John tapped Solomon’s key against the rim of his beer glass and continued twirling it wistfully through his fingers. Someone knocked into him as a cheer erupted about the Fontainbleau Hilton’s glow bar, interrupting his daydream and snapping him back into reality. Evidently the Miami Heat had just taken the lead in their playoff game.
He glanced down at his notebook and scratched his nose. He’d made his one and only breakthrough before his first drink arrived, but he was struggling to make sense of its significance. Solomon had encrypted the message on the bit of scrap paper using a code taken from page one of the cryptology 101. For whatever reason the old professor saw fit to hide the real message by substituting each figure with the letter or number following it. Once run through this rudimentary cipher, ‘SPTXFMM – 181858’ therefore becomes, ‘ROSWELL – 070747.’ But so what? What could it mean?
John was well aware of Roswell’s reputation as a Mecca for conspiracy theorists the world over. The believers claimed the small town in New Mexico played host to an alien crash site back in the forties; a crash which was publicised before being subjected to an alleged government cover up.
John was indifferent to the subject, he neither believed in the existence of alien life nor questioned the possibility they could exist. In his opinion there were plenty of mysteries still to be solved on Earth without looking for more beyond the realms of its atmosphere.
With the basketball game failing to hold his attention, he ran a quick Wikipedia search for Roswell on his phone. It was a captivating, if brief, story. The crash was supposed to have occurred on the 7th July 1947 – a date explaining away the numbers on Solomon’s note. The United States Armed Forced maintains to this day the debris found at Roswell came from an experimental surveillance balloon. Their explanation would never have been questioned had the Roswell Army Air Field public information officer issued a conflicting press release earlier in the day. A press release asserting that the attending 509th Operations Group had recovered a “flying disk”.
‘Are you finished with that, sir?’
John jumped at the intrusion and looked up to find one of the bar staff hovering next to his table. ‘All done thanks,’ he said, nudged his empty glass towards the man. ‘Could I order another please?’
‘Certainly, sir. Bud was it?’ John nodded. The man smiled, ‘So what is it you’re hiding away?’
John frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just I’ve got one for my rarest baseball cards. Worth a fortune some of them.’
‘You’ve got one what?’ asked John.
The man nodded at Solomon’s key, ‘A Bank Atlantic safety deposit box. I recognise the key.’
John shook his head feigning stupidity, ‘Of course, sorry my head is somewhere else.’ The man smiled and returned to the bar leaving John exhaling heavily in his wake. A safety deposit box… What had Solomon deemed important enough to hide away in a safety deposit box? John’s heart beat started to climb. Surely not evidence of aliens?
John rose to his feet trying to catch the eye of the barman, ‘Sorry mate, something’s come up, can I cancel that beer?’ The man nodded. ‘By the way, which branch is your box in?’
The barman looked confused, ‘40th Street, why?’
‘Is that the closest?’ The barman nodded as John slid a ten dollar bill across the counter. ‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. Could you call me a cab please?’
‘No need, sir, there’s always at least three or four taxis out front.’
John rolled his eyes, ‘Of course, how stupid of me. Thanks again.’ He turned to leave and froze as a hand gripped his bicep. ‘Fancy some company on your trip, Hunter?’ John relaxed his body, ready to strike out if the situation escalated. ‘Don’t try anything. I know you’ve got Special Forces training, however limited it might have been,’ whispered the faceless voice. ‘You must believe I’m here to protect you. Listen to me and pretend we know each other. We are being watched. Now continue walking and do something natural. Laugh or something.’
John forced a smile and hissed his reply through his teeth, ‘What do you mean we’re being watched? Who would want to watch me?’
The man pushed him through the exit. ‘Check your jacket pocket.’
John did as he was told. ‘It’s empty.’
‘Check again.’
John re-inserted his hand and made an exaggerated show of his search. This time however he found something. It was no bigger than the head of a pin but nonetheless it was something. He withdrew his fingers and looked at the tiny piece of metal he’d retrieved. ‘What the…’
The stranger grabbed it, ‘It’s a tracking device. It was slipped in your pocket when the cheer for the Heat went up.’ He threw it into the air and caught it, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll dispose of it once we’re clear of the hotel. No point in letting them know we’re onto them just yet.’
John shook his head in confusion. ‘Them? Who is this “them”? And who the hell are you for that matter? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just scream for the police.’
The man smiled. ‘Solomon said you’d react this way. Look at me. Don’t you recognise me?’
He moved into the light of a nearby bulb. John narrowed his eyes. The man was a medium build and clean shaven with dark curly hair. A knee length trench coat concealed his clothing. John grimaced as the light exaggerated a slight bump protruding from the stranger’s chest. Whoever he was this man was armed. Then it hit him. ‘Shit, you’re that bloody hobo from outside the home!’
