“You startled me. That’s all.”
“I suppose I can understand your mistake.” He brushed a palm down his woolen jersey. “These are real fatigues. Belonged to my grandfather.”
“Your grandfather?”
“He was with the British SAS during World War II. Lost a leg while serving in North Africa.”
“How horrible. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not. If not for his injury, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”
She frowned at him until he explained.
“Once back home, my grandad wanted to continue to serve and was assigned to guard a codebreaking team. It’s where he met my grandmother, who was a mathematician with the group. From their stories, it was not love at first sight. They butted heads at every turn.”
Despite the night’s terrors, Sharyn found herself smiling. “But clearly they worked out their differences.”
“Eventually.” Duncan matched her grin. “Before they passed, the two used to regale me with tales from their time during the war.”
Sharyn noted the wistful glimmer in his eye. She imagined it must have been those stories that had whetted Duncan’s interest in cyphers and codes. She wished her legacy was so blessed. She remembered the counsel from her Al-Anon sponsor:For better or worse, our past forges who we are. It’s the steel that strengthens us or chains us down.
Still, this line of thought—about codes—reminded her. She reached for a yellow legal pad left on the table, where someone had doodled crude figures in graphically obscene poses. She grabbed a loose pen, flipped to a fresh page, and quickly jotted down a series of letters and numbers, fearing she might forget them.
Naomi frowned at her effort. “What are you doing?”
“Back at the house, I spotted a Rolls parked at the curb.”
Tag nodded. “That’s right. I saw it, too.”
“It might be nothing, but it seemed out of place, so I memorized the plate number.” Her father had schooled her to be ever vigilant, especially in suspicious situations. She shifted the pad over and tapped at what she wrote. “Thisnumber.”
Duncan’s brow furrowed as he studied the page. “What’s this about?”
Naomi opened her mouth, but Sharyn shook her head.
No need to get others involved in this mess.
Archie grunted. He had been standing on the table’s far side, tugging into his track pants, which proved difficult due to his rubber-cleated rugby boots. He abandoned his effort and rapped his knuckles on the pad.
“SCV,” he said, reading off the first three letters. “You know what that means.”
Sharyn did not. And from the confused looks, neither did anyone else.
Archie tapped each letter. “Status . . . Civitatis . . . Vaticanae.”
As this clarified nothing, Archie continued. “The license plates of official vehicles registered with Vatican City start with those three letters.”
“You know that?” Duncan frowned. “How? From your embassy days?”
“Nah,” Archie scoffed. “FromWho Wants to Be a Millionaire?”
Sharyn didn’t know if he was being serious or sarcastic, but it didn’t matter.
Duncan turned to their group and asked a question they all shared: “Why would someone from the Vatican be on your street?”
10
1:09 a.m.
