Free Cries of the Lost by Chris Knopf

the hotel. Then I pointed to the corresponding numbers in the code.
    “It’s a catalog of locations, beginning with the Villa Egretta Garzetta. And likely some text. I’ve only got the start of a key, but it’s a good start.”
    “Brilliant,” said Natsumi.
    “No. Lucky. Even better.”

C HAPTER 5
    T he Spottsworthy Mews, buried deep inside London’s Kensington and Chelsea Royal Borough, was a quick cab ride away from the room we’d rented in a monstrous hotel on the eastern edge of Hyde Park.
    Florencia’s code was very precise, but not enough to pinpoint an exact location in the tightly compressed, mad tangle of ancient urban development that was London. So we were reasonably sure about the mews, but had no idea which of the thirteen residences within was the target.
    Listed second on Florencia’s code, after the hotel in St. Jean, the mews was our first choice. And convenient, as it not only got us out of town, it got us all the way out of France. It was a reasonably stress-free trip, the enormity of Heathrow somehow bestowing the illusion of impenetrable anonymity. Reality being quite the opposite, of course. As the global nexus of travel both illicit and benign, no airport had greater and more sophisticated security.
    I dedicated the first few days at the London hotel translating the bulk of Florencia’s code, determining there were nine designated locations, taking up three quarters of the content, with the rest normal text, or a different species of numeric expression, or a combination of both.
    In addition to London, there were pinpoints in Venice, Madrid, Budapest, Switzerland, Lombardy, Edinburgh, Costa Rica and New York City.
    “Do you know what’s there?” Natsumi asked.
    “No idea.”
    “But you have a theory.”
    “No. But I do have what’s left of the code.”
    What I had were the numbers for d-e-g-m-i-n-s-c, all single digits. After 9, each letter was two digits each. I ran the letter frequency query through Excel, identifying the letter ‘a’ as 23, and gaining some certainty the text was in Spanish. Thus the English-only code-breaking software was no help at all. I was facing the limit of my capabilities, and the frustration likely showed.
    “I think you should find someone to help you,” said Natsumi. ”The energy needed to succeed at this must be far greater than your need to come up with a good cover story.”
    She was right. My preoccupation with security was likely unfounded, since we had what should be the essence of the code. I just needed the words.
    “And here we are in the UK, code breakers’ paradise,” I said. “Home to Bletchley Park, The London Times crossword puzzle, George Smiley.”
    “I don’t know about any of those things.”
    “That’s why we have Google.”
    In a few minutes I had a name that fit the bill nicely. Edwina Firth, a New Zealander, Professor of Cryptanalysis, University of London, winner of a recent code-breaking contest held by The Daily Telegraph. In the photo taken at her award ceremony, she looked like a pleasant, open-faced woman poised to agreeably enter middle age.
    “She’s cute,” said Natsumi.
    “Is that an observation or a warning?”
    “I’ll know better when I meet her.”

    A FTER SOME discussion, we crafted an email to Ms. Firth:
    Professor Firth:
    I am an American businessman on holiday here in London. I stumbled upon the notice in the Telegraph of your success in the ‘Enigma 2012 Challenge.’ I have with me a much simpler cipher, created by a friend of mine with whom I’ve lost touch. It’s partially solved, and it would be most gratifying to have the task completed. I would gladly compensate you for your time if you would be kind enough to give it a look.
    Sincerely,
    Gilbert Freeman
    “Perfect,” said Natsumi. “Just add in ‘on holiday here in London with my wife.’ ”
    “You don’t really think . . .”
    “Never trust a cryptanalyst. You want to talk crafty.”
    We had to wait a few days for a reply,