15

Russia Dock Woodland, London

“This area used to be a pier,” Alafair said, pointing at the sign that read Russia Dock Woodland. “It mostly took in shipments of cheap wood. The jetty was infilled in the seventies and turned into a park. The Thames is a half mile on each side of us.” She pointed due west. “The Mayflower Pub is a twenty-minute walk that way—unless you wander like you did—and the Campus a two-hour walk past that, if you’re feeling foolish.”

Salem’s pulse twitched. Unless the woman was FBI, she shouldn’t know about the Campus. “Who do you work for?”

By way of answer, Alafair tipped her head toward the thick woods that defined the city park. Salem had to squint to make out anything other than the trees. The tent was the same shadowy black as the tree line, a camouflage so successful that Salem’s ears had identified it before her eyes. It emanated a clicking sound, reminding Salem of Chinatown mah-jongg under the cover of dark, a soft clacking as ivory tiles were shuffled and stacked. A step closer and she felt the heat, smelled the ionized electricity.

Salem realized what the dark tent contained before Alafair drew back the curtain.

People typing on at least a dozen computers.

No one glanced up when Alafair and Salem stepped inside. Salem counted fourteen people sitting at Frankensteins—desktop processors cobbled together from various parts and models. They wore street clothes. The heat of the server magnified their smell in this small space, sour sweat and unwashed hair.

“We’ve been following your career,” Alafair said. She indicated the workers. “We all have.”

This was the first time this evening that Salem had a chance to examine Alafair in the light. She guessed the woman was a decade older than her, maybe mid-thirties. She had the coloring of a Roma, a dispersed group originating in northern India that history incorrectly labeled gypsies.

Everyone in the tent had the same coloring.

“Are you MI5?” Salem asked.

Alafair threw back her head and laughed. The sound was deep and raspy, rolling up from her belly. “You hear that, brother? She wants to know if we’re MI5.”

The man nearest the tent opening nodded, a smirk at his mouth, but he didn’t look up from his screen. He shared Alafair’s black, glossy hair and sharp features.

“We’re independent,” Alafair clarified. “Cryptanalytic freelancers. We work as needed, move as necessary.”

Salem nodded, the idea thrilling her. The fourteen computers dominated the center of the tent. The perimeter contained stacked bedrolls. What looked like a food station stood near the flap, a stack of water bottles, dry goods, and a hotplate.

A crackle at her neck told her Alafair was watching her. “We have everything we need to live in here,” Alafair confirmed. “Outside the tent, behind it and out of sight, we park our trailer. We can have this whole operation shut down and packed up in under twenty-two minutes. It’s quite a sight.”

Salem bet it was. She’d seen a similar operation in Chinatown. It wasn’t just the sounds that had reminded her of San Francisco, it was the energy. “Are you part of the Underground?”

Alafair arched an eyebrow. “We are part of an underground.”

Salem didn’t know if she was deliberately avoiding answering the question. She decided not to pursue it. She unzipped her coat, the heat of the enclosed space making her lightheaded.

“Stop there.” The woman pointed at Salem’s belt, her voice incredulous. “They’ve got to you.”

Salem glanced down at the flowered sachet Mrs. Molony had given her. For the third time that day, she found herself thinking about the Stonehenge replica and its mercy stone. “I got this from … from a friend in Ireland. It was a gift.”

Alafair pinned Salem in place with her eyes and scoured her up and down, as if looking for more sachets. “The ‘friend’ who gave it to you. She didn’t say what it meant?”

“She said it was for protection.”

The mirth bubbled in Alafair’s eyes, but she did not throw her head back this time. “I’ll say it is.”

A wave of exhaustion washed over Salem. It must be nearly four in the morning. Today had been one of the longest days of her life. She was hungry, stumbling around in that dry-mouthed, headachy land between drinking and hungover, and emotionally spent. “What is it you want from me?”

She assumed they were after her research. Or maybe they wanted her to update their ancient computers. She wasn’t good at hardware, but she’d help if she could, as long as it didn’t interfere with her work at the FBI or break any laws.

Alafair placed her hands on her hips, intelligent, striking, and deadly. She reminded Salem of a superhero. “We want you to help us track down Rosalind Franklin’s code.”

Salem’s forehead crumpled. She and Charlie had driven by a King’s College banner with Franklin’s name on it earlier today at about the same location she’d first spotted Alafair. Salem had only the most distant awareness of who Franklin was. “The X-ray scientist?”

“Yes. She’s best known for Photo 51. You’ve heard of it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“It’s the diffraction X-ray that first revealed the basic structure of DNA. Franklin parlayed what she learned from that image into groundbreaking stem cell research. I suppose you’re not familiar with that, either?”

Salem shook her head.

Alafair’s brother glanced their direction. His expression was sad. Salem saw he was closer to her age than Alafair’s, his face beautiful in its symmetry. While he shared Alafair’s skin and hair coloring, his eyes were the startling ice blue of a husky.

“Not surprising,” Alafair said. “Most of the research has been lost. Some say it never happened, others claim it was stolen. We have reason to believe that neither is true. Rosalind Franklin completed research and then she hid it herself, leaving a code trail to find it.”

Salem’s brain matter was spinning. She came at this from every direction and decided there was one question that needed asking above all others. “Let’s say all that is true—why do you want to find the research?”

The man who Alafair had called her brother separated from his computer and rolled toward Salem. Her eyes widened as she saw what his workspace had hidden. His wheelchair was not as nice as Bel’s, but it served the same purpose.

“If we find it, he can walk again.”