Chapter Seven
Seven
“There’s a little restaurant I know,” Dane says as we cross the expansive round Placa de Catalunya. Pigeons scatter in front of our feet, flying low across the red and black pavers. “It’s a bit of a walk, if you’re up for it.”
I can’t help but be intrigued by city secrets, and I kind of love that he knows some. “A walk sounds great.” So long as no one is chasing us, that is.
We head up Passeig de Gràcia, a wide, tree-lined street with brand-name shops flanking it. The shimmering blue facade of Casa Batlló, the famous Gaudí-designed fever dream of a house, is up ahead, but we turn and head south before I can properly ogle it.
“Your assistant, Araceli, texted me,” I say. “She seems nice.” I’m nervous. Making small talk was never my strong suit, much less with a handsome, unexpected man.
“Good, I asked her to reach out.” His tone is light, and I find that the end of the conversation is easy. Relaxed. He doesn’t seem to care about small talk either, and I like this about him.
After a lengthy walk along never-ending boulevards, Dane stops in front of a tiny café with a pretty red-and-white-striped awning and a flower box fat with red blooms. An iron table with two chairs out front completes the look.
I can see through the single window that it’s impossibly small, with only four tables inside, but the waiter is all smiles as he seats us next to the window.
There is no one else inside, because it’s still embarrassingly early.
Dane orders a bunch of different tapas for the table: hot patatas bravas smothered in sauce, chunky tomatoes in pan con tomate, and jamón ibérico with Manchego cheese.
He orders fish plates too: a basket of pescadito frito de la lonja, local market fish that turns out to be silvery mollareta, and calamari with ralladura de lima, or lime zest. It’s a feast.
“This is lovely,” I say once we have wine. I try to slow down on stuffing the cheese in my mouth, but God, it’s good. “Unf. This cheese.”
Dane grins, and it’s a little lopsided. “Are you one of those people who’s easily bought with cheese?”
“Yes? All good people are.”
Dane grins, and maybe it’s the wine, but I find I’m looking forward to more of those grins.
“Will you tell me what the priest said now?” I ask.
His eyes dart around the restaurant once, quick, as though checking for anyone listening.
“They’re going to start preparing the fountain tonight. It’ll be completely covered in flowers, and a hollowed-out egg will be placed over the fountain so it’s held up by the water. I think the second puzzle will be inside the egg. We’ll go in tomorrow and steal it.”
A chill goes down my back. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life.”
“Never? Not even shoplifted gum?” His deep blue eyes seem lighter in the waning light of the day, and I know he’s teasing me. The waiter comes and lights a candle at our table.
“Never,” I confirm. “My sister, Christine, however, was arrested for trying to steal a cuckoo clock off the wall at a Danish restaurant in our neighborhood.”
Dane laughs. “Don’t tell me it went off right as she was taking it.”
“Sure did.” Our mother was furious—she grounded Christine and took away her car keys.
Our dad, though, thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, and said the chaos of Christine trying to wrestle a loud, cuckooing clock off the wall and then having to suffer the humiliation of being caught was punishment enough.
“I was the bad kid in our family,” Dane says.
“My older brother, Max, was the Goody Two-shoes. I was getting into trouble from an early age, mostly with my computer. When I was seventeen, I hacked into our internet provider and set up free accounts for all my friends. It was a big deal, and they got the authorities involved. The FBI confiscated my laptop.”
My eyes widen. “What did your parents say?”
“They didn’t know, not until the FBI showed up.
Max was furious. He thought it was going to ruin his future prospects if he had a criminal for a brother.
” He rolls his eyes. “My parents didn’t really understand it, and I’m sorry to say that I got away with it by telling them I’d accidentally hacked in because the company’s security protocols were so lax.
” He finishes off one of the calamari. “Which they were.”
“Hmm,” I say. “That story tracks.”
“What do you mean?” Dane seems more relaxed. It’s probably the wine and the food, which is arriving in a relentless procession of small plates, making us continually move things around like table Tetris.
“Look at you,” I say. “You’re playing dicey games. Winning big prizes. Dealing with dangerous organizations.” I squint at him, making it playful. “You sure you’re not the villain in disguise?”
He lifts a single eyebrow. “You could have stayed in Madrid, sitting in long sessions all day and attending meetings with Eric.”
I laugh. “That meeting, God. No. I’m almost glad I’m trapped in this game to not have gone to that.
Eric’s always doing this, arranging lunches with people he thinks are important, but as far as I can tell, he’s not trying to get grants from them.
It’s performative. He always wants me to take notes at these things, like he’s so important that he needs an assistant. ”
Dane says nothing, and his silence feels like a comment.
“What?” I ask. “Do you know something about it?” Eric continuing to keep me in the dark was yet another contributing factor to our breakup this morning. Was that only this morning? It feels like a lifetime ago.
But Dane shakes his head. “No. Just thinking about what a tool Howland is.”
I’m relieved all over again that instead of taking notes for Eric, I’m sitting at this delightful restaurant stuffing my face full of tapas.
But as insufferable as Eric is, he was right about the Enigma Challenge being dangerous.
“How many players are there in this game? There were only five guidebooks for sale.”
The waiter sets down a plate of croquetas de tres quesos o de jamón ibérico de bellota, or piping-hot croquettes oozing three types of cheeses or acorn-fed Iberian ham, which Dane, translating from our waiter, says means that the pigs were fed only acorns, making for an exceptionally smooth and juicy ham.
My mouth is watering before he can finish speaking.
When the waiter goes, Dane says, “Anyone who wants to play can enter. Only one person can solve the puzzle that starts the game—which you did—and sometimes that gives that player the advantage, as you saw since it was a clue to the guidebook. Players can work on their own or team up with others, but only one person can punch in and win at the end. Teams tend to split profits. Lots of people enter, but after day one, there are significantly fewer players. Probably ninety percent are eliminated before the first puzzle.”
I scoff as I cut into the crust of the croquette. “But the puzzle was easy.”
“To you. The Enigma Challenge has never featured ciphers before, though. There are a few major teams that I know of: the 1982, whom you’ve unfortunately already met, another that’s based out of France, and one here in Spain.”
“And Professor Marini.” I wonder if he’s figured out the cathedral puzzle. My guess is yes, if he’s alive.
“Yes. But he seemed to be on his own.”
“And there’s only one winner.”
“Right.” Dane shrugs—which he can do, I guess, because he’s won the game.
Twice. “Whoever punches in with their PIN at the end is the official winner. That’s why there are teams—why solve the puzzles when you can pay others to do it for you and collect the win with none of the risk of deletion yourself?
And some, of course, try to knock competitors out. ”
A little shiver goes down my back. “How do these people find out about the game? I had a hard time finding reliable information.”
“I first learned about it when I heard someone mentioning it in line for coffee at the conference years ago. It exists mostly by rumor—my guess is ProtoDark likes the air of mystery because it contributes to the exclusive feel of the competition.”
“You said on the train that ProtoDark uses the Enigma Challenge as a way to recruit people. Does that mean you work for them, since you’re a two-time, all-star champ at this thing?”
He exhales a laugh that’s gone fast. “I do occasional work for them.”
“What kind of work?” I eye him over my wineglass.
“It’s not entirely good, but it’s not necessarily evil.
It’s more like gaining access to firewalls and secure systems. Some of the companies I hack into do bad things, like forcing smaller companies out of business, or dumping toxic waste on school grounds, or denying health care claims…
I try not to think about who’s paying me or who the target is.
That’s the only way I can do it.” He meets my eyes, and I understand that he’s looking to see if I’m judging him.
And am I? I’ve seen my share of theft, cheating, and scandal in the academic world. I don’t condone it, but I have understood the desperation that drives people to make those choices.
I worry that working for ProtoDark might plow over those boundaries.
“I get it,” I say.
He seems to relax at my words. He slides a plate of gambas al ajillo, which is garlic shrimp on little skewers, in front of us.
“You seem comfortable here,” I observe.
“At this café? It’s great.” He smiles as he reaches for the last piece of Manchego.
“Barcelona,” I correct. “Spain. All of this. Do you spend a lot of time here?”
“I do,” he admits. “Officially I’m based in Seattle, but I’m here most of the year. I have several Spanish and French clients, so it makes sense, and I have some good friends in Paris.”
“Who are you, Dane Seaver?” I ask.
He shakes his head, like there’s not much to know. “I spend most of my time working. I flit around European cities and not in the glamorous, yacht-sailing, Monte Carlo–gambling kind of way. More like the business-suite, making-sure-there’s-reliable-Wi-Fi way.”