Page 103 of A Bloom in Winter

“What does it say?” Tohr couldn’t even fathom how anyone could tell—

“It’s a name.” The kid came around and pointed with a long, thin finger. “You see all this? It’s just filler, it doesn’t mean anything. Here, in the center. You see how these sums add up along this same line? Every fifth numeral is the sum of what preceded it, and corresponds to the alphabet numbered sequentially.”

“Yeah, sure.” Um . . . not at all. “But I’m not certain I see anything.”

“It’s a very basic alphanumeric code.”

“Oh, okay.” Still nothing. Nope. “Can you translate the message for me?”

“A name.” Allhan glanced back at his adoptive dad. “One name.”

“Tell him, son,” V prompted.

“Whestmorel.”

Going still, Tohr stared at the pair. Looked down at the alphanumerical whatever. Looked up again. “You’re certain?”

Allhan nodded. “It’s obvious.”

As Tohr let his brain run, Vishous lit up a hand-rolled and nodded at his son. “You did a great job, I’m super proud of you.”

“I can go?”

“Yup.” As the kid headed for the door, V said, “I want you to go have something to eat. You skipped First Meal, ’kay?”

“Yes, sir.”

After the glass panel eased shut, V glanced over. “He needs to put on some weight. That change is coming like a freight train. Not that he has a big appetite to begin with—anyway, surprise surprise, our little friend with the fucking ascot and the shiny shoes.”

Tohr flipped back through the pages. “You’re analyzing all the tables, of course. Or having Allhan do it.”

“Yeah, but without any routing or account numbers? We’re not going to get far when it comes to whose money it is or what it’s being used for. All we can be sure of is that payments have been sent and received. And clearly the message that was intended to be conveyed to us is that Whestmorel is in charge.”

“Broadius’s gun collection.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

So the two events were connected, after all.

“He really is organizing, then,” Tohr murmured, “not that I’d doubted it after his performance tonight.”

There was a period of silence, broken only by the soft, hypnotic sounds of V smoking.

“You want to know what I think?” Easing back in the chair, Tohr stared out the glass wall at all the brains. “I think those sixteen entries are people giving money to buy arms because they’re getting ready to try a violent overthrow. Broadius was the middleman, and he made the deal, but maybe he pocketed some of the funds, or he got ahead of himself and tried to do a double cross.”

“I agree.”

“As for Whestmorel, I think the sonofabitch was posturing to Wrath. He knows we didn’t have shit to do with Broadius, and he’s closing his ranks. It was a flex, plain and simple, to comehere like that.” Tohr frowned. “The question is . . . how the hell can we prove it.”

Vishous tapped his hand-rolled over a glass ashtray. “We could always ride up to his house, throw a bag over his head, and work on him a little.” When Tohr shot a level stare across the desk, V shrugged. “That is an option.”

“But not the one we’re going to take.” Tohr looked at the pages and thought about the guy’s attitude. “More’s the pity, though. I do think a cordial visit to his abode . . . might not be out of place, however.”

V exhaled and popped his palm in the air, the stub of his hand-rolled letting out a little stream of smoke from its tip. “I volunteer.”

Tohr narrowed his stare. “No burlap bags. I find any burlap, anywhere, and you’re off the assignment. That also means no duct tape.”

“My way is faster.”

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