The Last Run

E N M S A E K H

Caleb counted up the figures in the first part, fourteen numbers, apparently grouped in twos. "The second part is definitely substitution, but I think this first part is a book code."

"Could be he's waiting until you return." The ash on the end of Barnett's cigarette dropped onto the back of his hand, narrowly missing his mug of tea. He wiped his hand against his pants, leaning forward to examine the note again. "First time to see if the drop is real. Now that it's confirmed, they'll grab you on the next trip. PNG express, if you're lucky."

"God." Caleb felt suddenly ill.

"I think you're right, I think it's a book code. Caleb?"

"No one in the network uses a book code, sir."

"Thing is, if VEVAK does have Mini, then he certainly gave them the lexicon."

"So it's not VEVAK?"

Barnett straightened up, shrugged. "Guess we won't know that until we decode the bloody thing. By which, of course, I mean until you decode the bloody thing." He grinned.

"But I don't know the book." Caleb shook his head, unsure if his Number One was making a joke or not. "It could be any book. And the substitution code-I mean, there's no way to even begin to guess the key."

"Well, the book code at least, if it's a message for this Station, it's going to be found in one of those." Barnett used his cigarette to indicate the two bookcases, filled to bursting with all manner of reference, both technical and cultural. At least three different copies of the Koran, and that many again of the collected Omar Khayyam, anything that any previous resident to the Station had thought of merit, or, at the least, of use. "Can't be more than one hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred books there, tops. Crack part-the-first, maybe that gives you the key to part-the-second."

"You can't be serious," Caleb said, and immediately regretted it. One look told him that, for all Barnett's humor, there was nothing about the current situation he found funny.

"Look, Caleb, either this is Shirazi playing silly buggers with us, or it's someone else who's discovered that we use the footbridge in Park-e Shahr as a dead drop. In either case, the location is compromised."

Caleb got to his feet quickly, suddenly possessed of a different fear, one that had nothing to do with his own well-being. "I've got to set the warning flag for Mini. Jesus, if he hasn't been made and they're watching the drop, he'll walk right into them."

"No, sit. Drink your bloody tea."

"But Mini-"

"I'll do it. If Shirazi's crew has eyes on you, there's a chance I'll draw less attention. He's in Elahiyeh?"

"Yes, in the foothills."

"What's the flag?"

"There's a streetlight at the corner of Razm Ara and Estanbol, on the north side." Caleb searched his pockets, pulled out the piece of yellow chalk. "Two horizontal lines on the east side of the post."

"No school like the old school." Barnett took the chalk. "Right, I'll set the flag, you hit the books. I'd start with the ones in Farsi."

"That's what I was thinking."

"Good. Wish me luck."

"I should go," Caleb said uneasily. "Mini's my agent."

Barnett grinned, opening the door. "You're a good lad, Caleb." It was midafternoon before Barnett returned, saying the deed was done and that the rain had finally stopped, and that there'd been no sign of any VEVAK interest whatsoever. He noted the growing towers of books surrounding Caleb, fixed two more cups of tea, and turned his attention back to the reports he'd been preparing for delivery to D-Int earlier that morning. Each worked in silence.

As Barnett was preparing to leave for the day, Caleb found the book. A copy of Hakim Abu'l Qasim Ferdowsi's epic poem, Shahnameh. Even when he had it, he wasn't sure it was correct. The intervening hours had been filled with so many pieces of nonsense, of what appeared to be the correct match of page and word to meaning, only to fall apart at the last moment. An article where a noun was needed, or a number that went to a page or word that didn't exist. Twice already Caleb had managed to decode the whole message, only to realize the sentence was utter, utter nonsense.

Which was why, even after reading it through three times, he still wasn't certain he'd decoded it correctly.

"The grapes are in the water. Falcon."

Barnett, about to pull on his coat, stopped and stared at him. "What?"

"I'm not sure, sir. I think that's the message. 'The grapes are in the water. Falcon.' Sounds like a keyword code now, but it still doesn't match the lexicon. And we're not running anybody under the name Falcon, are we?"

"Not in this theatre. You're sure you've got it right?"

"No," Caleb said, with utter sincerity. "I'm not."

"Not really what I wanted to hear." Barnett had the communications cabinet open now, extended a long leg to hook a nearby chair, pulling it closer. He parked himself in front of the keyboard, began typing quickly. In addition to the signals deck, there was a headset, as well as a companion handset, for the secure audio link, but Caleb had yet to see them used. According to Barnett, he didn't want to see them used, either, because if one of them was on the headset here in Iran, the odds were it was Paul Crocker at the other end of it in London.

"Give it to me again," Barnett said. "And the substitution code at the end."

Caleb relayed the message once more, Barnett typing more slowly this time as he took it down. Task completed, Barnett turned the transmit key, then whacked the "send" button with his palm. The machine hummed for an instant, then went utterly silent. Barnett removed the key, scooted himself back in his chair, closed and locked the cabinet.

"London's problem now," he told Caleb Lewis.