Thursday 22 May 1941
20:30hrs
Aahmed Abdul Zyzz naps at
his desk in the cramped office overlooking his warehouse on Pier 9.
The cavernous hangar is filled with a mountain of munitions, fuel
and rations. These supplies are being held for delivery to General
Wavell and the British Army, pending the arrival of
trucks to haul it to the battle fields in
Cyrenaica. Trucks are in short supply, however. Zyzz has
been holding this war materiel for weeks and charging the British a
pretty penny for rent.
Figure 1: Aahmed Abdul
Zyzz
Zyzz is a greasy little man
with rotten teeth and a sallow, pockmarked complexion. He's a
chain-smoker, a heroin addict and a purveyor of fine pornography.
Zyzz holds a business degree from Cairo University and speaks
fluent French, Italian and German. He is head of the secretive
Hashshashin
cult, a Nazi enthusiast and an active
Abwehr collaborator. In all, a treacherous, repugnant
character who has lost count of the men (and women) he has
murdered.
He snaps to full attention as far below, a door creaks on
dry rusted hinges. Zyzz is expecting company tonight. Still, he
pats the compact Walther P38 in its shoulder holster, a personal
gift from General
Erwin Rommel. He watches a shadowy figure enter the
building, stride briskly across the dark warehouse floor and
ascend the stair to his office.
The man enters his office without knocking. This tall
character has swarthy skin and a black flowing beard. He wears a
black turban and traditional Bedouin robes. A silver dagger
hangs from his belt. Abu Hassan is here tonight to pick up an order
for delivery to Rommel's
Afrika Korps.
"Greeting, Brother." Zyzz
makes an inconspicuous hand motion, a sign of recognition among
fellow Assassins. Hassan replies with the appropriate
countersign.
"I bring a message from the Desert
Fox," Hassan hands over an envelope. The tan wax on the flap is
sealed with the Afrika
Korps insignia.
Figure 2: The
Afrika Korps
insignia
Zyzz examines the encrypted
message. He hopes it is a response from General
Rommel to the coded message he sent by courier last night. Hassan
assumes that it's just another order from the Desert Fox
for more British contraband.
"This will take a while to decipher," Zyzz says. "You might as
well go outside and get some sleep."
"No," Hassan counters. "My camels are restless. You will come
get me when you have the first item. We will begin loading as soon
as possible."
"Very well," Zyzz concedes. "Now get out of here until I call
for you!"
As Hassan returns to the
shadows, Zyzz pulls a tattered notebook from his pocket. He opens
it to a table he uses to translate hieroglyphics to our
familiar Latin alphabet. He grabs a legal pad and a pencil then
sits down to complete the two-step decryption process.
"I hate this bull-squat!" Zyzz thinks, as he opens the
envelope to begin the first step, a simple substitution procedure.
"Rommel thinks I am his personal
cipher clerk! If the money
wasn't so good I would tell all these foreign bastards to screw
themselves!"
Moments later, Zyzz is focused intently on decrypting the enigmatic
symbols. He does not hear the petite, scantily clad woman emerge
from the broom closet at the darkened end of his office. She creeps
silently toward Zyzz, a stout mop handle in her hand.
The wooden floor creeks. Zyzz turns and is astonished to see Faye
Valentine lunge at him from the shadows. Before he can react she
smashes the mop handle across his nose. Zyzz collapses, blood
gushing from his now deviated septum.
Valentine stands frozen with fear, trying to think of what to
do next. Zyzz lies on the floor, writhing in pain. Suddenly he
kicks at her legs, trying to knock her down where he can pounce and
pin her. She deftly avoids this attack and counters with a swift
punt to his groin. She snatches the hieroglyphic message and stuffs
it into her bra. Then she dashes down the stairs and sprints
toward the door.
Friday 23 May 1941 10:30
hrs
Lower Nile River, Egypt
Springtime in the
Mediterranean – is there anything more delightful to the senses?
After completing our latest
assignment,
The Hessian Proposal
(Case #GC1B3KA), Mynx and I are enjoying
a well-deserved holiday compliments of my boss, OSS
Director ‘Wild’ Bill Donovan. This is just what the doctor ordered.
I had to use my powers of persuasion (that is, I begged) to make it
a trip for two, but my groveling worked. As a result, Mynx
d'Meanor, my partner and SOE
agent provocateur, is now
my bunkmate. Life is good.
Life is also full of
compromises. To get Mynx on board I had to promise Donovan that we
would write a report on the Hess caper during the cruise. So, in
the rare moments when Mynxy isn’t sunbathing or playing
shuffleboard by the pool, and when I’m not in the casino tossing
the dice or in the lounge, tossing back Johnnie Walker Red,
we’ve actually spent a few hours wrapping up that case. It was a
doozy, in my opinion, and I’m glad to get the details down in
writing before time fogs our memories. It’s all classified, of
course, and goes straight into the War Department files, where no
one will ever see it again.
Figure 3: Biff St. Clair
(left); Mynx d'Meanor (right)
We’ve booked passage from
Lisbon on the luxurious Portugese steamer
Vasco da Gama and have
made ports of call in Spain, Morocco, Crete and Egypt. We're
traveling on fake Swiss passports and spending lots of real Swiss
francs, which the locals are more than happy to
take. There’s a war on, but we've seen scant evidence of
it on this trip. The
Spanish Civil War is over and though a million
people were killed, the weary Spaniards still welcome foreign
visitors with open arms.
In
Heraklion,
still untouched by military conflict, the natives seem a little
tense. But, with both Hitler and Mussolini circling like
hungry jackals, who can blame them?
Mynx has been on numerous
duty-free shopping sprees and has already filled two steamer
trunks with the latest Mediterranean fashions in clothing,
shoes and perfume. Now we’re docked in Alexandria for a few
days. On a whim, we decide to book passage up the Nile to Cairo on
an ancient steam powered paddle boat, the
Karnak. Mynxy just has to
see the pyramids at
Giza and, what the hell, I’m game.
Friday 23
May 1941 18:35
hrs
Cairo,
Egypt
We drink in the atmosphere,
basking in the evening sun, while sipping tiny cups of
intense coffee at an outdoor café in the old marketplace near
the Necropolis. Mynx is wearing a shear spaghetti-strap camisole
and pleated walking shorts. Her shapely, naturally
bronzed legs stretch across the ancient tiles where they terminate
in ten perfectly pedicured toenails, all painted bright red. A pair
of yellow, open-toe
huaraches lie under the
table.
The cacophony of sights,
sounds and odors in the bazaar wash over me like the surf on the
beaches of Tunis, and frankly, it’s intoxicating. I’m a little
sleepy I guess. It’s all turning into a pleasant kind of blur,
when an unfamiliar voice, with an unsettling sense of urgency,
startles me back to full consciousness.
“Mr. St. Clair! Mr. Biff St.
Clair!” A distinguished Edwardian gentleman wearing khakis and
a pith helmet emerges from the chaotic throng and stands before us
at the table.
“Mr. St. Clair, I presume?”
If that’s not British, I don’t know what is.
“Dr. Livingstone?” I ask, only
half kidding.
“Oh, no, no!” chuckling because he catches the joke. “Hawksley
here. Humphrey Hawksley, at your service.”
“Sir Humphrey!” Mynx, of
course, immediately recognizes the name. “Please join us.” She
motions me to grab a chair from the next table. “What an honor and
a pleasure, sir! I’m Mynx d'Meanor. And this is Biff St. Clair, my
colleague and traveling companion. Gosh Sir Humphrey!” At this
point she’s beaming. “I’ve read all your books!”
“My friends call me Humpy,
my dear,” kissing the back of her hand, “and I’d be honored if you
did the same.” Mynx has a weak spot for upper-crust
British charm and Sir Humphrey exudes it from every
pore.
Figure 4: Sir Humphrey
Hawksley
We are, I discover in the
course of our conversation, in the exalted presence of Sir Humphrey
Hawksley, GBE, the leading Egyptologist of our time. The waiter
delivers more coffee for us and a pot of tea for Humpy – no, I
just can’t say it – Sir Humphrey.
After a long and satisfying
sip from his cup, Sir Humphrey pulls a battered briar pipe from his
coat pocket. He fills the bowl from a small pouch of pungent
Egyptian shag. This he tamps carefully then pulls
a kitchen match from his shirt pocket and strikes it on the
table. Finally he lights the tobacco while pulling a draught
that would suck a softball through a garden hose. It appears that
Sir Humphrey has at last gathered himself and is ready to get down
to business.
“Mr. St. Clair,” he
begins.
“Biff,” I gently correct him. “Please call me Biff. All my
friends do.”
“Very good, then.” He says. “Biff it shall be. I have a
problem…”
“And you can call me Mynx,” she interjects.
“Agreed.” He takes another
sip of tea and a couple of puffs while eying us in a curious
fashion. I think Humpy may have to regroup and start
over.
“So, here’s my problem,” he
finally says. “It’s rather urgent, I suspect, and you, my friends,
may be in a unique position to help me solve it. At the same time,
we may have the opportunity to save a young lady’s
life.
“Perhaps we should get to the
point,” I suggest.
“Indeed. Indeed.” Sir
Humphrey concurs. “Let me describe the situation, then together we
can perhaps devise a solution.”
Before either of us have
another chance to interrupt, he plows ahead, recounting in
frightening detail, a lurid story of mystery and
intrigue.
“I was walking through this
same bazaar yesterday evening,” he begins, “visiting my
favorite tobacconist, when a beautiful young woman rushes up
to me and presses this mysterious message into my hand.” He
produces a folded sheet of foolscap.
I spread the paper out on
our tiny table. As I do, we all stare intently at the
following:
Figure 5: Mysterious
hieroglyphic message
After a few introspective
moments, Mynx breaks the silence.
“Hieroglyphics,” she observes.
“Fascinating. What does it mean?”
“I don’t know,” Sir Humphrey
admits. We both stare at him incredulously. “But let me finish then
we can discuss that in detail.”
“The young lady,” he
resumes, “is fair skinned, with black hair and large hazel eyes. I
suspect she is from western Europe, or perhaps America. I
can’t know for sure because she does not speak,” then he leans
forward and whispers, “but I shan’t soon forget the look of terror
in her eyes. The poor girl was half crazy with fear.”
“She turns from me and tries to disappear into the crowd, but
almost immediately two burly ruffians seize her and drag her into a
side alley,” by this time Hawksley’s eyes are flashing. “I run
after them, with the idea of taking my cane to the brutes, but the
trio disappears completely.”
“Shortly after that incident,” he continues, “I return to my
lodgings and examine the girl's message with great care. I
must tell you that I can read hieroglyphics as easily as you can
read the London Mirror,
but this passage is a meaningless jumble of symbols, an Egyptian
alphabet soup. Why would she pass this nonsensical message to me,
especially if her life depended upon my understanding it? I
find it quite vexing.”
“Vexing, indeed,” I concur.
“I think I know why you can’t read the message, but please
continue."
At this, Sir Humphrey raises an eyebrow. He takes another sip
and a puff then pushes on with his peculiar narrative.
“This morning, after a restless night, I searched all the
local newspapers, both English and Egyptian. I found this article
on the third page of the Middle
East Times, Cairo’s leading English-language paper.” He
pulls a scrap of newsprint from his pocket. Mynx and I lean forward
as he opens it on the table.
Figure 6:
Middle East Times news
article
“The girl I encountered in
the bazaar was definitely Faye Valentine. Now look at this,”
Hawksley says, pulling another newsclip from his pocket. “Here is
an article that appears on page 12 of
Al-Ahram, the leading
Arabic-language newspaper.
Figure 7:
Al-Ahram news
article
“Allow me to translate,” Sir
Humphrey continues.
Missing Woman
Miss Faye Valentine (see photo) an unmarried American woman is
reported missing and may have been abducted. She is a newspaper
reporter from the American city of Chicago. Miss Valentine has been
visiting Cairo for several weeks. Her seductive styles of dress and
crass western manners have created much unhappiness in the
community. She seems to have little regard for local customs and
moral values. Religious leaders have expressed concern that she may
be a prostitute. Yesterday the Mufti Aahmed Abdul Zyzz issued a
fatwa, ordering Miss Valentine to be punished for her
indiscretions.
“It sounds,” I say, studying
the clippings, “like this Valentine babe may have stepped into some
nasty Islamic doo-doo.”
“Indeed,” Sir Humphrey agrees. “More so than you may
realize. Ninety percent of the Egyptian population is Sunni Muslim.
Aamed Abdul Zyzz, however, is a leader of the
local Shiite minority. More importantly, he is also rumoured
to be head of the tiny, but influential
Hashshashin cult in Egypt.”
“In that case,” muses Mynx, “Zyzz may
have issued the
fatwa to stop her
investigation.”
“Exactly, my dear!" Sir Humphrey concurs. "Unfortunately for
Miss Valentine, the only punishment in the
Hashshashin
legal system is death. The
fatwa is an order for
all Assassins to hunt her down and
kill her.”
“She may already be dead!” I exclaim.
“No,” Hawksely disagrees, “if she were dead, the police would
have found her body. The Assassins will want it known that the
fatwa has been carried out
successfully. She is still alive, I believe, but perhaps not for
long.”
“Then we have to act fast!” Mynx is ready to rock and
roll.
“This incoherent message may provide some clue to her
whereabouts,” Humphrey sighs, returning to the hieroglyphic
mélange, “if I could only
read it!”
“I’m sure of
that.” I agree. “We have to break the cipher! It’s our only
chance.”
“Cipher?” Sir Humphrey isn’t trained to think like us
spies.
“Yes,” I explain. “I expect that this message is a
double-encrypted cipher. If you can convert the hieroglyphics to
their alphabetic roots, Mynx and I can work out the second
encryption, which may be very simple... or not.”
"Biff,” Mynx cautions, “we may be in danger
ourselves, sitting here with this message in plain
site.”
“Good point, Mynx." We all rise from the table. "We need to
get out of here
now!”
“We can,” Sir Humphrey suggests, “go to my apartment at the
Great Sphinx Hotel.”
“Sweet!” I exclaim. “Let’s split up and leave the bazaar in
different directions, in case we’re followed. Then we’ll rendezvous
at the Great Sphinx after dark.”
Friday 23 May 1941 21:15
hrs
Great Sphinx Hotel
I wander about the
marketplace for over an hour, pretending to shop, but really
watching for signs that I'm being followed. Satisfied that the
coast is clear I take a roundabout path to the hotel and
proceed to Hawksley’s third floor apartment. I tap lightly on the
door. No answer.
Figure 8: The hieroglyphic
key
“Sir Humphrey!” I knock
again, harder. No answer. I try the door. It’s not locked. I step
inside.
Sir Humphrey’s suite is small, but airy, well appointed and
immaculately kept. Just what one would expect from a retired
officer of the B.E.F. I
see that Sir Humphrey has been here since we parted in the bazaar.
His pipe lies smoldering in an ashtray, his cane and pith helmet
hanging on the coat tree. On the writing desk I note that he's been
working on the hieroglyphic key. I grab Sir Humphrey's worksheet
and shove it in my pocket.
“Something’s wrong here,” I conclude. “He would never go out
without his cane and hat. Where the hell is Mynx?”
Before leaving I place a tiny scrap of paper in the door
jam.
Friday 23 May 1941 22:00
hrs
Cairo Ship
Docks
Twenty
piasters for a taxi ride
across town! And I could probably have walked here just as fast.
I'm wondering if the driver was stalling, purposely taking the
most congested streets in the city. Or maybe I'm getting paranoid
about this creepy place. Well pal, you may not realize it, but
that stunt just cost you a generous tip!
I sprint to Pier 6 and board the
Karnak. Other than the
sentry, dozing in the pilothouse, the boat is empty. Apparently all
hands are on shore leave, enjoying a night on the town. I go to our
tiny berth below deck. Here, too, the door is unlocked. Mynx has
been here – her purse is on the bunk, yellow sandals on the
floor. No sign of a struggle, but it looks like things have
definitely taken a turn for the worse. For the first time in years,
I feel a paralyzing emotion, called panic, rising in my gut. I’m
suddenly at a loss on what to do next – another unfamiliar
sensation for me.
“Great,” I’m thinking, “Now I’ve lost both Mynx and Sir
Humphrey! How bad can this get?”
I take several deep breaths, gather my wits, then write a
brief note for Mynx in our own familiar cipher. I leave it on
her purse then head back to the deck where I collar the
watchman.
Figure 9: Biff's note to Mynx
“Say, Ali Baba," I ask. "Have
you seen a hot oriental babe leave this boat in the past two
hours?”
I make a Coke-bottle gesture
with my hands, while blowing a wolf whistle – universal
gestures for a beautiful woman. The sentry nods enthusiastically,
pointing back toward the city.
“Great," I think. “I guess that
means she was okay when she left here.”
I point to my watch. The sentry
raises a finger. One hour ago.
I bow graciously, then press a
coin into the sentry’s palm. The sentry pulls me close and whispers
urgently into my ear.
“Thanks, Pal. See you later.” I
wonder what that was all about?
Friday 23 May 1941 23:30
hrs
Cairo
Necropolis
Forget the cab! This time I
run back to the hotel. It's somewhat further than I expected. Here
in The Old City the narrow cobblestone streets are very
dark and deserted. The marketplace, too, is empty, the
merchants having packed their wares and left for the
day.
“Nothing happening here,” I think to myself. "Well, onward to
the Great Sphinx."
As I turn to leave, I feel a rush of air pass my ear, then a
sharp thump. A gleaming silver dagger quivers in the wooden post
behind me.
“Holy Crap!”
I hightail it to the hotel, darting from doorway to
doorway, always looking back toward the bazaar. I stop a
couple of times to listen. No approaching footsteps. No more
daggers.
When I finally reach the Great Sphinx, I rush through the
lobby and up the back stairs. I creep silently down the third floor
hallway. As I approach Sir Humphrey’s door, I notice the paper
scrap lying on the floor - someone has been here. Moving closer,
the acrid aroma of Sir Humphrey's tobacco singes my nostrils. Then
I hear a familiar female voice. Confused, I open the door and peek
inside.
“Biffy!” It’s Mynx, at last. “Where have you been? You’ve had
us worried to death!”
She looks like a million bucks in her hand-tailored khaki
cargo shorts, quasi-military safari blouse, matching knee socks and
desert boots. Uh-oh. She’s wearing her pith helmet. That means
she’s ready for danger.
“I went back to the boat!” I protested. “Didn’t you get my
message?”
“Sure!” Mynx replies. “You came and left our cabin while I was
in the head. Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“Then,” Sir Humphrey interjects, “I saw that you had been here
while I was in the lobby, picking up the evening papers. We weren’t
sure where you were going next, so we decided to wait here for
you.”
“Sheesh!” This is getting exasperating. “Okay, I’m here now.
Is there any news?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” Sir Humphrey opens this evening’s
edition of the Middle East
Times to the classified advertisements. He points to a
personal box ad, circled with his red pencil.
Figure 9: Personal ad in the
newspaper
"What do you think it
means?" I ponder the possibilities.
"This could be the break we need to crack this case," Mynx
replies. "Maybe the kidnappers will demand a ransom for their
hostage!"
"I believe she may be right, Biff." Sir Humphrey agrees. "Why
kill Miss Valentine if she's worth money returned
alive?"
"It makes perfect sense," I admit. "But something about the
whole thing smells fishy." Or maybe I need a shower.
"One thing is certain," Mynx continues. "If we don't return
the encrypted message that Valentine gave to Sir Humphrey, they'll
kill
us
! We have to break that cipher before 7:00 PM tomorrow
night!"
Saturday 23 May 1941 04:05
hrs
Great Sphinx
Hotel
The excitement and long
hours have taken their toll on Sir Humphrey. He dozes
fitfully in his favorite chair while Mynx and I struggle to crack
the cipher. He quickly translated the ancient glyphs to the current
alphabetic jumble. He also offered some amazingly perceptive
observations which helped put us on the right track. I guess
Egyptology uses some of the same tools as cryptanalysis.
"It's a short message," Mynx observes, "but the frequency count is
pretty rough. That suggests a simple substitution."
"The first five-characters are repeated at the end of the
message," I note. "That may be the key - not part of the
message."
Figure 10: Secret message
frequency count
"Okay," Mynx replies. "Let's
apply some reason to this problem. How complicated can this cipher
be, considering the riff-raff that's using it?"
"Good point," I concede. "Most likely it's a
unilateral
substitution, nothing more."
"Right!" Mynx agrees. "Let's make a list of ciphers
that they might be using."
"Well," I begin. "The Gronsfeld and the Beaufort ciphers are still
popular."
"Right," Mynx scribbles these names on her list. "What else?"
"You rarely see it these days," I reply, "but the old Della Porta
cipher is a possibility."
"What else?"
"That's all I can think of."
"Biff," Mynx smiles as she scolds me. "You forgot the oldest cipher
in the book!"
"You mean Vigenere!" I recall. "I'll bet it's one of those
four!"
"You try Gronsfeld and Beaufort," Mynx says. "I'll do the Vigenere
and Della Porta."
"My money is on Vigenere," Sir Humphrey has been listening with his
eyes closed.
Saturday 23 May 1941 08:20
hrs
Cairo Ship
Docks
"Let me go, you bastard!"
Faye Valentine struggles against the ropes that bind her wrists and
ankles. "You're dead meat when my boss gets a hold of you!"
"Put the gag back on her!" Zyzz motions to Hassan. "I can't stand
her constant whining."
"Oww!" Hassan raises a hand to strike her. "The bitch bit
me!"
"No!" Zyzz warns. "We mustn't damage the merchandise! Put her in
the back seat and cover her up. You have to get going."
"Listen to me, my pretty little slut," Zyzz sneers through the rear
door window like a wolf with rotten fangs. "It would please me to
disembowel you right now, but you are worth much more to me alive
than dead."
Faye's hazel eyes flash with rage. She's so mad right now that she
doesn't realize how frightened she feels.
"My friend is taking you for a little ride in the desert," he pulls
the coarse woolen blanket over her head. "Behave and you might
actually survive. Not likely, but possible."
The tires squeal as Hassan jams the transmission into gear. The old
Fnord sedan flies down the pier and out of sight.
"Lucky for me," Zyzz thinks to himself as he returns to his dark
hole in the warehouse. "that I was able to translate enough
of Rommel's message to deliver the girl. But she stole it
before I could decipher the location of my ransom payment! I've
got to recover my message
from that white snake Biff St. Clair!"
Saturday 23 May 1941 10:35
hrs
Great Sphinx
Hotel
Most folks don't realize how
much time it takes to break a cipher, even a relatively simple
one. I had to think for a while just to remember how the
Gronsfeld cipher is
constructed. Then, of course, I had to run tests on all the ways
that the keyword can be transformed into a number. Six hours later
I've come to the conclusion that Gronsfeld is a wild goose
chase.
"Whew!" I stand and stretch my arms above my head. "I've got
to take a break and grab some breakfast. Anyone care to join
me?"
"Hold on!" Mynx looks like an owl wearing her thick round
reading glasses. "I think I'm onto something here!"
At Sir Humphrey's suggestion she has been running various
alternatives through
the
Vigenere matrix. Could
it be that her efforts are beginning to bear fruit? I scribble
furiously as Mynx calls out the decrypted letters. In minutes we
are staring at the solution.
"This must be where they are holding Faye Valentine!" I
exclaim.
"Then let's get going!" Mynx grabs her pith helmet. Sir
Humphrey is standing at the door, cane in hand.
The
Mission
Biff's dream vacation has
turned into a murderous nightmare. Seems like mystery and intrigue
follow this duo, wherever they go. Your mission is to carry on
in their footsteps - rescue Faye Valentine and find the hidden
ransom cache. You'll have to keep your wits about you. Danger
lurks in every dark corner. There are clues all around you.
Some are more significant than others.
Most important, of course, is
the hieroglyphic cipher in Figure 5. Crack this two-part code and
all of your questions will be answered, including where to find
Faye and then locate the cache, where you'll recover her ransom.
You do not have to physically visit the posted coordinates. You
will
project a waypoint
from here to the final.
The hieroglyphics provide a
thin veil which, when parted, reveals a Vigenere cipher. In the
19th century this cipher was considered unbreakable and
was used by generals, politicians and ambassadors around the
world. Today, however, it is merely an historical curiosity. An
Internet search will provide numerous tools to help
you decipher Rommel's reply to the Assassins demand for
payment in exchange for Faye Valentine.
Thursday 28 May 1941 20:05 hrs
Somewhere in the eastern
Mediterranean Sea
We are back on
board the good ship
Vasco da Gama,
steaming westward toward Malta. It's a stormy night. The rain
forces us indoors, first to the casino, then to the bar and
eventually back to our cabin. At Mynxy's suggestion we play a long
and sensual game of strip poker, with lots of smooching and
fondling. This puts us both in the mood for a vigorous calisthenic
workout. The bunks in these cabins are tiny, but we've become
experts at doing it whenever, and wherever, the opportunity
arises.
I'm spent, for the moment, and Mynx is purring in my ear like a
kitten. These are the times when we share our most intimate
thoughts and feelings. As it turns out, we both are still thinking
about Faye Valentine, Sir Humphrey and their bizarre situation, now
disappearing in our wake.
"Biff," Mynxy props her elbow on my stomach, "think about how
we got involved in this brouhaha."
"Brouhaha?" I ask.
"Ha! Ha! Ha!" she guffaws, holding her sides.
"Ha! Ha! Ha!" I can't help it. It's been almost forty years and
those guys still crack me up.
"Well," I recall, "we were in the marketplace, minding our own
business, when Sir Humphrey popped up out of nowhere, seeking our
assistance."
"But how," Mynx wonders, "did he find us? How did he know who
we are? How did he know we were in Cairo?"
"Hmm. Good questions."
"And think about this," she continues. "He guided me toward the
Vigenere cipher, rather than the other possibilities."
"Yeah, but," I counter, "he didn't guide me!"
"That doesn't matter. I'm much better at cracking ciphers than
you." She's right about that. "In fact, I work faster when you're
not pawing me and making suggestive comments." She gently squeezes
a sensitive part of my anatomy to make her point.
"Ow!" I protest, but then, "Hey, don't stop!"
"I think he put you onto the Gronsfeld cipher just to keep you out
of my hair." Then she relents. "Not that I mind having you in my
hair."
"Saddle up cowgirl," I pull her on top of me. "Let's
ride!"
About Sir Humphrey
Hawksley
Good questions, Mynx.
What Sir Humphrey didn't tell you is that he's had a long and
productive career in His Majesty's secret services. He was one of
England's top cryptanalysts, working for Admiral 'Blinker' Hall in
Room 40, during World War I. Some years later he helped
Admiral Hugh Sinclair establish the Government Code and Cipher
School
(
GCCS), better known as
Bletchley Park during World War II.
Sir Humphrey also did not
disclose that in addition to being a world-renowned Egyptologist
for the British Museum, he is also a retired field agent for
MI6, the British Secret Intelligence Service. In fact,
he still maintains contact with SIS and occasionally renders
services on an ad hoc
basis. It was through MI6 that Sir Humphrey located Biff and Mynx.
He was instructed to request their assistance in recovering Faye
Valentine.
About Faye Valentine
You may have noticed that
Faye Valentine
is a cartoon character. She stars in
Cowboy Bebop, the futuristic Japanese
anime cyberpunk space opera . I love her earthy, sexy, brassy
personality. She's the perfect damsel in distress for my little
story.
Valentine is a foreign correspondent for the Chicago Tribune. She
has covered the war in Europe from the beginning, having filed
reports from Paris, Rome, Tunis and now Cairo. The
investigation of Zyzz and
the Hashshashin
was her idea, a sidebar story meant to provide background on
the complexity of middle eastern culture. While Faye has what
amounts to reckless disregard for her personal safety, she didn't
realize how dangerous the Assassins can be.
About
General Erwin Rommel
Erwin Rommel was perhaps the
only true German hero of WWII. Despite their overwhelming advantage
in soldiers, tanks and artillery, Rommel nearly defeated
the British in North Africa. His eventual loss was, in fact,
due to lack of fuel for his tanks, rather than damages inflicted by
the British. His cunning tactics and elusive nature earned him the
grudging respect of his enemies and the nickname, Desert
Fox.
Rommel believed in and followed the old rules of war. This
means he regarded his enemies with a respect and etiquette
rarely seen in his day. He would not tolerate mistreatment of enemy
soldiers held in his interrment camps. In fact, he often
shared dinner and wine with the ranking British POW officers,
combining good food and pleasant conversation with subtle
interrogation, hoping that the alcohol would induce them to reveal
useful information.
Rommel never joined the Nazi party. In fact, he
detested Goebbels, Ribbentrop and the other thugs in Hitler's
elite circle. When it later became apparent that Hitler was
steering his beloved homeland toward total annihilation, Rommel
joined Admiral
Wilhelm Carnaris in numerous plots to
assassinate the Fuhrer.
Toward the end of the war both Rommel and Canaris were executed for
their anti-Hitler activities.
You may wonder why Rommel would care a whit about Faye Valentine's
welfare, let alone pay a hefty ransom for her safety.
Actually, Hitler was very sensitive to American public
opinion. The majority of Americans were opposed to any military
involvement at this point in the War. Hitler went to great lengths
to avoid provoking any change in this attitude. He knew that all
would be lost if the United States joined the fight with Britain
before Germany completed its invasion of the Soviet Union. When the
Nazis learned that the Assassins had kidnapped Valentine, a
reporter for the rabidly isolationist
Chicago Tribune, Rommel was ordered to secure her safe
return at any cost.
Attention All Geo-Cryptanalysts
The
Assassins
Code geocache can be solved by anyone, from
any location. Unlike most of my other mystery/puzzle caches,
there are no clues to recover in the field. Everything you need is
here, on this page, though you'll find helpful decryption tools
elsewhere on the Internet.
Unfortunately, you must
physically sign the logbook in the geocache to claim a find. I am,
however, willing and pleased to recognize your effort, even if you
can't make the trip to visit us in beautiful middle Tennessee. Send
me your solution by email. If it's correct I'll add your name to
the following Honor Roll.
HONOR
ROLL
| DATE OF SOLUTION |
NAME |
HOME PORT |
YOUR COMMENTS |
| Tue, Jul 08, 2008 11:22 AM |
|
Harriman, TN
USA |
FIRST TO SOLVE!
|
| Tue, Jul 15, 2008 10:20 PM |
dcrep |
Arizona |
Cool! thanks again. |
| Tue, Sep 02, 2008 09:07 AM |
winterdragon |
Adelaide, Australia |
Thanks for a fun puzzle! |
| Mon, Jul 13,
2009 10:08 PM |
smksmith |
Edmonton AB Canada |
The trickiest was the key. |
The image(s) of Mynx
d'Meanor appearing on this geocache web page are produced by Jim
Ferreira and used with permission of Mynx d'Meanor. All of my
mystery/puzzle geocache adventures in which Mynx d'Meanor appears
are entirely fictional, including the biographical info at
Mynx's website.