-1995 09:39:25
[RING.]
[HELP diligently trots over to the wall phone.]
[RING.]
[He stares up at the apparatus, head tilted.]
[RING.]
[He dismisses the phone, goes to his water bowl.]
[RING.]
[Lap, lap, lap.]
[No ring.]
MUSIC ROOM FRI DEC-8-1995 16:24:53
Rain spattering on the windows, and the gentle slapping of playing cards on the coffee table as NIAMH sets up a game of solitaire.
[A. walks in from the south, passes her without a word, lies down on the couch at the end of the room, next to where HELP lies curled up by the fire.]
[The game goes on.]
16:25:30
[A. moves his hands from his chest to under his head.]
[NIAMH places the last ace remaining in the foundations of her game.]
16:26:04
[The Earth continues to rotate.]
16:26:05
[A. catapults himself up from the sofa, jumps over HELP, crosses the room in three strides, and crashes against the coffee table, paralyzing NIAMH with one extended, expectation-creating hand.]
A.: Tell me. You. Didn’t. Shuffle. Those. Cards.
NIAMH: [Terrorized, shakes her head.]
A.: [Insanely, Jack Nicholsonianly calm.] Good. Now, put them back in the exact order they came.
[Niamh gazes at the cards on the table. She takes an ace back from the foundation, hesitates … places it in one of the tableau columns. Then takes another one …]
[… Consults A., impotently.]
A.: [Sinking his face into his palm.] Ssshit.
[Niamh stares at him, then at the cards on the table, extremely worried. Then, by chance, at the camera.]
[She shakes A.’s arm.]
16:44:48
[NIAMH has just finished piling up the cards. A. is now standing.]
A.: Okay, now listen. The blank paper was a red herring. It makes sense. It’s a progression. Each code is harder than the previous. First was the Aeschylus cipher: basic level, meant for Strückner to get. Then it was the “book by a tree” riddle, a personalized code. The third was a Playfair: professional code used in World War Two. And last, invisible code, one you can’t even see. Only it wasn’t the blank paper; that’s still too conspicuous. The Playfair just said “right third drawer.” And the manual says, “There are infinite writing patterns around us.” Like a deck of cards. A deck is fifty-two cards without the jokers, which makes twenty-six black and twenty-six red. Twenty-six are the letters in the alphabet; t
hat is the pattern: A deck contains two alphabets, enough to conceal a short message!
NIAMH: [Stenopadding.]
—You turn me SO on when you do that.
A.: [After reading, amused.] I know. Take a long shower later; now listen.
[Sniggering, she grabs a blank paper (THE blank paper, most likely), as A. skips through the cards.]
Okay, I was thinking black alphabet and red alphabet, but that would require too much guesswork without stating an order for the suits. So it’s probably black for one half of the alphabet, and red for the other. And … the ace of spades usually comes on top in a new deck, so let’s say blacks are the first half, from A to M, and reds are from N to Z.
[Niamh is already composing a table of equivalences.]
Now, the first card in the deck as we found it is the queen of spades. That is … the letter L. Next is the three of hearts, which is N, O … P. “L-P.” Next is nine of clubs, that is … J?
NIAMH: [Double whistle warning, busy writing.]
A.: No, I. Next is the king of hearts: Z. “L-P-I-Z.”
[Niamh looks up at him for reassurance.]
It’s okay; this is just landfill; you can’t just throw away the cards you don’t need. Ten of clubs … Three of clubs … King of spades …
The Supernatural Enhancements Page 17