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Authors: Douglas Preston
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to my old life."
"Your old life-?"
Wyman stared across the river, his craggy brows contracted, his lantern jaw working. "My old life."
"You must've had a pretty rough time of it, to run away to a monastery."
Ford's brow contracted. "Monastic spirituality is not about running away from something, but about running toward something-the living God. But yes, it was rough."
"What happened? If you don't mind me asking."
"I do mind. I guess I'm no longer used to the kind of prying inquisitiveness that in the outside world passes for conversation."
Tom was stung by the rebuke. "I'm sorry. I'm out of line."
"Don't be sorry. You're doing what you feel is right. And I think it is right. It's just that I'm not the man to help you."
Tom nodded and they both rose, the monk slapping the dust off his robes. "About the book, I don't think you'll have much trouble with that code. Most homemade codes are what we call idiot ciphers-designed by an idiot, decipherable by an idiot. Numbers substituted for letters. All you need is a frequency table of the English language."
"What's that?"
"A list of the most to least common letters in the English language. You match that list up with the most to least common numbers in the code." "Sounds easy enough." "It is. You'll crack that code in a jiffy, I bet." "Thanks." Ford hesitated. "Let me take a quick look at it. I might be able to crack it on
the spot."
"You sure you don't mind?"
"It won't bite me."
Tom handed it to him. Ford leafed through it, taking his time with each page.
Five long minutes passed.
"Funny, but this is looking a lot more sophisticated to me than a substitution code." The sun was descending into the canyons, suffusing the arroyos in a bright golden light. Swallows flitted about, the stone walls reverberating with their cries. The river tumbled by below, a whisper of water.
He shut the book with a slap. "I'll keep the book for a few days. These numbers are intriguing-all kinds of weird patterns in there."
"You're going to help me out after all?"
Ford shrugged. "It'll help this girl learn what happened to her father."
"After what you told me I feel a little uncomfortable about this."
He waved a large hand. "Sometimes I get a little too absolutist about things. There's no harm in giving it a quick try." He squinted at the sun. "I better be getting back."
He grasped Tom's hand. "I admire your stubbornness. The monastery doesn't have a telephone, but we do have an Internet connection via satellite dish. I'll drop you a line when I crack it."
13
WEED MADDOX REMEMBERED the first time he had blown through Abiquiii on a
stolen Harley Dyna Wide Glide. Now he was just another asshole in khakis and a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt driving a Range Rover. He was really coming up in the world. Beyond the town of Abiquiii the road followed the river, past green alfalfa fields and groves of cottonwoods, before climbing out of the valley. He took a left on 96, drove over the dam and up along the southern side of the valley, in the shadow of
Pedernal
Peak
. In another few minutes the left-hand turn to the Broad-bent place appeared, with a hand-painted sign on a weathered board: Canones.
The road was dirt, not well maintained. It paralleled a small creek. There were some small horse ranches on either side, forty to eighty acres, with cute names like Los Amigos or Buckskin Hollow. The Broadbent place, he'd heard, had a strange name, Sukia Tarn. Maddox slowed at the gate, passed it, continued on for another quarter of a mile, and parked the car in a thicket of gambel oaks. He got out and eased the door shut. Strolling back to the road, he made sure the car wasn't visible.
Three o'clock
. Broadbent would probably be gone, at work or out. They said he had a wife, Sally, who ran a riding stable. He wondered what she looked like.
Maddox slung the rucksack over his shoulder. First thing, he thought, was to reconnoiter the land. He was a firm believer in
"Your old life-?"
Wyman stared across the river, his craggy brows contracted, his lantern jaw working. "My old life."
"You must've had a pretty rough time of it, to run away to a monastery."
Ford's brow contracted. "Monastic spirituality is not about running away from something, but about running toward something-the living God. But yes, it was rough."
"What happened? If you don't mind me asking."
"I do mind. I guess I'm no longer used to the kind of prying inquisitiveness that in the outside world passes for conversation."
Tom was stung by the rebuke. "I'm sorry. I'm out of line."
"Don't be sorry. You're doing what you feel is right. And I think it is right. It's just that I'm not the man to help you."
Tom nodded and they both rose, the monk slapping the dust off his robes. "About the book, I don't think you'll have much trouble with that code. Most homemade codes are what we call idiot ciphers-designed by an idiot, decipherable by an idiot. Numbers substituted for letters. All you need is a frequency table of the English language."
"What's that?"
"A list of the most to least common letters in the English language. You match that list up with the most to least common numbers in the code." "Sounds easy enough." "It is. You'll crack that code in a jiffy, I bet." "Thanks." Ford hesitated. "Let me take a quick look at it. I might be able to crack it on
the spot."
"You sure you don't mind?"
"It won't bite me."
Tom handed it to him. Ford leafed through it, taking his time with each page.
Five long minutes passed.
"Funny, but this is looking a lot more sophisticated to me than a substitution code." The sun was descending into the canyons, suffusing the arroyos in a bright golden light. Swallows flitted about, the stone walls reverberating with their cries. The river tumbled by below, a whisper of water.
He shut the book with a slap. "I'll keep the book for a few days. These numbers are intriguing-all kinds of weird patterns in there."
"You're going to help me out after all?"
Ford shrugged. "It'll help this girl learn what happened to her father."
"After what you told me I feel a little uncomfortable about this."
He waved a large hand. "Sometimes I get a little too absolutist about things. There's no harm in giving it a quick try." He squinted at the sun. "I better be getting back."
He grasped Tom's hand. "I admire your stubbornness. The monastery doesn't have a telephone, but we do have an Internet connection via satellite dish. I'll drop you a line when I crack it."
13
WEED MADDOX REMEMBERED the first time he had blown through Abiquiii on a
stolen Harley Dyna Wide Glide. Now he was just another asshole in khakis and a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt driving a Range Rover. He was really coming up in the world. Beyond the town of Abiquiii the road followed the river, past green alfalfa fields and groves of cottonwoods, before climbing out of the valley. He took a left on 96, drove over the dam and up along the southern side of the valley, in the shadow of
Pedernal
Peak
. In another few minutes the left-hand turn to the Broad-bent place appeared, with a hand-painted sign on a weathered board: Canones.
The road was dirt, not well maintained. It paralleled a small creek. There were some small horse ranches on either side, forty to eighty acres, with cute names like Los Amigos or Buckskin Hollow. The Broadbent place, he'd heard, had a strange name, Sukia Tarn. Maddox slowed at the gate, passed it, continued on for another quarter of a mile, and parked the car in a thicket of gambel oaks. He got out and eased the door shut. Strolling back to the road, he made sure the car wasn't visible.
Three o'clock
. Broadbent would probably be gone, at work or out. They said he had a wife, Sally, who ran a riding stable. He wondered what she looked like.
Maddox slung the rucksack over his shoulder. First thing, he thought, was to reconnoiter the land. He was a firm believer in
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