Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Jack
Long after Ruby had fallen into a deep sleep, Jack slipped into the hallway.
Despite his exhaustion, despite everything, sleep hadn’t come for him.
Only more worry.
Becoming physically intimate with Ruby had been sexually satisfying—but something in her words had worried him too.
What if he did hurt her? With everything between them—the way their relationship had started, the promise of money and a payday—how could they ever overcome those things and move forward?
He wanted to forget his worries.
He’d even considered the opposite solution—nudging her awake—losing himself in her arms once again.
But rather than wake Ruby and depriving them both of needed rest, he started down the hall, heading for the stairwell. If he wasn’t going to sleep, he should go to Kit’s room and look around.
He found the room he’d seen listed in the registry as Gretchen Herbert’s and paused beside it. The hallways were fairly empty—not as ideal a time to break in as later in the night would be.
He’d have to work fast.
Removing a small tool kit from his breast pocket, he sidled up to the door frame. From the case he pulled free a small pick which he slipped into the lock. Kit had taught him how to pick a lock when he was still a teenager.
Funny how things came full circle sometimes.
The pin slid into place with a satisfying click, and he was in.
Jack slipped into the dark room, then stealthily shut the door behind him.
He squinted in the dark, feeling the wall for a light switch.
When he failed to find one, he crossed the space, his feet bumping against objects on the floor, arms in front of him, toward the sliver of light peeking out from the curtains.
Then he paused.
Maybe turning a light on wasn’t such a good idea after all.
He had no idea who’d been looking for Kit or what trouble she’d run into, but he couldn’t eliminate the possibility that someone had been watching her.
And if they’d been watching her, they might be watching the room.
Especially after he and Ruby had been asking questions about Gretchen Herbert that day.
He took out a flashlight. The moment the light spilled from it, his heart stuttered.
The light revealed a room in disarray.
Either Kit had left here in a hurry—or someone else had been here.
Papers were scattered over the floor, books spilled from stacks on the desk and bed tables. So many books.
So like Kit.
No matter where she went or lived, she seemed to surround herself with books. Like Noah, in some ways. The two most bookish people he’d ever met—and somehow the two most lethal as well. Maybe all that knowledge made for dangerous individuals.
He couldn’t begin to know where to look or what to look for. If someone had beaten him here, they might have already found whatever was useful. How long had it been since she’d been here? Was there really even a way to tell?
The desk was the most obvious place to look, but Kit wasn’t an obvious sort of person. Like him, she loved codes and puzzles. Kept her own journal and notes in code, in fact.
Maybe a journal would be a good place to start, but he doubted she would have left without it.
Setting a hand on the bed, he knelt beside the spilled books on the rug.
A quick perusal of them revealed titles on the spines—not one journal—but that didn’t mean the books couldn’t be useful either.
Yet if Kit had purposely left a trail, she wouldn’t have used something as long and complicated as a book for him to find.
Her messages would have been short, most likely in code.
He searched under the mattress and pillows, then under the bed itself, looking for a loose floorboard or anything that might be easy to conceal something in like a journal or even a document.
When he found nothing, he moved to the desk.
Papers were scattered on the chair beside it, and he rifled through them. Most of them were typewritten, a newspaper column, but a few words and letters had been crossed out by hand.
His chest squeezed as he saw the writing—an elegant script that he recognized in an instant.
Kit’s.
If he’d ever doubted Gretchen Herbert was Kit, here was the confirmation to the contrary.
The papers crumpled in his fist.
What were you thinking, Kit?
Had she faked her own death or just somehow survived?
Was it possible that she thought maybe he’d given up on her?
And why—after all this time—had she reached out through space and time to communicate with him? What was the difference now?
Alice.
He had his answer before he could even dwell on the question too long. The difference must have been Alice. Kit knew how much he’d loved Alice. How he would have given anything to save her from Blackwell.
If something had happened to Alice and he would have wanted to know about it or could help her, that might have been enough for Kit to reach out.
Releasing a breath, Jack uncurled his fist, then smoothed out the wrinkled paper on the desktop. He shone the flashlight at it to get a better view, reading the column—an article about the new Turkish government’s plan to resettle the people they called the Mountain Turks—the Kurds.
The topic didn’t surprise Jack—Kit had always rooted for the underdogs and the oppressed—but the writing did.
Something was odd about the words she’d crossed out.
His brows furrowed, and he peered more closely at it.
If he didn’t know any better, she was writing a code into the article.
The realization hit him like a hammer to the face and he nearly dropped the paper, his heart racing.
A code into the article.
Of course.
The absurdity of it—the brilliance—stole his breath away.
Had he not been in Kharga, cut off from the world, he would have been reading the newspaper.
He would have seen her name in the column, sooner or later—as he had done.
And he would have done exactly what he did …
gone to the library and found every archived article he could …
looked for something to hold on to in those words.
He would have found the code eventually—he was certain of it.
Goddamned Theo.
He almost threw the papers as fury tore through him.
If Kit had sent him a coded message in the newspaper articles, Theo had just set back his ability to find the message by days, if not more.
He’d have to go back to a major city to find an archive of recent newspaper articles written by Gretchen Herbert—and who knew what he’d manage to find, if anything.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
Grinding his teeth, Jack set the paper down, then sank into the desk chair and aimed the flashlight at the workspace. He’d start with this article. This last one.
It doesn’t look like she even had a chance to publish it.
He pulled a notepad and pencil from his pocket, then tapped the pencil point on the paper.
A code in a newspaper article would require care and stealth if both parties hadn’t already agreed upon a key.
Something recognizable to codebreakers like himself—but that would go unnoticed by the average individual, or even someone skilled but not readily looking for a code—he’d missed it when he’d read through her articles before, after all.
But thanks to the help of the notes she’d made on her unfinished article, within a few minutes, he’d found the pattern and started scribbling letters on his notepad.
T-Y-P-E-W-R-I …
… and that’s it.
The code finished there.
Typewritten?
Doubtful.
Typewriter, though …
Jack jerked his chin up, his gaze falling on the typewriter pushed further back on the desk. Was it possible Kit had hidden something there?
He rose slowly, every movement deliberate, as if a wrong step might shatter the thought. The desk creaked beneath his hands as he reached across it and dragged the typewriter closer.
An Underwood. Heavy. Sturdy as hell. Just the sort of tool Kit liked.
The room was silent, save for the distant hum of Baghdad night traffic. Somehow that only made his heart pound harder.
His fingers hovered for a moment before he flipped open the ribbon cover.
The spools looked ordinary. No scratches. No forced edges. He probed beneath them anyway, lifting one clear of the post, checking underneath with a fingertip, then the other. Dust. Ink stains. Nothing else.
He swore softly under his breath and grabbed the flashlight from where he’d set it down. The beam swept the desk in a narrow arc, casting the shadows long across the walls. He crouched in front of the typewriter, aiming the light beneath the carriage, angling it low.
The machine was too heavy to lift and search with the same hand, and he was forced to set the flashlight down again, aiming the light toward it as he lifted it. A damned light would be helpful. His other hand trailed over the machine’s underside, tracing the smooth edges of the base.
Still nothing.
Then his finger caught on something—a lip of metal recessed beneath the keyboard.
Jack set the flashlight between his teeth and leaned in. The baseplate wasn’t flush. He pressed gently at the edge and felt it shift. A hidden latch, maybe—no, just an old screw that had loosened over time. He worked it back with care until the panel gave, just enough to slide aside.
The beam of the flashlight caught it: a slim cylinder wedged into the frame, nearly invisible behind the tangle of connecting rods.
His pulse ticked faster.
He reached in, carefully freeing the object from its makeshift bracket. It was no longer than his pinky, sealed tight. His thumb brushed over a faint grease pencil mark scrawled across the casing: AD
Alice Darby.
He stood slowly, staring down at the thing in his hand. Microfilm—had to be. A courier’s tool. A spy’s burden.
And Kit had left it here. Left it for someone to find.
For him?
Suddenly the code made sense. The message might not have needed to be read in full—just enough to bring him here. To get him to look. She’d known he’d see it. She’d counted on it.
Jack turned the cylinder in his fingers, heart thudding harder than he wanted to admit. Whatever she’d uncovered—whatever she was risking—this was only the beginning.
And now it was in his hands.
He drew a deep breath, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears that it blocked the sound of anything else.
That’s when he heard it.
The creak of a floorboard. Behind him.
He whirled to face whoever was there, but they were faster.
A jolt of pain crashed against Jack’s skull, sharp and powerful.
He crumpled to the floor, the world going black around him.