THE CODE
It was a gray, overly monochromatic morning where the clouds succumbed to an ambivalent sky. I yawned and stretched one arm upward while maintaining a grip on the steering wheel. I was listening to the Bee Gees croon about midnight jives and dancing. If it weren’t for their rhythmic melodies and my daydreams of sweaty, bell-bottomed men with bedazzled widows’ peaks, I would be hypnotically driving along the shoulder lane. This was one of those mornings when sleep deprivation was taking a toll on my functional capabilities. Even with the music, I was still entranced with the distant tree lines zipping past me. Only birds hopping along the ground provided a contrast to the day’s bleakness.
With the music blasting and my hips 30 seconds away from gyrating, I drove down a service road, following my Monday and Friday morning routine, to purchase a mocha cappuccino blast from Baskin Robbins. I was a stickler for ordering the same ingredients since high school, with 1.5 squirts of mocha and a dollop of vanilla ice cream, paired with a toasted croissant. The specific ingredients were balanced in a way that not many people could appreciate. One squirt too few or one squirt too many and I could end up with an underwhelming palette or a stomachache. I was one of the few to argue that the combination of savory flavors actually boosted intelligence.
I pulled up to the drive through window and announced my presence, “Ding Dong, anybody home?”
The BR crew member pressed the button and paused before speaking, “Jet, is that you?”
The speaker intercom was about two decibels higher than most, reverberating across the parking area.
“Yes, Ma’am. Belinda, I thought you had the day off?” I recognized her valley girl accent. I also seemed to remember the brunette cheerleader talking about a day visit to the beach. She and her teenage friends were planning a last summer hoorah before venturing out to college.
The loud intercom buzzed, followed by an exaggerated sigh, “Um yea, that was the plan. Reji woke up with a sore throat, so we postponed to tomorrow.”
“Ouch,” I said, “I hope she feels better. I’ll pull up to your window.”
Although there was no one behind me, I didn’t relish our conversation being broadcast throughout the plaza. Instead, I drove around the sharp curve, narrowly missing it. There was Belinda, her usual peppy self, hanging out the window, waving and smiling.
I idled within arm’s length and kept my foot on the brakes. I hated putting my SUV in park at drive thru windows. It was one of those inexplicable pet peeves despite the risk of rolling forward. I reached for my dashboard compartment to grab a BR rewards card, catching one of my sleeve buttons in the divots.
Belinda noticed me paying extra effort to unhook my shirt sleeve from the ½ inch space where it was caught. “Don’t worry about it. This one’s on the house.” I gently tugged at the sleeve, freeing the button and simultaneously plucking a stray fiber.
I turned toward Belinda and silently mouthed Thank you, while she yelled out my order, followed by, “It’s for JET.” One of the ice cream scoopers poked her head out from behind the counter and waved. I waved back. Most of the morning staffers were familiar with my schedule and orders—one of the perks of being a loyal customer.
A minute later and Belinda was handing me the drink and croissant with a quizzical expression, “Hey, have I ever asked you where your name came from?”
“Not that I can remember. The name comes from being born during mid-flight, aboard a 747-jet airliner. Cool, huh?”
Most people liked my first name but thought it was an abbreviation for something else. I was one of those rare sky-born babies, delivered during mid-flight, much to the chagrin of 119 passengers. At the time, Momma was flying from South Carolina to California to visit my grandmother. My friends and family constantly joked with me about being a literal and figurative “Skywalker.”
“Shut the front door…” she said with an exaggerated jaw drop. “Are you for real? I’ve never heard of that before. Can I take a picture of you for my Instagram page? My followers would love to hear about this.” I nodded an emphatic yes but in my mind I thought anybody can have followers nowadays.
I waited patiently whilst she snapped a photo of me holding up my gargantuan BR cup. Belinda giggled as I pulled away from the drive thru, busying herself with social media nuances. The abundance of whipped cream held perfectly still while I intermittently steered with one hand. Yet, I was not as smooth as Belinda when she seamlessly palmed my order from window to window.
My thought was interrupted when a car appeared in my blind spot and almost side- swiped me, I instinctively swerved and jumped the curb leading into the turning lane. In the process, I spilled the cup of morning ecstasy and sent the contents of the passenger seat sprawling to the floormat. Great.
My only saving grace was that I was driving an SUV and could easily correct my direction. The cars around me stopped abruptly to give me a wide berth in case I was delirious or drunk. I was embarrassed and felt my pride shriveling like a piece of wet rice paper. I veered back into the turning lane, grimacing at the vision of chocolate and whipped cream slush under the seat. If Belinda were here, then she would have given me a proper tongue lashing.
Although it was only a five-minute drive to the office, there were plenty of lamentable exclamations along the way. I parked in my usual parking spot and let the vehicle idle. I couldn’t decide if I was more disappointed in the mess I made or the fact that I had just deprived myself of a much-needed endorphin surge. Upon further inspection, the laptop bag that I acquired from my recently deceased daddy was inundated with the previously, perfectly coiffed beverage. I bent forward and put my head on the steering wheel, letting the cold high-gloss surface bring a moment of serenity.
This was my first day back at the laboratory since returning home from Daddy’s funeral in South Carolina. In the South, we referred to Grandma as “Memaw,” Grandpa as “Pawpaw,” Mother as "Momma” and Dad as "Daddy.” Northerners were always inquisitive about pronouns and why we sounded so infantile. Whereas Southerners were always inquisitive about why Northerners sounded so abrupt.
Daddy died as a retired NSA Director, military veteran, loving father, and American Legion volunteer. Although he was 89 years old when the aneurism struck him down, he had been spritely and comical right up to the end. He was not just a father, or Daddy—as I usually called him—he was my confidante and greatest admirer.
I did not want to return to work, but I also did not want to wait around Daddy’s house, dwelling on the fact that I was now unparented. I was counting on a humdrum segue into the office with just enough work to keep my mind occupied. If I could float through another few days, then I could keep myself from feeling depressed.
With the steering wheel anchoring my reality, my thoughts drifted to a distant past, when Daddy and I would spend Sunday afternoons sipping mocha blasts and talking about quantum physics. Science was always a reprieve from the grind of life, even though we both enjoyed phenomenal careers. Being a former NSA Director, he could not speak about most of his endeavors. He must have seen some horrible action because he dedicated the remainder of his life to protecting children and helping disabled veterans. To him, science was a way to rise above the worldly miseries.
Daddy was so proud of my achievements, being among the first female Army Rangers and segueing into a molecular biologist at the Vice President level—writing world renowned research papers. His wife, my mother, had passed away in her sleep two years ago, so it was just him carrying the celebratory torch of my academic accomplishments. My brother was still backpacking across Europe, the next exploratory phase unknown, and completely off-grid. He would be devastated knowing that he missed his father’s funeral.
I gradually pulled my head up from the steering wheel and reassessed the liquid mess spreading under the seat. The spilled drink was too dense to wipe up with napkins but just dense enough for a squeegee—if I could find one. I climbed out of the SUV, walked to the passenger side, and begrudgingly opened the door. What a mess. Was it really necessary for me to purchase BR’s biggest concoction? I shook my head in self-disgust as I retrieved the laptop bag and unzipped the pockets. I carefully removed the laptop making sure not to brush it against the ice cream sludge.
My first thought was to trash the laptop bag, which would become stiff with dried goop before the end of the day. Instead, I turned the computer satchel upside down, watching as a stream of chocolatiness emptied itself from the compartments. There was one swift thought of cupping my hands and catching some of it for a single, caffeine laced gulp. Then I remembered I was a professional and not a crack fiend.
I was startled when a small, white notebook dropped to my feet with a thud. It took me a few seconds to realize it was some kind of journal. Only the cover was splashed with brown liquid; the pages had not yet soaked up any of the mocha. I quickly bent down to pick it up, grazing my hand against a supple leather cover. This was definitely quality design and craftsmanship…probably a Moleskine. A smile touched the corner of my mouth remembering how Daddy and me both had a penchant for elegant notebooks and journals.
I returned the bag to the passenger seat and leaned toward the dashboard, gripping the little journal in a pincer pose, hoping not to get sticky fingerprints on the outside. I placed the book out of harm’s way and then focused my attention on the dark puddle taking residence on the floormat.
The glove box seemed to be mocking me, as if to say, Way to go, glutton! A yank on the handle revealed a canister of disinfectant wipes but no squeegee. I did the next best thing and carefully removed the mat, tilting it outside the vehicle to reroute the spillage.
As the drink hit the pavement, tiny flickers of mocha slush splashed the legs of my pants. Son of a flubbing biscuit. What should have been a discreet day was turning into a satirical prologue. I put the floor mat back, not wasting time with the alignment. Taking advantage of the wipes I cleaned my hands and the inside of the passenger door, closing it only when the citrus scent was more prominent than the chocolate aroma.
The driver’s door was still open, so I walked to the gold SUV’s front left tire to make sure I didn’t damage the rim. The entire wheel well looked unscathed. Whew. I scooched into my seat and let my eyes come to rest on the notebook. Without thinking twice, I grabbed it and opened it to the inside front cover. There was a neatly written message from Daddy that said:
“JET, take the code and save the children. Every two birds have one stone.”
I read it aloud, sounding out each word, not wanting to miss any double entendres. Maybe it was an NSA thing, but my daddy loved wordplay. Sometimes we would spend entire afternoons solving anagram riddles. But there was an urgency to this message that surpassed any former playfulness.
At that moment, I realized I was pushing myself too hard to return to work. After Daddy’s passing, I reassured myself that my parents lived full lives. What was the point of grieving? Yet, here, staring at the last vestiges of my daddy’s legacy, my heart accelerated. There was a sadness pressing in on my psyche, like the sting of a cold compress on a fresh wound.
With the vehicle still idling and parked outside my office, I plucked my cell phone from my purse. The department chief’s phone number was on speed dial—a bonus from being among the lab’s top tier staff. The phone rang once and then went straight to voicemail, a fortuitous omen. I proceeded to leave the chief, my boss, Steve, a message.
“Hi Steve, this is JET. Listen, I was set to come in this morning, but I spilled one of those huge mocha blasts in my SUV, with a nice splattering of chocolate sludge on my pants. I think I need a little more time and less frustration before rolling up my sleeves. Would it be alright if I input a formal request for vacation time? I’ll be online within the hour. Let me know. Thanks.”
I put the phone down and breathed a sigh of relief. That would buy me more time to investigate the notebook, which was lying open in my lap, beckoning to be read. I thumbed through the pages and realized I was not looking at any recognizable language but rather a made-up cypher. What was Daddy trying to tell me? Although our leisure puzzles and riddles were stimulating, at first glance, this appeared to be some next level stuff. I needed to set my mind right and get into the code-cracking mood. Perhaps, a different setting with a morning mimosa might help me shed some light.
I backed out of the parking spot and made a proverbial beeline to my home, which was about a twenty-minute drive from the lab. My mind was racing with different NSA scenarios as I pulled into the driveway. I grabbed the notebook and sprinted to the door handle. The thought of Daddy leaving me a message from beyond the grave filled me with admiration. He was always thinking about us, his family—his tribe.
I didn’t want to let him down and figured I would dedicate the day to whatever his cypher was trying to communicate. Once through the door, I set my mind on changing into a more comfortable outfit and unwinding from my quasi-adventurous morning. I found that the best way to relax was usually soft attire and a messy hair bun. There was something deeply satisfying about a worn t-shirt and cotton pajama pants. With that in mind I kicked off my shoes and headed upstairs to find one of my tattered Land’s End cotton shirts.
In a flash, I was redressed with an orange top and taupe sweats, mixing a drink, eager to get started with the cypher’s quest. I hastily twisted my hair into a clip with static whisps springing from the bun. I was excited about the thrill of untangling Daddy’s mystery, which was dampened only by his absence. What I would remember most about his presence was his jovial face and pouting cheeks that were like a walking conundrum, the perfect complement to his complex mind.
I sauntered into my personal office with its soft blue hues, accented with lighthearted wall décor—the self-adhesive kind. The puffy white cloud wallpaper stickers lent an air of whimsical majesty juxtaposed with rows of rigid science journals and encyclopedias. Atop an antique hutch was an old-school record player. Daddy insisted I maintain an appreciation for the past. Although the only records I purchased were of the jazz variety, which would be most suitable for the present situation.
Jazz was like an underappreciated melancholic opioid, winding its way through the cerebellum like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. The crescendo of algorithms could unpack a lifetime of pent-up anger or unwrap a riddle like a birthday present. Simply said, I liked jazz music.
There was already a vinyl disc anxiously awaiting its tantalizing needle. I turned a knob and used my pointer fingertip to connect the method with the means. The needle caressed the record and coaxed a “ta ta ta, ta ta ta” pulsating rhythm that was two strings shy of a medically induced trance. I melted into my overpriced and abundantly cushioned chair, ready to tackle the cypher.
The book stared at me, and I stared at it. In the span of a twenty-minute drive, we developed a mutual respect. Tell me your secrets and I’ll tell you mine, it cajoled. I could almost hear the journal whispering. What stood out the most was Daddy’s phrase, “Two birds have one stone,” an obvious play on the popular idiom, Killing two birds with one stone. Daddy and I often spoke about perception and perspective—bringing beauty and positivity from negativity. Instead of killing two birds, he would flip the idiom on its side and say something like, “Why kill two birds if they can both share a stone?” That type of thought process was just Daddy’s methodical way.
In this instance, it felt like he was telling me to use a cadence interval. Two birds, two letters. Were there any birds with two-letter names? I did a quick search on my phone and found the OU, or OO, a Hawaiian forest dweller. Hmm, what did I know about Hawaii from my previous visits? It was not the oldest island; those honors went to Madagascar. But I seemed to remember Hawaii’s native gemstone was black coral and its oldest island was Kauai.
I sat still, listening to the air from the overhead vents. What was he trying to say? I looked at my phone, not knowing what to research. Then I remembered zero-zero, or OO, could also be used as a decoder, like the computer language that consisted of zeros and ones. And the stone must be referring to the Rosetta Stone, an Egyptian hieroglyph that was decoded. In other words, Daddy was telling me to decode the journal with a 00 decipher. This is how the ultra-curated scientific mind thinks and how the quirky microbiologist understands.
After several minutes I translated the two paragraphs and stared at the paper with uncertainty. I got the decipher right, but the message was intense. Daddy was about to lead me and Xavier down a slippery slope, without an anchor or rope.
Jet and Xavier,
If you found this notebook in my satchel then my passing was not natural, and I need your help to resolve unfinished business. There is a microfilm, hidden in the back molar of my spare dentures. In it, you will find the blueprint to a large underground warehouse, along with instructions.
I have a foreign bank account and old NSA contacts. Stay safe, trust only those I direct you to, and remember, I love you more than ever.
Love, Daddy
Laughter was my first involuntary response, as I thought about Daddy’s extra dentures. Then, I rubbed my face vigorously, trying to prevent the tears from welling up. What in the heck was he talking about? I was not sure where to start, considering this was the first inclination of foul play. Of course, it was plausible that Daddy passed away from an aneurism since he was advanced in age. But why would anybody want to harm such a sweet and charming Southern elderly man? As far as I knew, the secret spy stuff was put to bed years ago.
Okay, logic. Daddy’s dentures were in South Carolina and my home is in the Washington DC suburbs. If I left now, then I could probably make it to Daddy’s home before midnight. His luxurious residence was going on the market within the next few days, but that would leave me with plenty of time to rummage for clues.
Feeling the tiredness from the previous night’s drive, I begrudgingly repacked my luggage in a makeshift attempt to provide myself with necessities. And then I began dancing and twirling around my home in an effort to stay energized. I filled my bags with plenty of comfortable clothes, cushioned shoes and slippers, a nice outfit, a pair of heels, pearls and about a dozen panties to account for South Carolina’s humid climate.
After turning off the record player and packing up the journal, I stood silent in the office. This was one of those moments where I realized my life would be forever changed. If I had not spilled my mocha blast, then I might never have found the notebook. It was in the laptop bag’s inner pocket—somewhere I rarely looked. A few days from now the bag would probably be sitting inside my home’s storage closet.
Sigh. There was a weariness throughout my body but there was also adrenaline providing sparks of excitement. My back muscles beckoned for my bedroom rather than an eight-hour drive, as if they knew this would be the last restful moment before delving into a rescue mission. The weather outside was still and eerie, adding to the macabre mood.
After pulling myself out of a mental funk, I threw the luggage into the SUV’s backseat and set out on an expedition, into unknown outcomes—the total antithesis of my carefully coordinated biologist lifestyle. In the pocket of my cardigan was a handful of chocolate truffles, a weakness if there were any. This was my guarantee that I would not doze off between D.C. and South Carolina. My brother, Xavier, would resuscitate me and strangle me if I died in a car accident.
While driving, I thought about the bird idiom and other possible meanings until I crossed the South Carolina state line, which was accented with potholes. I came up with other anagrams and plausible gemstone explanations but none as solid as the OO and black coral explanation. However, I had a sneaking suspicion there were other meanings that would be revealed later.
Before ten o’clock, I pulled into the expansive cottage’s driveway. With the SUV windows cracked, I could hear the frothy ocean tide. Instant memories of sweet tea, porch conversations, and peach cobbler made me deliriously giddy with anticipation. Charleston was home sweet home.
My parent’s colonial cottage smelled like old spice and country apple potpourri—a throwback to 1980’s nostalgia. Even in the night hours, the kitchen shone with beach inspired magnificence. Our indoor palette was peach and dusty blue, being as cliché as cliché could get. There was a grandiose picture of a coral reef in the foyer, with pastel brush strokes contrasted by a rustic white frame. My mother always loved farmhouse furniture, which was difficult to pull off with a beach theme. Instead, she decorated with French country elegance and eclectic conversation pieces exemplified by the entrance photo.
The oakwood floors, with their blonde highlights, flowed throughout the main level, providing an old-world feel. I made my way into the sunroom, which was like something out of a Southern Living magazine. The ten-foot-tall windows, with white trim, were open and bare. My parents did not give a hoot about whether the neighbors could see them sipping their morning coffee or reading a book in the afternoon warmth.
The two sofas were covered with Khaki slip covers that had a delicate, navy-blue trim. Crisp white and blue pillows adorned the armrests. In the center of the room was a rectangular, weathered, off-white coffee table. Perched on one side, there was a deliberate selection of non-fiction biographies and gourmet cookbooks. Perched on the other side was an empty, heavy sterling silver candle holder like the kind that always made its way into fictional murder mysteries.
To complete the comfortable living look, a blue and white fabric recliner sat solemnly in the corner, draped with a shaggy cream color throw. And perfectly placed between the sofas, at the intersection of the window corners, was a round end table. That was where I used to set my coffee cups, careful not to stain my mother’s embroideries. An oversized silk and linen table runner covered the glass, where an antique blue and white lamp was paired with a gorgeous begonia. At certain times of the day, the sunlight would catch the leaves at the right angle, and they would animate with a ruby red glimmer, accentuating the little hairs responsible for photosynthesis.
I breathed in deeply, enjoying the ambiance like a warm hug. My luggage was still in the kitchen-the black and brown Diane von Furstenberg design a total complement to the kitchen’s neutral elegance. Sigh. Maybe I should just move into my parent’s home and rent the D.C. dwelling? This place was more than magnificent, it was the very essence of country luxury.
I dragged myself and the luggage upstairs, ready to fade into my parents’ four-post bed. But, first, I needed to remove the grime off my face and the sweat off my body. I sauntered into the washroom, where the moonlight was bathing a swath of the divider wall and floor with blue haze. Three beige towels were rolled in a line, sitting along the step-down bathtub’s rim. A vase with pink anthuriums was poised in the tub’s corner. I remembered my mother educating me about how even a fool could keep those flowers alive. I purchased that batch two days ago, hoping they would last until the house closed. Those were the only dab of color in an otherwise neutral space.
I let my clothes pile on the floor, opting to leave the lights off, and a few seconds later I stepped through the moonlight into the large walk-in shower. There was never a moment where I was not appreciative of the quality of life my parents afforded us. In my medical research travels to Morrocco and Indonesia, I stayed with the locals, immersing myself in their traditions and culinary brilliance. The accommodations were modest, but their happiness was untethered, and wisdom leapt from rooftops. It was because of those experiences that I could enjoy such lavishness with deeper satisfaction and gratitude.
Mom’s favorite shampoos and soaps were still in her labeled dispensers. Daddy never used his own. He liked the scented reminders of Lilac and white tea. I made sure to lather from crown to toe, the aromas surrounding me in a gentle steam. I must have stayed in this state of bliss for a good while, since my fingertips were wrinkling.
I dried myself off with one of the rolled towels and slipped into one of Daddy’s old t-shirts. I stared at my exhausted reflection before reaching into the medicine cabinet. I kept a spare toothbrush and a travel size toothpaste just in case I needed to visit during the home’s open houses. I threw away all the medications during my previous stay, but I did not remember seeing an extra set of dentures.
I looked more closely at the last shelf and realized it had a false bottom. Leave it to Daddy to romanticize a medicine cabinet. I lifted the bottom with my thumbnail and revealed a small satin pouch, undoubtedly containing dentures. Sure enough, I pulled out the well-manicured fake teeth and slid my finger along the molars until I found one that seemed to have some give. The molar did not pop off, so I unscrewed it in a clockwise motion. A tiny microfilm scroll stood in the middle of the tooth. I tilted my head with an amusing expression. Was this something that he learned in NSA? If I ever make it to heaven, I will have to talk to Daddy about his secret squirrel methods.
This type of microfilm was familiar to me, especially in my line of scientific work. The Library of Congress stored different types of research materials in this format, from books to dissertations. I knew Daddy kept a vintage microfilm projector in his office, also known as a 1950’s primitive slide projector with loader, but I thought his revolutionary invention obsession was a hobby.
Despite my weariness and borderline delirium, I put the projector on the desk, powered it on, and aligned the film. I focused the lens and slowly reviewed each of the squares as the images appeared on the opposite wall. The first image was an architectural blueprint showing an underground bunker or warehouse. Rectangular and about as wide as two Olympic size pools, it looked to be nestled within a mountain or hilly landscape. The basic diagram illustrated one main entry point, which diverged into parallel hallways, interrupted by a large plant solarium. There was a name and information scribbled at the top of the page, but it was out of focus. I adjusted the lens until the name “Croatia” could be seen, along with a pair of coordinates and simple instructions.
I opened Daddy’s journal and made note of the entry location, country, and coordinates. Adjusting the lens, I magnified the remaining instructions:
1. Enter the facility under cover of night. There are usually two exterior door guards and one interior garage guard. Codes included or use the guard’s biometrics.
2. Access lower level, where there are probably more guards. Retrieve minors. Contact only the specified Agents and authorities.
3. Access control room, collect evidence. Upload virus with USB flash drive in office ceiling fan. Destroy pedophile network.
I reread the directions to make sure I understood what was being asked of me. What the what? With a thumping heart I wrote down the three-step process, shaking my head in disbelief. There were still two other slides to get through. If they were anything like the first slide, then I might have to hire Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone to muscle my way through a lair of bad guys. This was starting to sound like an impossible mission if it weren’t for the fact that I was my father’s daughter.
The second image was filled with columns and rows of data with the heading “Switzerland.” I copied down the bank name, account information, and access codes, as well as the exorbitant amount of money that he wanted me to withdraw. So far so good. I moved on to the third image, which listed two names with locations and contact information. The third name was listed as “Agent Z” with the location “Europe.” I made a note of those, too. His encrypted message was clear about trusting no one other than those he directed me to. These must have remained his allies right up until his death, but I never heard him speak about an Agent Z.
When satisfied that I culled as much information as possible, I sat back in the office chair, stewing in reflective silence. According to Daddy’s crafted information, I would need to travel to Switzerland, withdraw a significant amount of money, contact a former CIA-NSA operative, visit Croatia, gain access to a secretive underground warehouse, rescue children, upload a virus, and destroy a pedophile network. This warehouse was not just a centralized spy hub; it was also where they kept kidnapped children. It was a difficult location to access near Croatia’s southern coast.
I began to laugh, first as a chuckle, then as an incontrollable bray of incredulity. The laughter quickly turned to heavy sobs, as I hunched in Daddy’s chair—finally reckoning with his passing and the enormity of the task he left me with. I cried so hard that I allowed myself to slide out of the chair, where I crumpled under the desk, dislodging my hair clip in the process, and fighting for each gasp of air between tears. I was exhausted. My mind had had enough for a lifetime. Instead of rehashing the microfilm information, I fixated on the underside of the desk, following the wood’s grain patterns as I let the tears flow. The graceful swirls and oval shapes dulled my thoughts until I floated into sleep.
