Salem's Cipher (17 page)

47

Washington, DC

“
T
hank you for meeting with us, ma'am.”

“My pleasure.” Senator Hayes took the seat across from the two veterans and indicated they should also sit. Theodore, her Secret Service shadow, and her ever-present aide, Matthew Clemens, took the table behind them. She wondered what Theodore and Matthew talked about. Probably not the price of tea.

“We see your campaign is going well.” Former Staff Sergeant Samuel Wringson smiled. He was a veteran of the current war in Afghanistan, where he had lost both legs below the knees and his right arm to a roadside IED. His companion, former Lieutenant Louis Palakiko, had been stationed in Iraq during the most recent US invasion and was a well-known national speaker on PTSD. They were both active in Veterans for Peace and had managed to land on Senator Hayes's schedule in this campaign crunch time.

The press took the remaining tables in The Red Hen, whose rustic main room had been reserved for this brief meeting.

“I think so.” Senator Hayes thanked the waiter for her water. She took a sip, sighing inwardly as the press corps snapped photos. She seldom ate or drank in public since Matthew had shown her the photo of her taken a month ago from outside a restaurant, a magnified shot of her gaping mouth as she forked fish into it. The caption underneath read
Senator Hayes Hunts for Krill
.

“Screw them,” Matthew had said. “That line isn't even funny. They should have used
We're Gonna Need a Bigger Fork.
”

She didn't think either of them was funny, but she'd gotten used to attacks on her weight—she was a size 12, unforgivable for a woman in the public eye—and didn't want to fuel the fire. So she ate behind closed doors. Her company didn't need to, however.

“Are either of you hungry?”

“No, ma'am,” Wringson said. “We know you're busy. We wanted to speak with you about the Afghanistan mineral rights bill up for vote in the Senate. We were hoping we could persuade you to vote against it.”

The same bill Senator McCoy had mentioned yesterday. She had no intention of voting for it whether or not she'd met with these men. The bill was a pet project of Barnaby Industries, a multibillion dollar, multinational corporation based in Kansas City, Missouri, and owned by the Barnaby Brothers, who also sat on the board of the Hermitage Foundation. Barnaby Industries had many offshoots; one of its most profitable was mining. They were the only producers of the type of equipment needed to access Afghanistan's nearly $1 trillion mineral trove, which included copper, iron, and carbonatite deposits. Missouri-­based Barnaby Industries was also the lead contractor providing security to private enterprises in Afghanistan.

A Missouri Senator was conveniently the one who had proposed the bill, with the blessing of Afghanistan, as a way to pay off their mounting war debt. Barnaby Industries stood to make billions if it passed.

“You must know I've publicly spoken out against the bill.”

Lieutenant Palakiko leaned forward. He had the skin tone of a native Hawaiian and eyes that twinkled. “We do. We also know lobbying groups can be very persuasive. We can't match them in money or numbers, but thanks to this meeting, we can match them in access.”

He provided numbers on the proposed mineral rights bill, all of which she'd seen before—collateral and financial costs, timelines, alternatives.

“Thank you.” She took the file he offered her. She'd have Matthew add it to the ones she'd already acquired. “Is there anything else?”

The veterans exchanged glances. Senator Hayes estimated they were about the same age as her daughter, Catherine. She wondered if they had wives and children of their own.

“We want you to know that you're the first viable presidential candidate who's been willing to meet with us, ma'am,” Lieutenant Palakiko said. “We won't forget that.”

Senator Gina Hayes smiled warmly.

One of the press caught the expression perfectly.

The caption under it in tomorrow's
Times
would read
A Leader for the People.

48

Twenty Years Old

“
W
ho's familiar with Marie-Sophie Germain?”

It's October of Salem's first semester at the University of Minnesota. It's taken her two years after high school to work up the courage to attend college. The campus is picturesque, the mall full of street preachers and gyro vendors hoping to catch students between classes. Different languages mingle with the Minnesota accents, the fluid threading the nasal, and students argue Karl Marx and Britney Spears with equal fervor beneath century-old oaks that drop their leaves like blessings. The air smells of woodsmoke and possibility, and despite her agoraphobia, Salem feels a tremor of excitement when she is on campus.

She also harbors a deep crush on Dr. Ventura, her only unmarried male professor. Yet, she doesn't answer his question about Marie-Sophie Germain. It's not because of her embarrassing attraction to Dr. Ventura. She doesn't even keep her hand down because she'd rather set herself on fire than voluntarily speak up in class.

Rather, she has no idea who Marie-Sophie Germain is.

She isn't alone. Dr. Ventura scans his CS236 Cryptography class, one of the most popular on campus. There are over a hundred students registered and almost all attend regularly. Not one of them has raised their hand.

Dr. Ventura nods as if he'd expected this. “Sophie Germain was one of the greatest mathematicians who has ever lived.” As his students whisper their surprise, he advances the PowerPoint slide, introducing a sketched profile of a strong-nosed woman in her forties, hair tied in braided buns Princess Leia–style. Her name is written underneath the profile, and below that, the years 1776–1831.

“She was born in France at a time where women were not taught math unless they were aristocrats, and then only enough to make polite conversation. The single textbook they were allowed to read on the subject was Francesco Algarotti's
Sir Isaac Newton's Philosophy Explain'd for the Use of Ladies
. Because Algarotti believed women could only understand math and science if it was put in romantic terms, he presented Newton's theories as if they were a discussion between a man and the young woman he was courting.”

A student behind Salem snickers.

“So you'll be unsurprised to learn that in this climate and time, women were not allowed entrance to the institutes of math, which is why Germain had to impersonate a man to attend the École Polytechnique in Paris.” Dr. Ventura unconsciously runs his hands through his thick, graying hair in a move that he'd likely be embarrassed to find out was called “the Fabio” by giggling sorority pledges. “Despite this, Germain reached out to and was mentored by the leading mathematician of her time, Carl Friedrich Gauss
.
She also built the foundational insight upon which Fermat's Enigma was eventually solved and wrote a paper on the elasticity of metal that was so revolutionary that her findings are still being used today, over two hundred years later.”

He pauses.

If their silence is a marker, the class is suitably impressed. Salem is busy scribbling down notes. She'll need to email him for the PowerPoint after class to make sure she hasn't missed anything.

“Do you know why I'm telling you this?” He moves toward the front row to stand directly in front of Salem. Is he looking at her?

“Because it's important?” a student yells from the back row. Salem turns to look, flustered by Dr. Ventura's nearness. She recognizes the student from the football team.

“No,” he says, smiling, “but thank you for giving me hope for today's youth. I'm telling you this because in Sophie Germain's story is everything you need to know about cryptography.” He smacks his hands together, but he doesn't need to. He commands the attention of every mind in the room.

“When you are breaking a code, whether a cipher or the most intricate computer encryption, countless apparently insurmountable barriers will be thrown your way. The solution will seem impossible. You'll reach a point where you think it's more likely you could grow wings and fly than crack it. But if you persevere—and you must persevere—you will solve your puzzle.”

This time he definitely makes eye contact with Salem.

49

Massachusetts

B
el's yell from the front passenger seat was so loud, so startling, that Ernest swerved, pushing Mercy into Salem. The girl was sleeping deeply enough that the sudden shifting didn't wake her. Salem lifted her gently and laid her against the door again, tucking Ernest's jacket under her for a pillow.

“What is it, Bel?”

Bel turned, tears coursing down her face. She held her phone toward Salem. “It's a text.” Her voice was hoarse. “From Mom.”

Fear slammed into Salem's throat as strong as a fist. She blinked the sandy sleep out of her eyes, focusing on the phone. The message was short.

If you found it in Salem, keep going, no matter what.

Salem's heart plummeted. Someone was toying with them in the most horrible way. She couldn't share her fears with Bel, not now that she'd hidden the text she'd gotten from her own mom.

If her mom even sent it.

“Oh honey, I'm so sorry,” Bel said, misreading Salem's expression. She unbuckled and crawled over the backseat to hold Salem.

Salem couldn't speak. Bel thought the text meant Vida was dead. And she very well could be. The only thing Salem knew for sure was that she had lied to her best friend, the one person who'd always been straight up with her, always stood by her side, and that she'd let the lie grow too old to tell Bel the truth now. She felt the cold, private fingers of a panic attack curling around her neck, preparing to pull her under.

Ernest was watching them in the mirror. “You both need to toss your phones.” The reflection of his eyes, which is all that Salem could see, was dead serious.

“What?” Bel asked.

“Think about it.” His tone was apologetic but firm. “You're a woman who's been kidnapped, and you get your hands on a phone. What's the first thing you do?”

“Call the police,” Bel said. A whole scene played out over her face, realization followed by a surge of denial. “But then you text your daughter,” she said defensively, “who you know is worried about you.”

Nobody spoke. They didn't need to because Bel worked it through.

“And you tell her where you are, what happened to you, who did it, and why because you know she's a police officer and will need these details.” Her words were cold and empty.

“You have to get rid of your phones,” Ernest repeated. “Both of you. They can be traced. I shouldn't have let you keep them this long. Same with any credit cards. They have to go, as soon as you draw as much cash as you can off of them.” His eyes flashed to his left mirror, and then back up again. “I should get us a new car too. If we're going to survive, we have to go totally off the grid.”

Bel's face was cloudy, but she didn't argue.

Neither did Salem.

They had an hour and a half of road left between them and Amherst.

The driver of the car that had been following them since the motel kept a healthy cushion between his car and their Buick.

50

Massachusetts

J
ason didn't normally listen to classical music, but the thunder and roar of Stravinsky's “Rite of Spring” captured his mood when he was scanning through stations. The Hermitage Foundation had Clancy Johnson in their pocket, so Jason wasn't worried about the FBI following the women. The man with Isabel and Salem Wiley was huge, but too young to wield his body, and so he represented an annoyance rather than a barrier. Jason only needed them to stop in a relatively non-public place long enough for him to pounce.

With six days until the Crucible's assassination, he should be worried, but rather, he found himself growing excited at the thought of watching her die at his feet.

In fact, he was feeling powerful. He wondered what his mother would think of him if she could see him now. Vera had sold whatever she could to get by, including her son's body. Maybe that's how she'd been raised, but it didn't matter. Jason had never known a moment of safety in his life. The beatings, the starving, the rapes all congealed into a writhing snake ball of memories, one horror barely discernible from another. Only one recollection claimed its own stage, and he'd never understood why:

He'd been maybe ten years old but half the size he should have been. He was malnourished, under the radar of the New Orleans school system, living the life of a dog on the edge of the Upper Ninth. His mom had sent him out to make money for food. He scored twenty bucks much sooner than usual and returned home. He'd found his
mother with her boyfriend, a man from the Garden District who
drove a Camaro and had hairy knuckles. The man owned a famous restaurant, renowned for being at the front of trendy food fads.

Jason knew because the man had bragged to him before taking Vera into the bedroom.

This day, when Jason returned early, his mother and the man had been eating sushi.

Jason didn't have a name for it then, but he smelled it and his eyes feasted on it, the perfect circles of fish, slivers of fresh vegetables tucked next to them, sticky rice, all laid out like a quilt, like jewels, like the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. His mouth had filled with saliva.

His mother slapped his hand and laughed when he reached for it. “You're not man enough to eat something raw.”

She'd exchanged a raunchy laugh with the hairy-fingered restaurant owner. Jason's cheeks had burned. Underneath her derision, Jason recognized his mother's glazed expression. She didn't enjoy fish, never had (“swamp food,” she called it), but she would swallow the sushi, pretend like it was the most amazing delicacy she'd ever eaten, because she wanted to pass for cultured. She got the same look when her boyfriends brought her thick liqueurs and gooey candies from other countries.

After they left, she'd always say the same thing. “Those fancy fuckers think they know best. Give me a cold Abita and a bag of cracklin any day.”

Jason understood that his mom was as attractive to other men as she was stupid.

He hadn't gotten to taste the sushi, not that day.

You're not man enough to eat something raw.

Jason smiled at the woman squeezed in the passenger-side footwell, the same easy grin he'd used to lure her into the car. Duct tape covered her mouth, bound her ankles and wrists, and crisscrossed her waist like a silver spider's web to keep her in her place.

He'd procured her at the truck stop where Isabel and her friends had stopped to use the facilities a half an hour back. He'd have harvested them there, but there were too many people around. The captive taped inside his car was a holdover or a warm-up, depending on how you looked at it.

His eyelid twitched. Taking the finger outside Grace Odegaard's apartment had been brazen, reckless. That's why he hadn't gone through with it. This woman, however, wouldn't be missed. She was a lot lizard, a woman who rode from one stop to another to make her money from the long-haul truckers.

“How are you, baby?” she'd asked, bored or tired by the sound of it. She smelled like cigarettes and cheap floral perfume. Once she slid into his car, though, she pushed her shoulders together, smiled suggestively, putting a little back into it. Jason thought that was nice, considering he was a sure dollar and she could have just gotten it done and over with.

One of her canines was twisted. Beyond that flaw, her teeth were shockingly white, straight. He'd slapped duct tape over her mouth before she could change expression. Her hands reflexively flew to cover her genitals, likely a leftover habit from her childhood.

She needn't have bothered.

That wasn't the part he was interested in. At least, not like she thought.

This time, he was going to go through with it.

He was going to eat something raw.

He smiled and cranked “Rite of Spring” as loud as it would go.