The Magdalene Cipher by Jim Hougan Read Free Book Online Page B

“Yes,” he said. His interrogator put a check next to the question .
    â€œHave you ever been to London?”
    Fourteen times twelve is, uhh . . . a hundred-and-forty plus twenty-eight: 168! “Yes.” Another check .
    And so it went .
    â€œAre you familiar with the cryptonym MK-IMAGE?”
    Twenty-seven times eight: 216. “No,” Dunphy said, making a mental note. His arithmetic was getting better. (But what’s MK-IMAGE a?)
    â€œDid Mr. Davis contact you on the day that he left London?”
    Three hundred and forty-one divided by eight is . . . forty-two and—Dunphy’s mind went blank. Forty-two and something. Forty-two and . .  . change a. “Yes,” he said. Check .
    â€œAnd did he tell you where he was going?”
    Dunphy let his mind go blank. “No,” he said. Just like that .
    Another little check .
    And he was home free .

Chapter 7
    Dunphy’s old passport, wallet, and clothes were waiting for him in a suitcase at his hotel that evening. So was a small plastic bag that held his toothbrush and razor, a fistful of old receipts, pocket change that had been on his dresser, a Mason Pearson hairbrush, and other miscellany. A black laundry marker had been used to label the bag personal effects , which gave Dunphy a weird sense of déjà vu. This is what it’s like, he thought, this is what happens when you’re dead. They put your toothbrush and pocket change in a Baggie and send it to the next of kin. Exhausted, he sat down on the bed, lay back for a moment, and . . . drifted off .
    The telephone’s insistent warble awakened him from a deep sleep, maybe ten hours later. The voice at the other end of the line told him to report immediately to the Central Cover Staff, and to “bring all your documentation with you.”
    Dunphy did as he was told. A black officer with graying hair and a checklist asked him to “surrender” the passport in Kerry Thornley’s name, his Irish driver’s license, and any “pocket litter” that he had. After each item was checked off the list, it was dropped into a red metal basket marked burn .
    For the first time, he knew for a certainty that he wasn’t going back to England for the Agency .
    In a daze, he took the elevator down to the Personnel Management Office, where he sat for an hour in a lime-green waiting room, leafing through a worn copy of The Economist . Finally, a small gray woman in a print dress appeared and told him that B-209 would be his office “for now.”
    Dunphy knew headquarters as well as anyone, but . . . “Where’s that?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” she said, genuinely puzzled. “You’ll have to ask security.”
    In fact, B-209 was in the basement of the North Building, on a wide corridor between two loading docks. The corridor doubled as a sort of storage area for new computer equipment, office supplies, and (as Dunphy soon realized) Agency fuckups and paramilitaries attachéd to the International Activities Division (IAD) .
    Forklifts rumbled down the corridor from one dock to another, slamming into each other and the walls. Because of the noise, people spoke louder here than elsewhere at headquarters, and there was a certain amount of “manly horseplay” (which is to say, juvenile clowning around) ongoing at all times. Indeed, it seemed to Dunphy as if a cloud of testosterone hung in the corridor like will-o’-the-wisp on a back road in Maine. It would have been impossible to think in such a place—if there had been anything to think about. But there was nothing. He was on hold .
    His office was a buff-colored cubicle with tremulous partitions that served as sliding walls. It was furnished with a beige swivel chair, a hat rack, and an off-white bookcase. An empty filing cabinet sat in the corner next to a brand-new burn basket. There was a telephone on the floor and a copy of