Page 11 of The Number of Love
Margot chuckled and accepted the pen back from him. “Perfect, DID.”
He patted her shoulder again and then turned away. “Just leave the encrypted telegram with the decrypt of the other on my desk, if you would. Thank you, Margot.”
“Of course.” She picked up her pen again and went back to the original U-boat message. It only took her a few minutes to work through the rest of it, given that she’d almost been finished already. There. She set the completed decrypt into the basket for a secretary to type up and deliver to Commander James. And then she turned to the work from Hall.
First, the fun bit. She rarely had the opportunity to encode anything, so she took the five minutes necessary to fetch the British minelaying codebook from downstairs, then pulled out Hall’s personal code from her own desk drawer and got down to the pleasurable task of encrypting. Given the brevity of the messages, it didn’t take long.
But it made the numbers hum in her mind. It made her shoulder warm where Hall had patted it—where Papa always had too, when she’d managed a task he’d thought would challenge her. Where sometimes she imagined God resting His hand.
She turned then to the message from Thoroton. With Hall’s codebook still before her, she got down to work on the considerably longer message from their head of intelligence in the Med.
Briefing from Spain. Twenty-two agents currentlyin the field. From Madrid...
Hall often asked her to work out the messages sent to him. Just a month ago she had decoded a briefing from Thoroton in Gibraltar, but this was the first she’d done from Spain. Perhaps she would have ciphered it with less interest had she not a new friend who was half Spanish. But with Dot in mind, she tackled each line rather eagerly. She knew Spain was officially neutral, but she also knew both England and Germany had been working behind the scenes ever since the war began to win favor with the Spaniards—both the officials and those in positions that could prove useful.
From Corunna...
Her pen kept working as the numbers flipped along inside hermind. With the codebook before her, it was a simple task. Easy enough that her mind wandered as she wrote, and she remembered one of Hall’s early bids for Spain’s favor. He’d sent an agent into Spain on a private yacht to wine and dine whatever harbor officials he could find. The Germans had done the same at nearly the same time ... buttheyhad only brought beer. Hall’s agent had requisitioned the best champagne to be found, and the officials had been friends ever since.
Not that Hall’s superiors approved of the use of navy funds for champagne and private yachts, but they in Room 40 had thought it hilarious and had cheered on their intrepid leader.
From Bilbao...
Margot’s pen stilled. Not because the name was familiar, thanks to the stories Dot had been telling her of her family that resided there, but because of the sudden silence of the numbers in her mind.
And then there was a quick succession of them that had nothing to do with the code before her. The Lord, all but shouting at her.Pay attention!
Her breath knotted up in her throat. There had been plenty of times over the years when those numbers instructed her to pray for someone. But never while at work, when she was decoding something.
Interesting.
Agent Eighteen has been searching diligently for any stores of wolfram within the city. If we canfind them here, we can track anyone else showing interest in it. Thus far nothing, but he has a leadhe intends to pursue on Tuesday. Will update on outcome.
Tuesday—today. Margot’s pen stilled. Was this what God wanted her to pray about?Twelve, one hundred forty-four, one thousand seven hundred twenty-eight, twenty thousand seven hundred thirty-six...
She would take that as a yes.Eternal Father, whatever this Agent Eighteen is doing now, I ask that you protect him. Make a way for him, clear the path, ensure his safety. Eleven, twenty-two, thirty-three, forty-four...
Not until the numbers tapered off did she breathe out again. Pick up her pen again. And focus again on the telegram.
From Cartagena...
Drake kept his gait smooth and casual as he walked along the street, even whistling a popular tune that anyone listening would recognize and dismiss. Just a normal Spanish man, out for a stroll before he retired to his home for an afternoon out of the heat.
The glance he sent upward took in the tall, narrow windows in the building. A warehouse, without question. But was itthewarehouse? The one he’d been searching for this past fortnight? He couldn’t be sure until he looked inside.
That, though, was proving a challenge. The windows were too high up for him to see into from the street and too dusty to give him a clear view from the building across the way—he’d tried that yesterday.
He was running out of time. If he loitered around this neighborhood much longer, people would begin to notice him and wonder who he was, why he’d suddenly appeared. They’d start asking questions.
No one knew better than he that questions could lead to answers—and he didn’t much fancy anyone finding answers abouthim.
He had to get inside. There was no other option.
At the corner, he paused. A lorry was rattling by, giving him a good excuse not to cross the road. He leaned against the building instead. Into his pocket he reached for a slender cigar, a cutter, and a match. He didn’t much care for them, to be perfectly honest, but they did provide handy cover when he wanted to stand in one place for minutes on end and not look suspicious while doing it. He sliced off the end of the cigar, slid the cutter back into his pocket, and struck the match.
How could he verify the contents of the warehouse? He’d asked that question days ago and had made a list of the possibilities. He could look through the windows—failed. He could engage and weasel information out of a worker—attempted but not successful. Hecould try that tactic again. Go back to that dingy little bar and buy another glass of wine for the sweaty bloke he’d tried to strike up a conversation with last night. But the chap was more interested in his sangria than in talking and had only grunted his replies.
He could get inside. The trickiest but surest option. Drake drew on the cigar to get it to light, careful to keep his distaste from showing on his face. Abuelo loved these things, but for the life of him, Drake couldn’t determine why.
