The Givenchy Code (20 page)

I
t wasn’t until we were in the taxi that I realized I’d been hit. Or, rather, Kate had.

A perfectly round bullet hole right in the side of my beautiful Kate Spade bag. Just looking at it made me queasy. Both because I’d end up consigning Kate to the trash, and also because I knew that a few more inches to the left, and the hole would have been in my belly.

Thanks to Stryker, though, I was whole, and I scooted over the bench seat toward him, wanting his strength to keep on protecting me, this time from the heebie-jeebies of such a near miss.

Stryker told the driver to take us to the Crowne Plaza, and as soon as we arrived and checked in, I tossed my jacket over the back of a chair, then peeled off my jeans, leaving me in nothing but a tank top and underwear. I’d like to say that my only motivation was comfort, but I’d be lying. We were in a hotel, we weren’t racing the clock, and I wanted a second go-round with this man. I wanted it bad.

In the Plaza, I’d been just as desperate, but that had been a need for sex, for physical coupling. Stryker had been a bonus in that he was hot and sexy and totally turned me on, but I had to admit he hadn’t been the point, even if he had been the inspiration. I’d just needed to get laid.

Now, though…

Well, now I wanted the man. I wanted him to hold me and kiss me and laugh with me. I wanted his hands on my body. I wanted his tongue in my mouth and his cock inside me. And I wanted it bad enough to toss subtlety to the wind.

Stryker had been watching my little striptease, and now he came over, tugging me down onto the bed and rolling me onto my stomach. He straddled me, his large hands working the kinks out of my shoulders.

I could feel his erection pressing against my rear, followed by his mouth pressed hot against my ear. I moaned, already desperate and ready.

He didn’t say a word, and neither did I. He just touched me, stroking my shoulders, then he rolled me onto my back and cupped my breast underneath my shirt. Wildly, he pushed the material of my tank up, then closed his mouth over where his hand had been, his tongue flicking at my nipple.

His fingers snaked down, easing inside my panties. And as he explored me further, my body quivered with pleasure and I knew without a doubt that despite everything, this was going to be one fabulous afternoon.

I
woke up slowly, rolling over to curl up next to Stryker. Instead, I found an empty bed. Confused, I bolted up, looking around the now-dark room.

I found him standing in front of the window, the curtains open, the lights from Times Square glistening on his naked body. I propped myself up on an elbow and watched him, feeling sappy and sentimental and thoroughly sated. For now, at least, Stryker was all mine, and I liked that. I didn’t know what would happen after the game—if I survived—and I didn’t want to think about it. All I wanted was to live in the moment. To take all the pleasure and comfort Stryker was willing to give.

He shifted, the muscles in his back rippling as he turned to look at me, his somber expression morphing into a delighted smile at finding me awake. “Well, hello,” he said. “Good nap?”

“How long did I sleep?”

“A few hours. I got a quick nap, too. We both needed it, but we need to get moving. I don’t want to stay still.”

I grinned. “Well, then, you shouldn’t have exhausted me.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” he said.

“I’d debate that,” I said, sliding out of bed and going to join him at the window. “I’m pretty sure a lot of the pleasure was mine.”

He put his arms around me and pulled me close, and we stayed that way for a while, watching the traffic move below us and the lights of Times Square spread out all around us—the steam drifting lazily into the sky from the Cup Noodles sign; the neon extravaganza that marked the entrance to Toys“R” Us; the bright flashes of the NASDAQ sign. It was nice. Comfortable. But unfortunately, we couldn’t stay like that.

“We need to get going,” I said.

“That we do,” he agreed. “Just do me one favor—put on some clothes. I’m not sure I’m up to fighting off all the admirers we’ll meet on the street.”

“Very funny,” I said, but I moved to the chair and grabbed my clothes. As I tugged my jeans toward me, the jacket fell to the ground, and I bent over to pick it up.

“Wait,” Stryker said, his voice so urgent that I froze.

“What?”

“The jacket,” he said. “The vial was in the jacket.”

I stood up, the jacket clutched to my chest. “Yeah…”

“Why?”

I started to say, “Why not?” but I kept my mouth shut as the import of what he said hit me. “Because it’s part of the clue,” I said. I felt totally and completely stupid. Since that jacket had belonged to me—and since the vial had so clearly led to a clue—I’d just assumed that the jacket meant nothing. That it was just a little dig, something meant to psych me out.

Clearly, I shouldn’t have assumed.

I finished getting dressed, then spread the jacket out on the bed, my fingers going over every inch of it. Nothing. I turned it over and was about to repeat the process on the interior when I realized I didn’t have to. I could see right away what the clue was: a care instructions tag that hadn’t been there before.

The tag in the collar hadn’t changed, but in one of the side seams there was now a plain white tag with ENIGMA printed on it. “That’s it,” I said to Stryker. “That’s our clue.”

“S
o I take it ENIGMA isn’t a designer label?” Stryker asked. He paced in front of the window of our new hotel room, this one about two blocks from the first and equally dingy.

“This is a Dolce & Gabbana jacket,” I said, showing him the real label. I pointed to the mysterious new label.
“This
one shouldn’t say anything except Dry Clean Only or Machine Wash With Like Colors.”

“Right. So the clue is‘Enigma.’ What do we do with that?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But it fits with the game. For one, the Enigma machine is one of my particular interests. It was an encryption machine made by the Germans. They used it in World War Two. Damn near unbreakable code.”

“I’m familiar with the Enigma machine,” he said.

“Sorry. I did a presentation on the Enigma machine a couple of years ago at a local high school. I guess I’m in teacher mode.” That had been fun, actually, and it was one of those moments that made me think I really was taking the right career path. The kids had been fascinated with both the machine and the story behind it. Not that I had a real machine. There is one at the NSA museum, but D.C. is a bit far to travel for a one-hour presentation. Even for the sake of academia.

“These clues aren’t random,” Stryker said, voicing what we already knew. “They touch at codes and ciphers because that’s what you like.”

True, and somehow hearing Stryker say it out loud made it less scary. Codes and ciphers
were
my thing. I loved them. Always had. And the fact that codes and ciphers were key meant that I was at least given a fighting chance to win the game.

And I fully intended to do that. I don’t like to lose. And the idea of dying didn’t sit too well either.

I’d been bordering on euphoria when we’d found the label in the jacket, but I was fast coming off my high. “So we know the code is an Enigma code or relates to the Enigma machine or has something to do with the word
enigma.
But we still don’t know what exactly it is. If it’s an Enigma code, where’s the message?”

“Saint Michael Saint Louis,” he suggested.

As guesses went, I had to admit it was pretty good. What I didn’t think, though, was that it was right.

I shook my head. “Enigma codes are nonsensical. I’ve never heard of a code that was an actual word.” I shrugged. “I mean, I could be wrong, but it doesn’t feel right.”

“The saint stuff must figure in somehow.”

I nodded. I’m sure it did. I just didn’t know how.

“So we’re back to square one,” he said. “What are we supposed to do with something that just says‘ENIGMA’
?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. It was a rhetorical question. The answer was either right in front of our noses or we’d missed it entirely. Since I didn’t see a damn thing under my nose, all I could do was sit back and wait for inspiration to hit.

I hoped one of us would have a moment of brilliance soon. I don’t like waiting, and so far I’d been doing way too much of it for my taste.

Since I had no better idea, I sat down at the hotel desk and pulled out some stationery and a pen. At the top of a sheet, I wrote ENIGMA. Then I started rearranging the letters. I wasn’t particularly good at anagrams—that was my friend Warren’s bailiwick—but I figured with such a short word I had half a shot.

GAMINE
Well, that was a word, but I didn’t know what it meant.

IMAGEN
Wasn’t that Ron Howard’s production company? No, that was Imagine. Probably not what I was looking for in either case.

GAIN ME
Real words, but not exactly a crystal-clear message. Then again, I wasn’t looking for crystal clear. Still, I had no flash of brilliance. I moved on.

GAME IN
I frowned. That could mean something.

“We are in the game,” Stryker said, startling me. I didn’t realize he’d been reading over my shoulder.

“I know. We’re about as in as you can be. But so what? How does that help?”

“It doesn’t. It doesn’t help one little bit.”

I took my pen and scratched at the words until they were obliterated. “Fucking game.”

Stryker didn’t say anything—smart man—but he put his hand over mine. I closed my eyes and sighed.

“They’re wearing me down,” I said. “I’m scared and I can’t think straight. This is what I do, what I love. Codes. Ciphers. And they’re going to make it so that not only do I screw up because I’m just too damn tired, but in the end I’m going to end up hating something I love. No, correction. I won’t hate it. You can’t hate something when you’re dead.”

I sounded morose and whiny, and I hated myself for it. But I couldn’t help it. I figured I had cause. And, honestly, all I wanted at that moment was for Stryker to put his arm around me and tell me it would be all right. That he’d figure everything out. That he’d take care of me.

I shivered a bit, the thought taking me by surprise. I’d never once wanted to be taken care of. I’d always been so independent, even moving to Manhattan against my parents’ wishes. But that’s what I wanted right now. So help me, that’s what I wanted more than anything in the world.

And the irony? I couldn’t even get what I wanted.
I
was the one with the talent for codes.
I
was the one who could solve the game to the end. Stryker (I hoped) could keep me alive while I did my job, but in the end it all came down to me.

I pictured myself finding the last clue and ending all of this. That would be a happy moment. At least I thought it would. “Stryker? Once the game’s over, I should be safe, right?”

“That’s the way it is online, isn’t it?”

“Totally,” I said. “Do you think Lynx will follow the rules?”

“So far he has. He could have slit your throat in front of Todd’s.”

“Nice,” I said, swallowing. “But you’re right. Once I’ve won, he’s lost. So any prize he might get for winning is forfeited. There’s no reason to keep after me, he’d just be risking everything.”

“Besides,” Stryker added, “he can probably sign up to play another game. Hunt someone else and try to win again.” His voice was deadly serious, and I nodded. I’d thought the same thing myself about there being other games going on.

I was thinking about winning when my gaze landed on the jacket. I picked it up, turning it slowly in my hands, as if I could learn its secrets by osmosis.

“Maybe we aren’t done with it,” Stryker said. “Maybe the jacket has another clue.”

I didn’t have a better idea, so we spread the jacket out, each of us going over every inch, marking our progress with the tips of our fingers.

Nothing.

“Black light, maybe?”

“Black light?”

“Maybe there’s something written that will only show up under a black light.”

“Or with lemon juice?” I asked, raising a brow.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s the only suggestion I have.”

“We can try,” I said, dubiously. “But where would we find a black light?”

“A nightclub. Novelty store. There’s got to be one nearby.” He nodded toward the window and Times Square below us.

“Okay,” I agreed. “It’s worth a shot.” I started to get up, then thought of one last thing. “You know, the label was sewn in by someone else,” I said.

“So maybe we should un-sew it,” he said.

I wasn’t sure “un-sew” was a word, but that was the general idea. “Give me your knife.”

He handed it over without question, and I carefully pulled out the threads holding the new label in place. It came free, and I realized that about one-quarter inch of material had been sewn into the seam. And there, on that bit of material, was a message written in tiny, perfect script.
XKBFT THECF CHPTR YEDHH VQIPN G

“What the fuck?”

“It’s an Enigma code,” I said. “It’s got to be.”

“Great,” he said, “but what do we do with it? I thought the code was uncrackable.”

I shrugged. “Well, no, not really.”

“No?” He made a face and nodded at the jacket. “Go on, then. Get to it.”

“Ah.” I scowled at the code. “It’s not really that easy. We need an Enigma machine.”

“And where are we supposed to find an Enigma machine? Germany?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of Washington, D.C.”

He nodded. “Okay. Let’s go. Surely there’s a commuter flight. It’s late, but not that late.”

I laughed. “Yeah, well, I think a phone call will work just as well. And it’s faster.”

“Who knew it could be that easy?” He passed me his cell phone. “Go for it.”

I called and found out quickly enough that the National Cryptologic Museum was closed, which wasn’t too surprising considering it was after dark. Undeterred, I called the NSA directly. Most likely, I’m now considered a terrorist threat. What I’m not is someone with access. After going through about eight thousand levels of after-hours staff, I finally found a person who was willing to not pass the buck. Instead, he told me directly that if I wanted to type something into the Enigma machine, I was going to have to haul my body down to the museum.

So much for my powers of persuasion. The ultimate irony, of course, being that working at the NSA is my fantasy. Though I should point out that I want a job in intelligence, not staffing the museum.

Stryker was watching me, his expression knowing. “Don’t pass up an opportunity simply because you’re afraid. There’s very little in this life you can’t go back and fix and change.” He waved a hand around the room. “If we get this wrong, then yeah. You might have a problem. But get rejected for a job? Pick the wrong job? Babe, those are no-brainers.”

“Thanks,” I said, part of me wishing I’d kept my mouth shut on the cruise, and another part of me liking his support and encouragement. “We should probably concentrate on keeping me alive so that I can pick
any
job.”

“Right. So what now?”

“Might as well give your method a shot,” I said, nodding toward the laptop. “Maybe there’s someplace in New York that has one on display.”

We didn’t find an Enigma machine on display. Instead, we found something better: an Enigma applet, right there on the Internet.

“Wow,” I said, completely impressed. “Someone must have put some serious effort into this.”

“Do you think it’s accurate?”

I read the text accompanying the Java-based program. “It says it is.”

I started inputting the list of letters we’d found on the jacket. As I watched the printout, my heart started to sink. This was not good.

SJPKL XEKKO LSUCS NOIZL PSVEI K

“Gibberish,” Stryker said. “It’s just a fucking load of gibberish.”

I reloaded the applet and pointed above the keys on the little picture. “See these three letters? Those are moving rotors. Every time you type, they change, and a different electrical signal is sent. So you might type an
E
once and get a
G
as the coded version, then type another
E
and the second time it’ll show up as a
Z.”

“Right,” said Stryker.

“Right,” I repeated. “So the only way to decrypt the message is to know the
original
rotor setting.”

He met my eyes. “Try PSW.”

I bent back to the keyboard and readjusted the rotors. More gibberish.

“Dammit!” Stryker’s hand struck the table.

“No, wait,” I said. “I forgot about the plugboard.” I pointed to the area at the bottom of the simulator. “Since we’ve got three letters, I can’t plug them to each other. So I’m going to plug them to the first three spots.
P
to
A, S
to
B
and so on.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Stryker said as I reset the machine.

I typed the coded message in again, and this time—thank God—the answer made sense. Or, rather, the answer wasn’t gibberish. At the moment, at least, it didn’t make any sense at all to me.

YOUSE EKTHE HEAVE NNEXT TOHEL L

“Nice,” Stryker said.

“The letters emerge in groups of five. It says ‘You seek the heaven next to hell.’ ”

“Like I said, nice. What the hell does that mean?”

Stryker might not know, but the answer clicked with me right away. How could it not, considering the many hours I’d spent wandering the length of Fifth Avenue, lusting over the contents of the various stores?“St. Patrick’s Cathedral,” I said. “The clue is something at St. Patrick’s.”

He gaped at me. “What hat did you pull that out of?”

“Haven’t you ever noticed? The cathedral’s right across from 666 Fifth Avenue.”

“And with the saint medal and the reference to St. Louis, a Catholic church makes sense.”

“Let’s go.”

“Can’t,” he said. “They close up for the night. Vandals.”

“Oh.” I was antsy, wanting to go, to figure out the next clue. But while Stryker might be willing to break into a restaurant, I didn’t think he’d be inclined to break into a church. “I guess we wait,” I said.

“We can sleep,” he said, his dark eyes burning into me with an intensity that made me warm and shivery. “Or…?”

What can I say? I took the“or.”