That Time in Cairo by Logan Ryles (books to read in a lifetime .txt) 📗

“Top inputs are one, nine, six, four, three, and two,” she said. “In that order.”

“Copy that,” Lyle said. “Hold one . . .”

Megan unplugged the computer and brushed hair off her sweaty forehead. She stared at the lock and gently chewed a wad of gum.

Wolfgang scooped the useless safe-cracking tools to one side with his shoe, then stepped a little closer to watch the computer. “What’s Lyle doing?” he whispered.

Lyle said over the earpiece, “Calculating possible combinations using known favored digits and personal information about Pollins. And don’t use my name on coms.”

Wolfgang felt his face flush. “Right. Sorry.”

The minutes dragged on, and Wolfgang wondered how long it would be before the over-zealous security guard downstairs remembered the Canadian with the Chinese food and wondered why he hadn’t checked out yet. Not long, probably, and then there would be trouble.

“Okay,” Lyle said. “It could be her home phone number. All the frequent numbers match.”

Lyle read off a ten-digit number, and Megan punched it in, followed by the pound sign. A red light flashed on the keypad, and the bolt handle wouldn’t turn. Megan brushed hair out of her face again.

“No good,” she said.

“Okay, try her birthday. Eight digits.” Lyle read out the number, and Megan tried it. The red light flashed again, and this time something electronic buzzed inside the safe.

“No good.”

Wolfgang stepped back and watched as Megan attempted a third combination. Again, the red light. Now she chewed harder on the gum, leaning forward and scanning the keypad with her flashlight for any sign of fingerprints or clues to deduct the combination from.

Wolfgang turned away, stepping to the large computer desk at the end of the room and clicking his flashlight on. Papers were scattered across the desktop, mixed with open books and empty coffee cups. Wolfgang shuffled through them, uncovering stacks of research papers and photographs of ancient artifacts. Most of the documents smelled musty and old, as if they’d lain on that desk since the time of the pharaohs. He flipped through a couple of the books, searching for hidden notes or significant highlights. The top book was written in tight lines of academic text, with photos of dead bodies being mummified. The next book was titled The Black Death of Ancient Egypt.

None of the books or papers were inscribed with an eight- to ten-digit number, with “safe code” scrawled beside it.

Wolfgang glanced around the room. The apartment was large, but aside from the stacks of empty takeout containers on the kitchen counter and the piles of research materials on the desk, the living space was almost empty. There were only a couple pictures on the walls—both canvas paintings of Ancient Egypt—and no TV set in front of the couch. No signs of a pet, or a favorite blanket, or even a well-worn novel. Everything about the apartment screamed of a person madly obsessed with her work, and nothing but.

Except there were little rectangular objects mounted next to the front door, and again next to the bedroom door. Wolfgang thought they were security devices at first—motion detectors, or cameras, even. But as he flashed his light across them, he saw blue and white paint, with a hint of gold script. Wolfgang stepped closer to the bedroom door, then peered down at the object. It was about three inches tall and rounded on the face, with a flat back mounted against the wall. The hollow object was made of wood and painted blue with a gold script carved into the face. A rolled piece of parchment stuck out of the top. Wolfgang bent closer as he heard Megan snapping at Lyle behind him.

“No good. That’s five, Charlie Eye.”

The script carved into the tube wasn’t English or even written in the Latin alphabet. It was some other language altogether, and when he slid the tiny scroll out of the top of the tube and unrolled it, the same script was printed on the inside, consisting primarily of tiny black marks with little dots printed beneath them. It wasn’t Chinese, and it wasn’t Cyrillic or Arabic, but it shared characteristics with all three. It was a defined, organized alphabet, long-lost from the current of mainstream society.

Hebrew.

“Six four nine, one one one, three two one,” Wolfgang said, turning to Megan.

Megan stood with her finger held over the keypad, only a millimeter away from punching in her sixth and final attempt. She frowned.

“What?”

“Pollins is Jewish,” Wolfgang said, holding up the scroll. “This is called a Mezuzah—the Hebrew word for doorpost. It’s a tiny scroll inscribed with words from the Torah that some Jewish people put next to the doors in their homes. The specific inscriptions are from Deuteronomy, Chapter Six, verses four through nine, and Chapter Eleven, verses thirteen through twenty-one. That’s nine digits.”

Megan stood with her flashlight between her teeth and an “Are you serious?” look on her face. Wolfgang joined her at the safe.

“When I was a kid, my best friend’s grandfather was Jewish. He kept Mezuzahs on every doorpost in his home. I remember the references.”

Megan took the flashlight from her mouth and accepted the tiny scroll, then scanned it. “I can’t read this.”

“Neither can I. It’s written in Hebrew. But trust me, that’s the combination.”

“He’s right about the references,” Lyle said. “I just googled it.”

Megan fingered the scroll, then glanced at the Mezuzah mounted to the wall next to the bedroom door.

She shook her head. “That’s too obscure. We’ve only got one combination left. We should trust the computer.”

“No,” Wolfgang said. “The computer is programmed to input known factors from her life—things like her birthdate and childhood street address. But people don’t choose passwords based on their demographics, they choose them based on their identities. Look around you. There’s nothing in this apartment that reflects personality. Nothing but sour food cartons and stacks of books from the museum. The only personal, individual thing is the Mezuzah, because her religion is important to her.”

Megan stared at the scroll again, then glanced around the apartment. At last, she cleared her throat.