The Stepping Maze Read online

  8

  THE YARDLEY OF LONDON BUILDING

  Kotler hadn’t yet seen the Black Chamber.

  Technically, he still hadn’t seen it, since it was currently locked behind a six-foot-thick steel door. But the space surrounding the vault was intriguing on its own.

  The room was on the basement level of the Yardley building, and accessing it had meant winding through some maintenance tunnels, dodging protrusions of pipes and conduits and valves, passing miles of electrical cable and plumbing. It was no wonder the room had stood here undisturbed for so long. Generations of maintenance workers had been the only people to come down here on a regular basis, and they were likely told to leave it be.

  It was a bustle down here now, though. There were engineers and agents hard at work on finding a way into the vault, and Kotler and Denzel were ushered in by two men guarding the door. The space was a sort of antechamber, Kotler observed. It looked a bit like the front room of a set of offices from a noir detective film. He could imagine a prim secretary seated at a large, oaken desk, answering phones and clattering away on an old typewriter.

  The room had sparse furnishings—a table and a couple of wooden chairs, a desk lamp, a painting of an airship docking at the top of the Empire State building. All of this had been shoved against one wall, the painting hanging above the antechamber’s debris like a yard sale sign.

  Kotler knew that the idea was to change scenery and thus change perspective, to get his mind off of solving the code that might save Liz’s life, and thus give him some chance of actually solving it. The ironic enigma of problem-solving.

  It was kind of Denzel to think of it. But from Kotler’s perspective, they were facing a nearly identical task here. Two men, both connected to Kotler, were locked in that vault, and could only be saved if someone figured out a century-old code to unlock six feet of steel.

  Same problem, different view.

  Kotler and Denzel were hanging back, letting the team do its work, and Kotler was feeling more useless by the minute. They were no less in the way here than they had been back in Ludlum’s lab, but twice as useless.

  But the new environment, the bustle of the agents and engineers, the visceral quality of the antechamber all managed to finally get Kotler thinking in new directions. And something occurred to him.

  “We’re approaching this in the wrong way,” he said, after a long moment.

  “How’s that?” Denzel asked.

  Kotler looked up at his partner. “We’re trying to solve all the puzzles, assuming that if we do, we’ll win this. But it isn’t about that. Or, it isn’t entirely about it. There’s someone out there, pulling the strings on this. They’re connected and powerful, we know that much. But what else do we know?”

  Denzel regarded Kotler for a moment. “We need to know their motive.”

  “Right,” Kotler said. “What’s driving them to do this? It’s pretty clear that they want me involved. So we can assume that whatever the motive, it involves me.”

  “Unless that’s a distraction, too,” Denzel said.

  Kotler blinked. “You’re right.” He thought. “What would someone gain by getting me involved?”

  “By giving you puzzles to solve,” Denzel added.

  Kotler nodded. “They clearly know me. Or know enough about me to realize I can be distracted by the codes and puzzles.”

  “They didn’t come to you first, though,” Denzel said.

  Something sparked in Kotler’s brain. “No, they didn’t. They came to you.”

  “So … what does that mean?” Denzel asked.

  “I’m not sure yet. It’s clear that this person is smart, that they calculated a lot of variables ahead of time. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think …”

  He hesitated, as if saying her name might invoke her, bringing her into the room in a swirl of brimstone.

  “Gail McCarthy,” Denzel supplied, quietly.

  Kotler nodded. “But she’s dead. We know that.”

  “Someone in her organization?”

  Kotler considered this. It was possible. Gail had been the protege of her grandfather’s business partner, Richard Van Burren. After his death, Gail had seized control of a vast smuggling empire, possibly the most advanced in history. Since her death the law enforcement agencies of the world had been slowly dismantling the organization, taking it down in several successful operations. But it was possible that someone out there, some protege of Gail’s, had eluded capture and was seeking revenge. It couldn’t be ruled out.

  But it didn’t feel right.

  “We don’t have enough information,” Kotler said, finally. “We can’t know what’s driving this person. Not yet.”

  “So we’re back to solving the puzzles,” Denzel muttered.

  Kotler knew what his partner was feeling. Frustration. Anger. Whoever was behind this was running them like rats in a maze, and they had no choice but to keep looking for the cheese.

  The activity in the room was fascinating to watch, and Kotler let his mind wander. He was intrigued by the approach that the engineers were taking with trying to bypass the security panel. He wandered over to get a closer look.

  He recognized the keyboard from the photos he’d studied, but it was something else to see it in the real world. He knelt in front of it, leaning in and looking closely.

  Each key had its set of five characters. An unusual sight, for sure. But the builder had kept the same QWERTY pattern as a standard typewriter. A touch typist could operate this without hesitation. That was probably for convenience.

  Or was it something more?

  What if the layout was kept to something familiar to compensate for some other variable?

  The code that would unlock this was something of a password, similar to a computer password. Modern security software could encrypt a computer password, replacing characters with hashes—basically masking the character as it was accepted, to avoid prying eyes.

  To anyone looking at this keyboard, the Baconian cipher would work as a hash, masking the actual characters. Unless someone was able to see and memorize the exact pattern of keystrokes, they’d have a tough time gleaning the passcode by observation.

  Still, even back in the ‘20s, the security-minded people working for the American Black Chamber would be conscious enough to want to change the password regularly.

  Having to remember a new password every month or every week would be challenging enough, even for trained cryptologists. But having to remember the pattern of a scrambled keyboard on top of that would add an unnecessary level of challenge. There was every indication that entering the wrong password might set off booby traps within the walls of the vault. A standardized keyboard would be a safety precaution.

  There was no reason to believe that the password used when this room was still in service was the same password in use now. In fact, they knew that whoever was behind all of this had access to the vault. They’d known the original password, and it was likely they would change it.

  All part of the game, Kotler thought.

  “Roland,” Kotler said over his shoulder. “What was the message you got? When you were told about the government-sealed room?”

  Denzel took out his notepad and read the message aloud.

  “To open the door, run the Stepping Maze. Your tools await in the room where it all started.”

  “So they knew that the manuscript was in there,” Kotler said. “And they knew that there was a reference to the Stepping Maze on its cover. The same mechanism used in this device. Was there any sign that they’d been in that office?”

  Denzel shook his head. “There were seals on the door that no one would be able to bypass without disturbing them. We went down that route, looking to find a way someone could have gotten in there, maybe planted that manuscript. But as far as we can tell it’s been sealed in there for decades.”

  “There must be photos of it,” Kotler muttered. “Documentation. Somehow they knew.” He thought for a moment. “The ciphe
r we found in the manuscript. It mentions the Black Chamber as a backup site. Whoever this is, they somehow found their way into the Black Chamber and discovered that manuscript exists.”

  Denzel frowned. “Seems likely,” he said. “So what does that mean?”

  “I’m still putting it together. But I think I know how to open this door.”

  Denzel stared at him for a moment. “What?”

  Kotler looked at one of the engineers, who was probing a set of wires with a meter, tracing it to see if it could be bypassed safely. “Is there any danger of setting something off, if I get the passcode wrong?”

  The engineer nodded. “Big danger, yes,” he said. “There are explosives in the load-bearing walls. This whole building could come down on us. There’s a trigger with three settings. Three tries. But someone set it to one.”

  “That’s our best guess, yeah,” the engineer said. “There are also seven step motors in this sequence. That means seven characters in the passcode. That’s a lot of variables.”

  “One,” Kotler repeated. “Meaning one try.”

  “One try, seven characters.” Kotler huffed and looked up at Denzel. “I have this,” he said.

  “Kotler …”

  “Roland, I have it. I know what the passcode is.”

  Denzel studied him, then turned to one of the agents. “Clear the building,” he said.

  9

  UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

  Ludlum had been awake up until she’d been shoved into a metal box.

  She’d fallen unconscious then and woke up to a shooting pain in her head and the feeling of something sticky between her cheek and the floor. Her hands and feet were bound, and she was gagged.

  She knew she had a head injury. She assessed it the best she could, laying in the dark and unable to reach up and probe the wound. She’d blacked out, and she had a splitting headache, which might mean a concussion. The box was pitch dark, however, and she couldn’t test her vision to see if it was blurry.

  She was moving.

  She felt the vibration of a vehicle rolling. The box she was in seemed relatively soundproof, and the best she could make out was the droning of an engine. She could feel and hear the shift in the transmission, the rumble of the vehicle as it carried her away from FBI headquarters.

  A truck, then. Something large, probably commercial.

  The information didn’t help much, but she was glad for it all the same. She kept a running tally of new data. It helped to assure her that she didn’t have brain damage, that despite the pain in her head she was fine. For now.

  This was bad. Going through all of it, running everything back and forth, examining the sequence of events, she came to the very solid conclusion that yes, this was bad.

  Someone had somehow managed to snag her right out of the FBI offices. Granted, they’d gotten to her in one of the less secure sections of the building. But how brazen and resourceful would someone have to be to get into FBI headquarters and grab an agent?

  This was a professional. There was nothing sloppy or ad hoc about the job, and that said a lot. Mostly it said she was in trouble, with very few options at the moment.

  She wriggled, trying to see if she could get some leverage. She managed to get onto her side and feel around to find the binding on her feet. It felt like insulated wire. She ran her fingers over it, finding a complicated knot that would have made any Scout leader proud.

  Her hands must be tied in a similar way, though she couldn’t find the knot with her fingers. It must be on the back of her wrists.

  She started working the knot at her feet, probing and pulling, tugging at anything that might give her a way to loosen it. She wasn’t having much luck.

  And then the truck stopped.

  She froze, waiting for the inevitable.

  After a long moment she heard metal on metal, like a door swinging open, and several minutes later the top of the box was lifted. She blinked into the light that poured in.

  The man—large, muscular, and still wearing the balaclava—casually reach into the box and picked her up, almost one-handed. He slung her over his shoulder and carried her out of the truck, down a slanted loading ramp.

  She made no move to struggle. She would have pretended to be unconscious if she hadn’t already blinked up at him from confinement. At this point, she couldn’t see any benefit to wriggling free. Her hands and feet were bound up tight, and the best she could achieve would be falling to the hard, cement floor, risking further injury.

  She had to let this play out.

  She focused on breathing. She had to get her heart rate and adrenaline under control. At the moment, she was furious to the point of chewing through the gag in her mouth, but that wouldn’t do her any good. She had to keep cool. She needed her mind clear so she could plan. Save the adrenaline in case she had to fight.

  It was just the indignity of all of this.

  This man had grabbed her, slammed her head against the frame of the door in the women’s changing room, and carried her out as if she were a sack of laundry. He was strong. He was calm. He was in control. And that really pissed her off.

  But she’d wait. She’d see what happened next, and she’d keep a clear head.

  They were parked in what looked like an abandoned construction site, under a metal cover rooted to a concrete pad. Gravel crunched under the man’s feet as he stepped off of the pad and carried her to a trailer, far back from where he’d parked.

  Here, amid the detritus and construction equipment of a build site, the trailer was practically invisible. The sounds of the area—boats in the nearby river, vehicles speeding by on an unseen street, construction equipment operating nearby, loud music, the sounds of city life—the white noise of it all would further camouflage this place. She couldn’t call for help with any hope of being heard, even if she managed to remove the gag.

  Inside the trailer, the man dropped her to the floor, leaving her in one corner as he stepped back out, shutting and locking the door behind him.

  That was it. No explanations. No provisions. Nothing to indicate that she would ever be released from this place. She was still bound and gagged and was now locked in a work trailer located God knew where.

  Ludlum was calm but still furious. She knew that the odds favored her dying here.

  She intended to beat those odds.

  10

  YARDLEY OF LONDON BUILDING

  Every soul had been evacuated from the Yardley of London building, as well as its neighboring buildings, and the streets had been cordoned off for three blocks in all directions.

  No pressure, Kotler thought as he stood in front of the antique keyboard.

  “Kotler,” Denzel said.

  “Roland, maybe you should leave? I mean, if I get this wrong …”

  “If you get this wrong this building comes down on both of us and the two men inside this vault. Believe me, it’s a better fate than having to stand in front of the Director and an IA team, explaining why I let you do this.”

  “Won’t you have to do that anyway?” Kotler grinned.

  Denzel shrugged. “I end up doing it about twice a month these days, and it always goes better when we have a check in the win column.”

  Kotler nodded. He knew, of course, that Denzel was sticking around out of solidarity and support. He knew, also, that this might backfire on them even if he was right about the passcode.

  Time was running out all around, though. The two men inside the vault had less than two days left. Liz had less than one. There were too many codes to break and too many mysteries to solve, and hesitation was a luxury they could no longer afford.

  It was time to stop playing it safe.

  Kotler puffed his cheeks and shook his hands like a safecracker. “Ok then,” he said. “Let’s get crackin’.”

  Denzel groaned. “Try not to enjoy this, Kotler.”

  Kotler chuckled and stepped up to the keyboard, placing his fingers on the home row, inhaling and exhaling once, twice, three time
s.

  He struck the first key—AABAB.

  He paused, cringing, waiting for the ceiling to cave in. When nothing happened, he struck the next five characters with paced, firm strikes.

  AAAAA-BAAAB-AAAAA-AAABB-AAAAA

  He stopped, looking up at Denzel. “This is it,” he said. “So far, so good. But this is the last character. If I’m right, we’re in. If not …”

  “It’s been good knowing you, Kotler,” Denzel said.

  “You too, Roland.”

  Kotler looked back to the keyboard, took a final breath, and struck the last key—BBAAA.

  Red leaned against the aging Chevy pickup, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. It was overcast, but occasional breaks in the clouds let rays of sunshine through. The air was crisp, but not overly cold. It was a good day.

  He watched through the chain link fence as a motorcycle slowed and turned into the lot, winding among shipping containers, disappearing briefly and then reappearing as its rider pulled to a stop, taking off the helmet that concealed his features.

  Cameron rolled his neck and shoulders and smiled at his brother.

  “Done?” Red asked.

  Cameron nodded. “I sold it to a Mexican operating out of Jersey. He’s taking it South. It’ll be in Oklahoma by morning.”

  “Good,” Red said. “And you cleaned it?”

  Cameron smiled. “I did everything you taught me, relax.”

  With the van disposed of there was little evidence that might lead the FBI to where Red had left the woman. The site itself was closed, a lack of funding keeping the project from going forward. Though the owner, one of Red’s clients, had his own reasons for keeping the site closed indefinitely.

  It would be a good spot to keep her, for now. Depending on how long the current client needed her out of play, plans could change rapidly. Red suspected that Dr. Ludlum might have peered through her last microscope, but he would wait until he was given further instructions.