“That’s great, but what are you going to cook?” Clay asked her, hands on hips.
“I don’t know yet. Something hot and fresh. Maybe we can find some chickens in town and fry up eggs in the morning.”
Abacus was happy to find several cases of Harps Lager behind the bar, as well as a case of Coke. He passed the McClellands a soda each and popped the top on a beer.
“Even old and warm, it’s still great…” he sighed.
“Hey, I know! Do we still have apples?” Neahle rummaged in her back pack. She fished out two, and Clay handed her two more. “I’ll be back!” she said as she ran back to the kitchen.
A half hour later she came in with three bowls. Steam was rising from each; the smell was sweet and syrupy. She handed them around and sat at the table, taking forks out of her back pocket. “Ta da!” she said. “Grilled apples.” She took a bite and smiled happily.
The men stared at her, then down at the bowls. She’d sliced the apples and cooked them on the griddle, then put them in a pan with brown sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg she’d found on the shelves. It could have used butter, but no one complained. It was hot and delicious and made the night feel like a celebration.
Chapter Twenty-Five
As soon as it was light, Neahle got up from the sofa on which she’d been sleeping and crept outside. She cocked her head and listened to the sounds of daybreak. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed. Grinning, she set off.
She’d walked a half mile when the rooster crowed again; she adjusted her direction, turning down the next street on the left. Humming to herself, enjoying the time alone and the fresh morning breeze, she didn’t realize what she was hearing at first. She hadn’t been away from her own world long enough for new sounds to trigger her inner alarm bells. Suddenly she stopped, cocked her head, and pushed herself against the brick wall to her right.
What she heard was the sound of a small engine. It wasn’t big enough for a vehicle, she thought. She closed her eyes. No, not a vehicle, not even a scooter. Something small, almost like an appliance. Creeping forward, she followed the sound.
A block down, she peered around a corner, ready to flee back to Bletchley Park at the slightest hint of danger. Halfway down the lane, three young girls, the oldest about twelve, were standing on the lawn of a house, gathered around whatever machine was making the noise. They were dressed in simple dresses and were obviously sisters, with their matching blonde ponytails. As Neahle watched, a blonde woman in her thirties came out of the house and spoke to the children. She reached down, picked up a bucket, then went back inside.
Neahle stayed where she was and thought for a moment. If there were children there was a man somewhere nearby. He would definitely be armed. These were not rebels; it was a family trying to live off the grid, trying to be free. They probably wouldn’t welcome her, or, at the very least, they would be afraid of her. As much as she longed to talk to them, she decided to sneak away and return to the manor house.
“It’s good you left them alone. If you’d talked to them, they probably would have moved as soon as we left. There are thousands of these kinds of families, even small communes, where people just want to be left alone. They scratch out a living the best they can. They are afraid all the time of everyone. Perhaps, if we can free Darian, they’ll join us; they’ll believe there’s hope,” Abacus said. “We’ll make sure that this family’s location is recorded for the future.” He chewed a piece of grilled bread thoughtfully.
“They looked so… normal,” Neahle said. “Seeing children was great. I haven’t seen any kids since we got to Ixeos. I didn’t want to intrude.”
“You did the right thing. And you make a pretty mean cinnamon toast; I’ll forgive you for not finding any eggs.”
After two hours searching the manor house, they came away with a dozen different code books. Since the books were written in German, they had no idea if they had the right ones or not. Two had the name of the German navy, Kriegsmarine, imprinted on them, however, which was promising.
“That’s it, let’s hit the road,” Abacus said at ten o’clock. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”
“Are we headed back to Corsham?” Clay asked, tucking half of the tall black code books into his back pack.
“I had a thought last night; I’ve been pondering it all morning. We have a tunnel in Northampton. It comes out in a place called Shipman’s. It’s a pub.”
“Is that close?” Neahle asked.
“Maybe the same as Corsham or Winchester, but almost due north.” Abacus threw his leg over his bike. “We’ll need fuel, whatever we decide to do.”
“So what’s the deal with Northampton? You don’t seem like you want to go there.” Neahle clipped her back pack across her chest and watched the older man.
Abacus looked at them for a long moment, then looked down. “A couple of reasons. We haven’t set up a Depot there, so someone will have to come back and move the bikes…”
“Or we can set up a Depot there,” Clay interrupted.
“True.” He paused. “The other thing… We lost someone there, the first time we went. A long time ago. No one really wanted to go back.”
“Lost someone?” Neahle asked. “Who?”
Abacus cleared his throat. “My wife. Theresa. She and I were exploring the tunnels in Paris, spending time alone. We found a new portal and we went through, coming out in the cellar of the pub. Shipman’s.” He brushed his hand across his eyes, his forehead furrowed at the painful memory. “We wandered around Northampton, visited the old churches, the Guildhall. We spent the night at a country club in the fancy rooms.” He paused. “We were young and we didn’t pay attention. It was like a honeymoon, and we didn’t pay attention. We left the country club and rode bicycles back into town; I didn’t see the First. I never even suspected there was anyone else there.” He paused. “Anyway, we got off the bicycles at the pub and were laughing and making jokes and the next thing I knew Theresa fell forward into me. I thought she had tripped. But I looked down and she had a knife hilt sticking out of her back. The First had thrown it; he stood ten feet up the street looking at me with those dead eyes, sizing me up.” Sliding his hand down his face, he continued. “I lost it; the next thing I knew the First was dead on the ground. I’d picked up a cobblestone and beat him to death.” Abacus looked at his hands as if he could still see the blood there. “She died in my arms. I never knew why that guy was in Northampton or why he didn’t kill us both.” He sighed. “I carried Theresa all the way back to the living quarters in Paris. We buried her that night in a little park just down from the Garnier Opera House.” He stopped talking and started his motorcycle. “I never went back to Northampton.”
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
Marty 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 somebody. 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
No 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?”
Ixeos: Book One of the Ixeos Trilogy Page 14