Chapter Thirteen
The light that filtered through the white curtains covering the bedroom window slowly brought Quinn to wakefulness. She reached out a hand and searched the quilt for the warm ball of fur always curled up next to her.
When she didn’t feel Rasputin, she opened her eyes and took in the wooden walls of the cabin bedroom. She was in a safe house with James Anderson, CIA covert operative. It was all completely ludicrous.
The calm she’d felt when she fell asleep had abandoned her. Her emotions rose to the surface. Would she burst out in maniacal laughter or uncontrolled sobbing? Both at the same time seemed like a real option.
Through sheer force of will, she did neither. She wasn’t naïve enough to think people like Roderick Fitzhugh and Yevgeni Dobrynin didn’t actually exist. She’d grown up with her father being deployed to fight those kinds of people. She’d just never been directly confronted by them before. In that moment, she resolved not to allow the reality of a seemingly insane situation turn her into a blubbering mess. She gritted her teeth, threw off the covers, and rolled out of bed.
Despite the determination that burned in her chest and propelled her forward, she was keenly aware that she was, first and foremost, in desperate need of a shower. She went to the door and cracked it enough to poke her head through and peek down the hallway into the sitting room. The couch was empty and the blanket was folded and placed on one of the cushions. The rattling noises coming from the kitchen gave her James’s location, so she quietly shut the door again and lifted her bag onto the bed. She gathered some clean clothes and bolted across the hall to the bathroom. She twisted the shower’s hot water knob to the left as far as it would go and hoped for even a little warm water. Otherwise, she was about to take the fastest shower in the history of mankind.
To her great relief, steam began to billow up and fill the bathroom. She found a small bottle of shampoo and bar of soap that appeared to have been liberated from a hotel. Once in the shower, the hot water cascading over her felt glorious and she stood under the soothing spray longer than she should have. Not wanting to completely drain the hot water heater, she reluctantly shut off the water and snagged a towel. She dried off and tugged on a pair of clean jeans and a long-sleeved cotton top.
With no comb, brush, or hair dryer to be found, she wiped the steam off the mirror, combed out her wet mane with her fingers, and put it into a French braid. She had no choice but to forgo makeup. Plus, she’d already looked like a raccoon in front of James, so in the grand scheme of things, going au naturel could only be an improvement.
She hung her towel over the shower door to dry—there was already a damp one on the rack, evidence that James had showered—and left the bathroom. She pulled on a pair of socks and ambled down the hallway. Her stomach growled like a grizzly bear’s and she hoped there was something they could scrounge up to eat other than cheese in a can and Ritz crackers.
A black laptop, different than the one she’d always seen James with, sat closed atop the dining table. Out the window, Quinn saw snow still falling at a steady rate. It didn’t appear they’d be going anywhere anytime soon.
James’s back was to her when she arrived at the kitchen, his head down as he read the back of a box he held. She cleared her throat.
He spun around, looking completely gobsmacked the second he saw her. “Hey, Quinn. You look great. I like your hair,” he said with delight in his eyes. “Did you sleep okay?”
“I did, thanks. And your accent is still American. It’s going to take me a while to get used to it.”
“Uh-oh. Sounds like James Anderson has some competition from James Lockwood.”
She squinted at him and then shook her head. “It’s too early in the morning for multiple personalities.”
“Then if it’s okay with you, I’ll be Anderson today.”
“Fine by me.” She noted his hair was still damp and he hadn’t shaved. The morning stubble along his strong jawline made her mouth go dry. He wore the same jeans from the night before, but a T-shirt and a black zippered hoodie had replaced his cashmere sweater. On the front of his hoodie was a yellow shield with a rearing black stallion on it. She dipped her head toward the insignia and said, “Ferrari?”
“Yeah,” he said with a smile. “I always carry a bag with some extra clothes in the trunk of my car in case something like this comes up.” He pointed at a teakettle on the stove. “Can I get you some tea? I found a box of tea bags and there’s hot water in the kettle.”
“I’ll get it. Thanks.” She took down a mug from the cupboard, dropped in a bag, and poured the hot water. She turned back toward him and leaned against the counter. “What have you got there?” she asked, referring to the box in his hand.
“Pancake mix. Just add water. It expired a couple of months ago. Do we try it? We don’t have many options.”
She shrugged. “I’m game if you are.”
They spent the next twenty minutes working side by side. James measured out the mix and water and stirred the contents in a bowl while Quinn heated up a frying pan on the stove.
Pancakes made, and with a bottle of syrup they found in the pantry, they sat down at the table to eat.
“Were you able to get in touch with Ben?” Quinn asked before putting a bite of pancake in her mouth. They were surprisingly good for an expired mix. Or maybe she was just really, really hungry.
“Not yet. I’ll try calling him again in a little while.”
They continued to chat while they ate, the easy manner they’d enjoyed before her tranquilizing restored. When James finished his breakfast first, he set his empty plate off to the side, slid the laptop in front of him, and opened it. After he swiped his thumb over the biometric scanner, the screen flashed to life. From where she sat, she was able to see a log-in box on the otherwise black screen.
He rose, went to his briefcase, and returned with his phone and a short cable. He plugged the phone into the computer, dialed a number, set it on the table, and tapped at the keyboard.
Quinn was about to take the plates into the kitchen when James frowned at the computer screen and muttered, “What the hell?”
“One of your CIA buddies sent you a picture of a dog about to sneeze?” Her stomach dropped when he didn’t even crack a smile.
She leaned over to get a better look at the screen. An e-mail was displayed, the sole content of which was a long number of at least fifty digits. Her eyebrows pulled together. “Why would someone send you a bunch of ISBNs all strung together?”
His head snapped toward her. “Send me what?”
“ISBNs. It stands for International Standard Book Number. Nearly every book that’s published in the world has one. Each ISBN is a unique thirteen-digit number.” She pointed at the screen and said, “That’s just one long string of ISBNs all smashed together.”
“How can you know that by glancing at it for two seconds?”
“I’m a librarian, remember? Books? I kinda do them for a living.” She jumped up, ran to the bedroom, and snatched her book from her bag. Upon her return, she dragged her chair around next to James’s, and sat. She held the book so they both could see the back cover. “Look, the first three digits of this book are 978. That’s the beginning prefix for almost every ISBN,” she said, pointing to the string of numerals above to the black vertical lines of the barcode. “The same first three numbers of the number in the e-mail.”
He moved his finger across the screen as he counted thirteen digits. “Doesn’t work. The next three numbers aren’t 978.”
“That’s because they started using 978 in 2007. Before that, ISBNs were ten digits and didn’t have the 978 prefix. See?” From where James had left off, she counted off ten more digits. “There’s a 978 again.” More counting, another ten-digit number and then another one with thirteen. “As soon as I saw 978 repeated several times, I knew they were ISBNs. Plus, look,” she said, growing more excited. “All of the 978s are followed by a zero or one. That tells me the books are in English. If the numbers were just random, what are the odds 978 would always be followed by a zero or one?”
James stared at her in astonishment. “You’re remarkable.”
“Not really,” she said with a shrug. “I’m just a librarian.”
“No. Not just a librarian,” he replied quietly.
“Who, um . . .” She stopped and swallowed at the sudden dryness in her throat. “Who sent this e-mail to you?”
He blinked and moved his gaze back to the screen. “Ben. He sent it from his cover e-mail account to mine. From the time stamp, it was sent about the same time as the text he sent last night. With everything that’s been happening since dinner, this is the first chance I’ve had to check my e-mail.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Okay, so we’ve got these numbers. Now what?”
“We find out what books these ISBNs belong to.”
“How?”
“We could probably use Google, but that’s so pedestrian,” she said and smiled when he breathed a quiet laugh. She went to put her fingers on the keyboard, but jerked them back as if she were about to touch a red-hot stovetop. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to touch your superfancy, top secret, government-issue laptop.”
“Usually not, but since you’re read in on this mission, go ahead.”
“Okay.” She opened a blank text document, copied and pasted the long string of numbers from the e-mail and put spaces between the ISBNs, whether they were of the ten or thirteen-digit variety. “Looks like five books are listed here,” she mused aloud. After opening a browser, she typed in a web address. “I’m going to use WorldCat.”
“I remember Ben mentioning it when he asked us to find that dissertation on Moses und Aron.”
“It’s the world’s largest union catalog. Ten thousand libraries across the globe have their online catalogs linked to it. Anyone can search for books, DVDs, serials, you name it, and find out which libraries have them in their collection.” She went to the advanced search page, selected “ISBN” as the field to search, and pasted the first book number into the box. A split second after clicking “search,” the result displayed on the screen.
“It’s a book called On the Run,” she said. She clicked on the title link, which took her to a new page with more bibliographic information. “Well, that’s interesting,” she said, noting the subject headings. “It’s a biography of a CIA intelligence officer.” She scrolled down the page to the short summary. James’s head moved closer to hers to get a better look at the screen as they read about a disillusioned operative who had written an exposé of the agency forty years before. On the Run was his life’s story subsequent to those revelations. Quinn looked at James. “What do you think Ben’s trying to tell you? Is he about to blow the whistle on something?”
He peeked back at her and shrugged. “It makes no sense for him to tip me off if he was about to do something like that. He knows I’d report it.” The tension radiating from James was palpable. His voice was tight when he asked, “What’s the next ISBN?”
She repeated the steps for the next number. “It’s a detective mystery called Man on the Run.” Without being asked, she plugged in the next number. “This one is called On the Run, too, but it’s by a different author and it’s fiction.” The final two numbers were both novels called Gone to Ground.
“I don’t think the stories are what’s important,” James said with urgency in his voice. “On the Run, Man on the Run, Gone to Ground.” He pivoted in his chair. A jolt of electricity thrummed through her when his knees brushed her thigh. “His cover was blown and he knew it.”
“This was his way of telling you he was taking off?”
“Yeah.”
“Why all the subterfuge? Why not just send you an e-mail that says, ‘Gotta go’?”
He pondered her question. “Maybe he wasn’t sure his cover was blown, but knew they were suspicious and figured it was better to take off,” he replied. “If they intercepted this e-mail, or someone saw it since these e-mail accounts aren’t secure, they wouldn’t know he’d taken off since they wouldn’t know what the numbers meant. It might have given him the head start he needed to get away.”
“But why send an e-mail to an unsecure account? You must have a supersecret one that only works with a mouth swab of your DNA or something.”
“He might not have had time to access his agency computer. Even if he did, it takes time to get past all the security measures.”
“That makes sense, but why ISBNs? How could he be sure you’d figure it out?” As soon as the question passed through her lips, she rolled her eyes at how stupid it sounded. “You would have forwarded it to CIA cryptographers and they’d have figured it out in no time.”
“Not faster than you did,” he said. He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his cheek. “My guess is Ben assumed you would see it.”
She turned her face away and looked out the window, hoping he wouldn’t notice that her entire head had gone the color of a ripe tomato.
At James’s sharp intake of breath, her head snapped around. Eyes round, he looked like he was about to be impaled by a charging rhinoceros. “Oh no! No, Quinn, that’s not what I”—he gulped—“what I meant. Ben knew how much time we’ve been spending together is all. Not that we’d be, um, spending the night together, ah, or anything.”
When she stared at him mutely, his eyes somehow grew even rounder. “Not that I wouldn’t want to sleep—I mean, you’re certainly—we would be so—” Unable to finish a sentence, he screwed his eyes shut. “I’ll stop talking now,” he said in a low, mortified voice.
She bit her lower lip, trying to keep the smile at bay. The idea that she made him flustered and tongue-tied both delighted her and made her a little light-headed. “You’re not exactly James Bond with the ladies, are you?” She made sure to keep her voice teasing, not wanting to add insult to injury. “Don’t they teach you how to be all suave and smooth and charming at the Farm?”
“Hey!” His eyes flew open. “I was totally Mr. Smooth the first time I came into the library and met you.”
“Yeah, you were.” She deflated a little when she realized she didn’t really know James, the real James, at all.
As if reading her thoughts, he sobered and said, “James Lockwood might be confident and charming, but it was the sweaty, blithering idiot James Anderson sitting before you that asked you to dinner.” He sighed and returned to the subject at hand. “Anyway, now that we know Ben has gone to ground, I need to contact my boss and tell him in case they don’t already know.” He angled the laptop back toward him and began to type.
Leaving him to his work, Quinn killed time by cleaning up from their meal. Sitting down at the table again, she asked, “You told your boss what we figured out about Ben?”
“Yeah.”
“What do we do now?”
“Wait.”
“For what?”
“Whatever he wants me to do next.”
“What about me? I can’t hide out in this cabin forever. I’ve got a job to get back to.”
“I know. I’m sure the agency will figure something out.”
“Okay. In the meantime, I guess I’ll read.” She grabbed her book and sunk into the armchair next to the fire. Despite the fact she was hiding from a nefarious international arms dealer, reading a spy novel by a roaring fire wasn’t a terrible way to spend a Sunday morning.