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"For starters," said Pryce, "the obvious. Everything's written in random codes, which means there's no basic code whatsoever. No consistency, no meaning to anyone but him, each different, or mostly so, and each probably decipherable in a different way."
"I'm certainly no expert," said Leslie, "but have you tried all the usual decoding methods?"
"To the point of driving our inanimate computers up the walls," replied Geoffrey, heading back to the round oak table and sitting down.
"Numbers in arithmetic and geometric sequence; lexical and alphabetical overlaps, synonyms and antonyms, both in plain English and street idiom, as well as the more vulgar applications-Henshaw didn't speak a foreign language."
"How do you know?" asked Cameron.
"The children. It was one of the few times they displayed a touch of humor during our extensive questioning. Like many wealthy youngsters in sophisticated families, they've traveled widely and speak a passable French. So when they wanted to exchange confidences in front of Henshaw, they did so in French. It usually made him furious, which they obviously enjoyed."
"Some of this nonsense is so simplistic it's ridiculous," Pryce noted, holding up the scrap of paper in his hand.
"Look here," he added, placing the torn scrap faceup on the table.
"MAST/V/APR/
TL/BF. All in capital letters."
"I don't understand," said Montrose.
"A simple unscrambling of the abbreviated anagram makes it fairly clear. Amsterdam via Paris telephone in billfold. That's supported by the way all these pieces of paper are double- and triple-creased, folded methodically to fit in small places."
"Isn't that a bit of a leap?" asked Leslie.
"We don't think so, my dear," answered Waters.
"We came up with the same thing on that one.. .. How about this little darling?" The MI-5 veteran picked up another note from the pile on the table.
"I'll read it; nothing's in caps, incidentally, all small letters: ng-dash-st dash-oz, period. It doesn't make a bit of sense. On the other hand, here's one that does: cy-dash-bk-dash-nu-dash-bf again, period."
"A bank account," said Cameron, "probably in the Cayman Islands, the number, like the telephone number to reach Amsterdam, also shoved into a billfold."
"Quite, old man, that's what we believe."
"He might as well have written it out, it's so clear."
"That's just it," exclaimed the frustrated Waters.
"He jumps from the simplistically ridiculous to the unfathomably sublime. I swear, if the chaps who created Enigma had ciphered this way, our boys at Chequers would still be working on it!"
"Didn't Cam say it was a code he devised only for himself?" said Montrose.
"Indeed, yes," agreed the Englishman.
"It's why it's unfathomable.
It's only in his head."
"Beware the amateurs," said Pryce.
"They'll screw you up every time.. .. There's still no clue as to his whereabouts?"
"None at all. It's as though he's vanished from the face of the earth."
"That's a frightening thought." Cameron got out of his chair, stretched, and walked to a window, separating a blind to peer outside.
"And one that's not particularly surprising."
"How so?" asked Leslie.
"No corpse, Colonel. Scofield told me that whenever the Matarese killed without hiring killers, its law was to leave no corpse."
"Are you saying that Henshaw was part of the Matarese?"
"A minor part, Geof. From everything we know, he was too stupid to be more than that. But his killer-if he was killed-wasn't. Whoever it was is very major; "Make sure it's done, you're accountable, and there can be no traces." That's the way I read it."
"It makes sense," said Waters.
"Where do you suggest we go next?"
"I assume you've covered relatives, friends, neighbors, solicitors, banks, doctors-the whole bag?"
"Most definitely. Lady Alicia and her first husband, Daniel, were paragons of civility, using their wealth and prominence for the benefit of worthy causes. They were, from all reports, a very congenial and generous couple."
"And after her husband's death?" said Montrose.
"When Henshaw came on the scene?"
"Quite a different story. At first he was accepted, then progressively he began to lose that acceptance. There were rumors of infidelity and excessive alcohol. Along with the gossip, there were more tangible reports of automobile accidents while under the influence. The bills are quite substantial, as are the verified complaints of numerous pubs and clubs that refused him entrance. Finally and most dastardly, the accounting firm that handles Lady Alicia's Wildlife Association volunteered that Henshaw was suspected of squirreling funds from it.
They'll go no further for fear of drying up other sources of revenue, but I'll bet it was true and involved a hell of a lot of money."
"The bank in the Cayman Islands," said Pryce.
"That would be my guess, chap."
"It's more than a guess, Geof. But even if we had the account number, it'd be tough to invade."
"We have our ways, old man. However, we may not need them. Just before she died, Lady Alicia made out a check for two-million-plus pounds to Wildlife. Her children made some mention of it, but did not elaborate. Again, protecting her charity."
"You asked where we should go next, Geoffrey," said Leslie.
"I
think you just answered that. The children. May we see them?"
"Of course. They're in town rattling around in that old place on Belgrave Square. But I should warn you, they're still terribly upset;
they were very close to their mum, and the boy's a veritable tiger.
They're besieged by vultures of all stripes-relatives they barely know, solicitors making outrageous claims against Henshaw, streams of reporters from the tuppenny cheap sheets-tabloids, you call them those horrible papers and magazines obsessed with female mammaries, you know the sort of scum."
"Why is the boy a tiger?" asked Leslie.
"He's only, what is it, seventeen, isn't he?"
"Looks more like twenty, with a physique that could match a very tough rugby player's. He's extremely protective of his younger sister, and without assistance bodily ejected three-not one or two, but three-slime-type journalists who were questioning her. Our boys were impressed; apparently he wrapped all three together, then booted them out one by one. Two suffered broken arms and the third-how should I put it?-had a groin problem."
"We'll be very gentle," said Cameron, "and I'll wear a steel jockstrap."
"Other than that, he's quite pleasant, if a touch intense. Actually, they're both rather nice, just upset."
"He sounds like a time bomb, Geof."
"Hardly, chap. He's a wrestler, that's all. Gathered a few medals in the Midlands, I'm told."
"I like him already," said Leslie.
"My son's a wrestler. He's only fifteen but he's won the Junior Interscholastics two years in a row-" "I chase butterflies," interrupted Pryce.
"The nets are heavy but I manage.. .. When can we see them, Geof?"
"Tomorrow. Name the time, they're expecting you."
Roger and Angela Brewster rose as one from their armchairs in the downstairs drawing room in the mansion on Belgrave Square. The morning sun streamed through the large bay windows, highlighting the antique furniture and fine paintings on the walls. The grandeur of the room did not diminish its aura of comfort; instead, it seemed to cry out, Relax, chill out, this is a friendly place-a chair is still a chair, a sofa just a sofa.
Geoffrey Waters preceded Leslie and Cameron through the open double doors of the room. His appearance had an immediate effect on the two adolescents.
"Sir Geoffrey!" said the girl enthusiastically as she approached him.
"Morning, Sir Geoffrey," added the boy beside his sister, his hand extended.
"Now, now, haven't I taught you anything? .. . No, Roger, I will not shake your hand unt
il you change your salutation!"
"Sorry, Geoffrey," said the Brewster wrestler, shaking hands.
"And you, child?" Waters looked at the girl.
"Also a peck on the cheek, if you'd be so kind."
"All right .. . Geoffrey." She kissed Waters, speaking to the two strangers.
"Isn't he a charmer?"
"One can't help getting older, my dear, but one doesn't have to be old. May I introduce my two new associates? Lieutenant Colonel Mon trose, United States Army, and Special Agent Pryce of the Central Intelligence Agency."
They shook hands, briefly, haltingly.
"I don't get it," said Roger Brewster.
"What does our mother's death, her murder, have to do with the United States Army?"
"Specifically, it doesn't," replied Leslie.
"But I'm going to be up front with you two even if my superiors bust me to private or throw me out of the Army. The people responsible for your mother's death have kidnapped my son. They claim they'll kill him if I don't do as they say."
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Angela Brewster.
"That's horrible!" echoed her brother.
"How do they contact you?"
"They haven't for nearly three weeks now. I was given instructions through a third party, which I ostensibly carried out in our last post. In essence, they were testing me: Where were we? What was the security?
The firepower? .. . That sort of thing. Since we learned there was a mole, or moles, in the CIA, the information I delivered was accurate but superfluous."
"When do you expect to hear from them again?" asked the Brewster daughter.
