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Constable George Crabtree and I led our old friend Agent Terrence Meyers around a corner and into a building near the end of the street. The building attracted very little attention, simple and plain enough to be non-descript, discreet, as if blending into the scene.
I raised my hand and knocked on the door of the headquarters of the newest innovation of another old friend. James Pendrick, for all his publicity for the sake of funding and support, knew when and how to keep a low profile.
From the door came a clicking sound; I turned the handle and we entered.
Down a hallway illuminated by a single dim light we found our destination. No more than five people sat at desks around a room—some wrote on paper while others seemed to be using these curious apparatuses that I assumed were Pendrick’s computation devices aiding in his decryption. James Pendrick himself stood talking to a woman writing out calculations. Upon our entrance he turned and raised an arm in welcome, always the hospitable sort, but he was cut off by Meyers.
“Where’s the decrypted message?”
The woman picked up one of the pages from her desk and gave it to Pendrick. “Here,” he said bluntly, before a pleased, almost playful air washed over him. “In a rush, are we, Terrence? Let me guess, a matter of national security?”
“I’ll have you know, Mr. Pendrick, that it’s actually a matter of international security.”
Pendrick’s eye movements from Meyers to the page was one very distinct event. “Oh?” His voice betrayed intrigue.
“I’m afraid I cannot disclose anything further.”
“He hasn’t filled us in on much either,” I confirmed.
I myself only knew of the spy’s great strain and hassle recently, him citing political and military tensions leading to a significant workload on his end. It was in the middle of these difficult times that he had discovered the message.
Meyers reached for it, but Pendrick coyly pulled it out of reach.
“How did you… intercept this anyways?”
The question seemed to rustle the spy. “It was found near secret government facilities.”
… the area just outside his hidden office in his civilian home, I completed in my head.
“Mr. Pendrick,” said George, “You sounded rather amused over the phone. May I ask why?”
It was that moment that Pendrick’s smile illuminated his entire face. He gestured widely, the page in his hand flapping along with his arm.
“One would think,” he proclaimed, relishing in and sharply punctuating his words now, “that for every instance of the world mocking and spitting in your face, Terrence Meyers, it would eventually tire of pitying your folly.” He shook his head. “I can’t blame you for trying, though. I think that we have very similar luck.”
“Enough with the riddles, Pendrick,” Meyers barked, “The fate of the world and peace as we know it could depend on this.”
He stuck out a hand to accept the letter. Pendrick, still grinning, handed it to me instead.
“I highly doubt it,” he fake-whispered, as if I were a part of some inside joke. “As this appears to be a love letter.”
I felt my eyes pop out. As Meyers, clearly finally thrown by the inventor’s words, repeated aloud love letter, I pulled the page up to read it:
My dearest Juliet,
I write this shortly after receiving your latest message. I find it adorable that you dont seem to be willing or even able to convey any well-thought out sentiment when I see you face-to-face, but with a pen you can lay out such touching words. This revelation during the first letter you wrote was truly quite big for me. Is it poetry that youre always scratching down in your journals? While reading your most recent one I actually blushed — and I dont admit this lightly. My brother dropped by for a visit just after I had finished it and I have never seen him more smug. Usually, Im the one making fun of him and to have him tease me about being lovestruck is really the peak of how much Im sacrificing because of my love for you. Haha.
He did bring gifts from New York. Theyre quite lovely. Meet me at our spot on Friday at six oclock and I will show you… Surely by now you know this, but most of my time is wasted away simply anticipating seeing you again.
Forever yours,
RB
After I reached the end, I was met with a moment of unpleasant silence, filled only with the little occasional sounds of Pendrick’s associates’ work.
“That’s… rather sweet,” George declared.
I concurred, but Meyers snatched the page from my hand.
“It’s a code, surely.” he said brusquely.
“A code?”
“Why would a love letter turn up where we found this?”
At that moment I wished to remind him of how he lived with two young people who had plenty of use for love letters, especially his sweet daughter, unless she had gotten married since the last time I had heard of her. The son, I couldn’t picture being associated with such affairs, but who knew, perhaps he had a soft heart underneath that cynical exterior. It was possible even the now-bachelor Lyle Anderson, the insurance company owner, had some secret paramour, and he was concealing it now to save face.
Either way, I could not question it, as we were in the presence of various individuals who knew nothing of the children he had in his civilian life. The things I did for this man.
He continued with his theory:
“It alludes to gifts—could be plans, or contraband, or a secret weapon—as well as a meeting place and time. The rest of the letter could simply be to maintain the ruse.”
“It seems a bit… romantic and detailed for a secret message.” I said.
“We’re spies, Murdoch,” Meyers laughed, “Acting is half the job.”
“I’ve known some of the most straight-laced and sour men to have rather saccharine words.” offered Pendrick quietly. I did not have the energy to discern what he meant by that. I may have imagined it, but he winked.
I frowned and directed my attention back to the spy.
“Why encrypt it, then?” I asked, “Wouldn’t the appearance of an innocuous love letter suffice?”
“Why would some normal lovers need to encrypt their messages, especially putting such great effort into the cipher? Besides, look at the names.” He pointed up and down the page, finger with the fury of a blade. “Juliet. R, like Romeo. They’re obviously aliases.”
I could think of multiple reasons why lovers would feel the need to conceal their messages, but before I could voice my concerns, Meyers was thanking Pendrick and making for the exit. Pendrick himself hadn’t wiped the smile from his lips, his smirk directed towards the spy’s back as loud as a cackle. He then raised his eyes to me, wiggling his eyebrows without another word: a playful act of sharing the joke—and clear indication of his fondness of me, I supposed—that I would have reciprocated were it not for my deep and familiar exasperation for our acquaintance who had just made it to the door.
Our day had just gotten much longer.
“The character from Shakespeare’s play’s surname begins with an M,” I pointed out drily.
“Romeo Bontague,” said George.