“The question is, how did Kholkov find you?”
“We’ve been wondering that ourselves. Did you check our—”
“No credit checks on the account you used, and all our computers here are firewalled, so I doubt they got your itinerary that way. Same with your passport records; the government is tight with those.”
Remi said, “That leaves airlines or . . .”
“Some lead they have that we don’t,” Sam finished. “But that begs the question, why hadn’t they already raided the caves?”
“I’ll keep working on it,” Selma said, “but I don’t think it came from our end.”
“Until we know, we’ll assume the worst and keep looking over our shoulders,” Remi said.
“Good. So, about this submarine . . .”
“The UM-77,” Sam offered.
“Right. You want me to get it back here?”
“We’d better,” Remi replied, “or Sam is going to pout.”
“It’s a piece of history,” he grumbled.
They’d agreed that once this was all over they would tell both the German and the Bahamian governments about the sub pens and let the two sort it out among themselves.
“And if no one wants it?” Remi had asked.
“We’ll put it above our mantel.”
Remi had groaned. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
Now, on the phone, Selma said, “I’ll work it out. Might take a few days, but I’ll get it back here. So: Kholkov got the bottle.”
“Afraid so. Any news for us?”
“Yes, in fact, a few things I think you’ll find interesting. Care to guess what else, besides the spitting beetle, is found only in the Tuscan Archipelago?”
Remi answered first. “Our black rose.”
“Right again. We’ll have to fill in the timeline, but it seems likely the ink was applied to the labels during Napoleon’s stay on Elba.”
“Or afterward with ink from there,” Sam added. “Either way, it’s another piece in the puzzle.”
“Well, here’s another one,” Selma said. “Our bottle appears to be something of an onion wrapped in a riddle. The leather label is not one piece, but two layers pressed together. I managed to peel away the top layer without causing any damage.”
“And?”
“There’s no ink present, but more etchings—a grid of symbols, eight across and four down for a total of thirty-two.”
“What kind of symbols?”
“You name it. Everything from alchemy to Cyrillic to astrology and everything in between. My guess: They’re customized shape codes with no connection to their origin. Sam, you’re probably familiar with shape code.”
He was. During his training at the CIA’s Camp Perry, they’d spent three days on cryptographic history. “It’s essentially a substitution cipher,” he explained to Remi. He grabbed a pad and pen from the nightstand and quickly sketched three symbols:
Sam said, “Now suppose the first symbol represents the letter c; the second, a; the third, t.”
“Cat,” Remi said. “Seems pretty simplistic.”