“A thousand years ago the substitution cipher was thought unbreakable. Yet the Muslims managed to blow it right out of the water and gave the cryptanalysts the upper hand over the encryption people for centuries. That’s why the Vigenère cipher was so revolutionary, frequency analysis was useless against it.”

Sean squirmed a bit in his seat in the face of this lengthy history lesson.

“Forgive me, Mr. King, but I promise I’ll have a point at the end.”

“No, it’s very interesting,” Sean said, stifling a yawn.

“Now, as I said frequency analysis was useless against the Vigenère monster, so craftily and uniquely was it designed. And yet old Charlie Babbage managed to put a knife right through its numeric heart.”

“How?” Sean asked.

“He attacked it from a direction that was absolutely original and indeed set the standard for cryptanalysts for generations to come. And yet he received no recognition for it because he never bothered to publish his research.”

“So how did Babbage’s discovery become known?”

“When scholars went over his notes in the twentieth century, long after the man was dead, they determined that he had been the first to do it. And at long last, here is my point. I christened this place Babbage Town as a homage to a man with a great brain but little ability in self-promotion. However, if we achieve our goals here, have no doubt that we will scream it to the heavens.” Champ smiled. “After we secure all necessary patents ensuring that we will be fabulously rich once commercial exploitations of our various inventions commence.”

“So you get a piece of the pie?”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise. Yet even if we don’t make a fortune the work is exhilarating.”

“So who owns Babbage Town?”

The door opened and a short, barrel-chested man in his early fifties walked in wearing a two-piece suit with a muted tie. His silver hair was gelled down and his eyes were blue and alert. He looked from Sean to Champ.

Champ said, “Len, Sean King.”

On that note, Champ took his nifty, if nonclassical and nonworking, glass tube computer, and walked out. It was only then that Sean fully realized the man had said a lot and told him nothing.

CHAPTER 14

HORATIO BARNES PARKED HIS HARLEY outside the rental apartments near Fairfax Corner, took the keys to Sean and Michelle’s place out of his pocket and then hesitated. Should he check out the truck or condo first? He decided on the Toyota Land Cruiser. It was parked near the entrance to the apartment building.

Horatio unlocked the driver’s side door of the truck and swung it open.

“Holy shit!” was his first reaction. Sean hadn’t been kidding about getting his tetanus shot and wearing a mask. The middle and back cargo areas were so filled with stuff that Horatio couldn’t see the floorboards. Sports equipment, melted PowerBars, bottles of Gatorade, trash, moldy food, a box of twelve-gauge shotgun shells, wrinkled clothes, and a pair of plastic-coated dumbbells littered the truck’s interior. Horatio picked up one of the dumbbells with some effort, then glanced through one of the martial arts magazines piled in the back.

“Okay, note to esteemed but cowardly psychologist. Never really piss the lady off because she will kick your scrawny, middle-aged ass.”

He sat in the middle seat for a bit with the windows down and thought it over. A type-A wound tighter than a golf ball’s innards, and this is what he was looking at? Total, trash-filled chaos?

He walked up to the apartment on the second level and went inside. He easily discerned Sean’s very ordered influence here and also which bedroom was his. The second bedroom had Michelle’s things stacked neatly, clothes hung in the closet, and no trash on the floor, only because the woman had never been here. There was a locked gun safe in the top of the closet where presumably Michelle kept her pistol.

Out on the small balcony was Michelle’s racing scull. It was polished to perfection with a pair of pristine oars next to it. Horatio went back inside. On the table just inside the small foyer was a stack of mail, which he looked through. Most were addressed to Sean, having been forwarded from his previous address. Others were the typical bills and marketing pitches that all of humanity suffered through. Yet there was one more piece of mail; it was a letter addressed to Michelle Maxwell, and it was from her parents in Hawaii. This was probably just a note to let Michelle know how much fun they were having.

As he was wandering around an idea struck Horatio. He called Bill Maxwell in Florida. The man picked up on the second ring.

“This a bad time?” Horatio asked. “If you’re on a high-speed chase just put me on hold and I’ll wait until either you nail the bad guys or I hear the sounds of a car crash.”

Bill chuckled. “I’m off-duty today. I was actually getting ready to do some fishing. What’s up? How’s Mick?”

Horatio had quickly learned from Bill Maxwell that all her siblings called their sister Mick. It was a very brotherly thing to do, he understood.