The Stepping Maze Page 4

  By all indications, Kotler’s Great Grandfather leapt enthusiastically into service.

  During the war, Daniel’s intelligence and scientific bent was noticed by his superiors, and he was placed into service as a Communications Technician. He was in charge of intercepting enemy transmissions, mainly by tapping into telegraph cables that stretched across the war-torn landscape of Europe.

  It was here that he was first pulled into the world of codebreaking.

  It was a minor foray, and Daniel was mostly charged with intercepting and identifying enemy messages so they could be passed on to trained codebreakers. But he was exposed to the process enough that he became intrigued and took on codebreaking as a side hobby. His interest bled over into his official work on occasion. He would sometimes translate enemy encryptions before sending them on to the official codebreakers.

  As a rule, this wasn’t something the Army wanted him spending his time on. But the backlog of transmissions over the wire meant plenty of lag time, and Daniel was merely doing paper-and-pad translations of less sensitive broadcasts. But it helped, or so Kotler assumed, and Daniel received a commendation for his assistance. Someone had noticed.

  When the war ended in 1918, Daniel returned to Texas A&M, where he completed his undergraduate degree in Agriculture. But his wartime experience had changed him, it seemed.

  After completing his undergrad, he left Texas A&M to pursue graduate studies at the University of Michigan, turning now to physics.

  Why he decided to make this transition was unclear to Kotler, but Daniel obviously had a love and a passion for science. The Great War had shaped the lives and futures of a lot of young men, in myriad ways. Kotler felt it was fortunate that for Daniel the war had nurtured something positive and inspired within him a desire to look deeper into the workings of the universe. Many of those who returned from the battle lines in Europe were not so fortunate.

  It was at the University of Michigan that Daniel was first introduced to the work of Thomas Young, the English polymath who performed the original double-slit experiment—firing single particles of light at a phosphorescent sheet of material and noting the results. This experiment revealed that light, bizarrely, behaves as both a particle and a wave, depending on whether it is being observed.

  The startling conclusion, that observation changes the outcome of the experiment, would be further scrutinized later, by other prominent researchers. But the revelation that light had some mysterious dual nature was what immediately took the scientific world into a whole new viewpoint of reality.

  It was the birth of quantum physics.

  Science was now looking deeper into the inner workings of reality than it ever had before, and Daniel was clearly enamored of it. His doctoral thesis was an in-depth exploration of the nature of light at the quantum level, with a proposal that measuring the trajectory of specific light packets, known as quanta, as they were fired would allow the observer to pre-model the pattern of particle impacts on a phosphorescent screen, while also determining the nature of the resulting wave pattern, after repeated firing. The double-slit experiment, now used to predict the future. In limited quantities.

  It was an ambitious application of Young’s experiment and results, and it had some intriguing implications. The science was still young, however, and the results were still uncertain. Daniel’s premise had a few holes. But the thesis was enough for him to get his Ph.D. and to continue pursuing the fledgling field of quantum mechanics full-time.

  It would be nearly a decade later that Werner Heisenberg would introduce his Uncertainty Principle, completely disproving Daniel’s own hypothesis and further enhancing the mystique of Quantum Mechanics as a field of research.

  Daniel seemed unperturbed by having his work unraveled. He went on to publish several papers in prestigious journals, building on the theories of the more prominent physicists in his field, including Heisenberg. The papers were peer-reviewed and well-vetted, by some of the sharpest minds in science at the time. Commentary on Daniel’s work was glowing in its praise.

  Kotler scanned through Daniel’s bibliography, as compiled by Jeffrey, but did not find Cryptographic Applications of Heisenberg’s Theory anywhere. An indication that the paper was never published if it was ever even submitted.

  That was disappointing, and a bit curious. There were some implications, considering how prolific Kotler’s Great Grandfather had been with his publications. But the fact that this particular work was found tucked away inside a government-sealed room provided some clues.

  Maybe the information in this paper was too sensitive for public release?

  Kotler read on, now including the declassified documents that Liz Ludlum had provided.

  Daniel’s career in physics continued, and he seemed to gain some notoriety in certain circles. As the decades passed, he was tapped by both the military and the government to participate in a variety of fledgling programs, including some off-the-books, black-ops type stuff. Some of this was later declassified. Some remained locked away to this day. Kotler found all of it fascinating.

  Then, in 1942, Daniel and his wife were relocated to Los Alamos.

  Things went a little strange at this point.

  Though Daniel was clearly a part of the original Manhattan Project team, mostly in a support capacity, after around eighteen months he was pulled from the roster and moved offsite. Some of his work on the project was still classified, even today, but that paled in comparison to the level of redaction that took hold of Daniel’s work following his move.

  According to what public records Jeffrey had been able to cobble together, Daniel was now employed by a city planning office.

  Kotler doubled back, checking to make sure he hadn’t inadvertently mixed files from some other relative. But it was true. Dr. Daniel F. Kotler, physicist, had worked for city planning in New York City. Specifically, he had worked as a developer of city and zoning codes. He was essentially making the rules that governed building permits within the city.

  This made no sense, except …

  There was an address for Daniel’s employer, on a bank record that Jeffrey had included. Kotler checked it against his notes and smiled.

  It was the same address as the commercial code building, at 225 Broadway.

  Things became clear. Daniel had been recruited out of one high-level government program, and into another. He’d gone from the Manhattan Project to, Kotler could only assume, working as a covert codebreaker.

  This seemed to be confirmed further when Kotler read about Daniel’s next career change, only a few years later. In 1950, Daniel became an employee of the AFSA—the Armed Forces Security Agency. The very program that William Friedman had been running only a short time before the founding of the National Security Agency, at which point he’d taken several of his people, including Daniel, with him.

  Dr. Daniel F. Kotler had been a founding member of the NSA.

  4

  FBI OFFICES, MANHATTAN

  “The NSA,” Denzel repeated.

  “I had no idea,” Kotler said, leaning back in his chair and sipping coffee from a sleeved to-go cup. The two of them were in Denzel’s office, overlooking the bullpen of agents. Kotler had brought coffee from a new place near his apartment—the sort of café that made Kotler realized he had really missed the city, despite being reluctant to leave his hiatus.

  Egypt had a lot of intriguing and incredible things to recommend it, but the desert lacked the variety of cafés and coffee shops that Kotler preferred. In fact, other than what Kotler had ported in, the coffee choices at the dig site had been pretty abysmal.

  They were going to miss him.

  “How does this help us?” Denzel asked.

  “I’m not sure yet, but it’s where the information took us. Daniel was an early NSA agent, recruited into the program after working with William Friedman, presumably as a codebreaker.”

  “There’s a thread,” Denzel nodded. “And something else has come up. My people found a compartment
, hidden in the wall next to the vault door. It has some kind of device mounted in it. We think it’s an early version of a security keypad.”

  He picked up a remote from his desk and aimed it at the large screen mounted on his wall. He fumbled with it a little, and Kotler hid a smile behind his hand as his partner worked out the intricacies of essentially turning on a television.

  After a moment, and a couple of unnecessary whacks of the control against Denzel’s palm, an image finally appeared on the screen.

  Kotler stood, moving closer to inspect the image. He peered at the photo, making out what looked like a specialized typewriter keyboard. The keys were round and mounted to the sort of levers one would expect on an antique Underwood or similar unit.

  On a typical typewriter, pressing a key would cause a bar to strike an ink ribbon, transferring a character to a page.

  This device was a bit more complex than the typical typewriter. There was no place to scroll in a sheet of typing paper, for a start. Beyond the keyboard was a dense housing, and from what Kotler could see there were ribbons of cable coming out of it and disappearing into the wall.

  “They’ve managed to get the housing off of the thing, and inside there are a series of rotors. Step motors, just like you were talking about, with the cigar-o.”

  “SIGABA,” Kotler corrected absently. He was studying the device intently, noting every detail, anything that stood out as unusual.

  The keys of the device were the first anomaly he noticed. Rather than a single character per key, each had a combination of five characters—alternating sequences of A and B.

  From left to right, across what would be the home row of a standard keyboard, the sequence went:

  AAAAA BAABA AAABB AABAB AABBA AABBB ABAAB ABABA ABABB

  “So the letters,” Denzel said. “We figure they correspond to a typical typewriter keyboard, but that’s as far as we’ve gotten.”

  “Bacon,” Kotler said quietly, amazed.

  “Er … are you … hungry?” Denzel asked.

  Kotler chuckled. “Sir Francis Bacon. The playwright. Well, among other things. He was a polymath, possibly on a level with Leonardo da Vinci. He was an author, a statesman, and a scientist. And he had a fascination with cryptology. He even invented his own secret code, known today as the Baconian Cypher.” Kotler nodded to the screen.

  “And this is it?” Denzel asked.

  “I’m pretty sure,” Kotler nodded, leaning in once again to study the keys.

  He picked up a pen from Denzel’s desk and used it to point to the screen. “You’ve noticed that each key has five characters. Alternating between A and B.”

  A second later a red dot appeared in the area Kotler was indicating, and he looked up to see that Denzel’s remote had a laser pointer, which the agent was using to wobbily highlight the A/B sequences.

  “Yeah, hard to miss,” Denzel said.

  Kotler shook his head, smiling lightly. “AAAAA is the letter A. BAABA is the letter S. And it continues like this, across the entire home row of the keyboard. ASDFGHJKL.”

  Denzel looked at the keyboard of his laptop and nodded. “So it’s a fancy typewriter.”

  “Except it connects to a series of rotors, which we have to assume will activate or deactivate something inside the door. The key to the lock,” Kotler said.

  “That tracks,” Denzel nodded. “We can’t risk tinkering with it too much until we know more. But my people have traced a line that goes into the wall and is picked up again in the door. Things are on pause while we figure this out. We don’t want to risk setting off something nasty.”

  “Smart,” Kotler nodded.

  “Do you know anything that could help us solve this?” Denzel asked.

  Kotler exhaled. “Maybe. I know the cipher, from a historical perspective at least. The key here is to find the password. Not so different from a modern-day system, really.”

  “Any clue what that could be?”

  Kotler paused, then shook his head. “Not yet. But I’m working on it. Whoever did this clearly meant for me to be involved. It’s … well, in a sense it’s personal.”

  “Your great-grandfather,” Denzel nodded.

  “Yeah,” Kotler said. “And his work, I’m guessing. I’ve been reading the manuscript you found. Daniel was brilliant. His theories were cutting edge for the time. Even for a couple of decades after. His application of Heisenberg’s principles is only now being implemented in digital security. There are quantum encryption methods in use today that could be considered the intellectual grandchildren of Daniel’s work if this paper had ever been published. There’s a firm in Silicon Valley that was on the verge of developing the ultimate quantum integrated encryption key until something happened with their CEO. I think she was accused of espionage.”

  “Can any of that help us get into that room?”

  Kotler had to admit he wasn’t sure. He stepped back, studying the image of the device in the wall, wondering what it meant. What any of it meant.

  The red dot reappeared, this time hovering over the digital clock in the upper corner of the screen.

  “Time is running out,” Denzel said.

  Kotler nodded. “I’ll double up, Roland. We’ll crack this.”

  Denzel said nothing.

  At six-foot-four and a muscular 270 pounds, Red Ryba was a noticeable figure, but he knew how to blend in. It helped that it was Fall in Manhattan, and temperatures were low enough that he could layer a long coat over his clothes and wear a scarf and hat. He looked like any other New Yorker, only taller and broader. If one looked closely, they might notice. But in Red’s experience, people rarely looked closely.

  Since he and his brother, Cameron, had abducted the two professors, they’d been watching the Yardley building, reporting back anything notable. The two of them took turns walking past the cosmetics store, strolling casually and never pausing or looking suspicious. Red listened to audiobooks as he walked, which helped him to stay casual and prevented anyone from trying to talk to him. And, he had to admit, he truly enjoyed the audiobooks.

  Red knew that there were FBI agents present, but unless he or Cameron called attention to themselves, they should be fine.

  Right now, the task was to observe. Red had made this clear to Cameron, who had the unfortunate tendency to want to take action, and quickly. But the client had given very clear orders. Observe. Do not interfere, unless they were asked. That was what they would do.

  Red’s phone vibrated. He paused the audiobook and checked.

  A text message. From the client.

  There’s another package. Details are in your inbox. The money has already been transferred.

  Red smiled. He’d never met the client in person, never even heard this person’s voice. But they were always considerate and always paid on time. They obeyed Red’s rules. They were the best kind of client, by Red’s estimate.

  He’d been doing this work for nearly a decade. His brother had joined him only five years earlier. It hadn’t taken long for word of the “Ryba brothers” to reach the criminal underworld, and they never had to spend time looking for clients.

  Though their services were not unique, they had a reputation for doing even the most distasteful tasks without question or hesitation, and at reasonable fees. They were fair. And honest—as far as people in their line of work could be honest.

  There were rules.

  Money was paid upfront. This was non-negotiable. To assuage any worries on the part of the client, the Rybas offered a 200% money-back guarantee—something Red had picked up from reading Tim Ferriss’s The 4-Hour Workweek. Red was obsessed with self-improvement and found that these popular books lent themselves very well to his less-than-legal career.

  The 200% offer was intriguing to clients, but in nearly ten years in the business, the Rybas had never had to pay it. They had a 100% success rate. It was part of their legend.

  A second rule: Their business was referral only.

  This cut down on the risk of und
ercover agents discovering or getting to them, and it also served as a simple way to vet new clients. The Rybas only took work once a former client had made introductions. And the former client, by making the referral, was also agreeing to certain penalties if their referral turned out to be less than desirable.

  Vouching for someone put the former client on the hook, so it was only fair that they receive a 10% commission. But if anything went wrong, the Rybas would hold the referrer responsible. This was also fair.

  The current client came to them from a woman the Rybas had worked for on many occasions. She had vouched for the new client and had even facilitated the initial payment. But shortly after the arrangement, she was either incarcerated or killed. Red wasn’t sure which, as details were sketchy.

  This made Red nervous, and he was just about to pay the new client the 200% refund when he received another deposit. The new client had doubled the fee, as compensation for the increased risk.

  Facing the prospect of a black mark on their reputation, it was much more attractive to keep the client, and the money, and finish the job. No sense ruining a perfect track record, just because someone died. And as a bonus, they could keep the 10% commission.

  Everyone was a winner. Except for the dead lady.

  Red found a place to sit and get a bite to eat while he read emails. He chose a Turkish place and was enjoying a nice shawarma and a thick, syrupy Turkish coffee while he examined the details of their next task.

  The woman, their new target, would be challenging to abduct.

  Physically she would be only a minor threat, but the problem was access. Her position and her work ethic put her out of reach much of the time.

  The client had included some surveillance details. The target was something of a workaholic, spending long hours in the office and returning home late in the evening. Even on weekends, she tended to spend her time working, though she’d lately become better at delegating.