James Bond sure as hell would have liked this hotel, though. Matt whistled as he looked up at the high corniced ceilings of the Grand, all black-and-white marble floors and broad gilt-railed stairways climbing upward. He hadn’t known the Grand was this nice. Now he was kinda wishing he had a little longer than four days before he’d be out to sea, sleeping on a rack three inches too short, because whoever built berths on ships was under the impression no US Navy sailor ever topped six feet.
Matt had just checked in at the burnished front desk （“Goodness, all the way from Texas! Tell me, have you ever—” “No.”） when a voice hailed him.
“Mr. Matthew Jackson?” said a supple silver-haired man in an expensive checked suit, rising from a chair by the staircase and advancing with a package in his arms. “That is, ST1 Matthew Jackson?”
“Who’s asking?” Matt responded politely but warily. STs didn’t tend to flash their rate and rank out in town, especially overseas.
“Edward Carrington, representative of Baines & Morrissey.” A business card on expensive stock was proffered—the man looked bemused as Matt promptly snapped it with his phone’s camera. “Would you mind showing me some identification?”
“If I can see yours.” Matt snapped the man’s license too; looked up the legal firm （legit）; looked up Edward Carrington （also apparently legit） as the man stood looking increasingly curious. “Can I help you?” Matt finally asked, opening his passport to show his own name and photograph.
“Yes, well. I was told you’d be here today, but no one knew exactly when. Good thing the chairs are comfortable. I believe you’re in room 202?”
Matt checked the hotel key he’d just been handed—202. How did this guy . . . “I don’t really like giving my room number out, thanks.”
“Yes, it was mentioned you might be a bit cagey,” Carrington murmured, hefting the package in his arms. “Still, I believe that satisfies things on our end. Here you are, sir.”
He handed over some kind of box, nearly the size of a carry-on suitcase. Matt juggled its surprising weight, calling, “Hey, what—” but Carrington had already disappeared through the hotel doors.
Puzzled, Matt hauled the box and his bag upstairs to room 202, dumped both on the pristine king-size bed, and took a moment to look out the window at the expanse of York’s skyline before turning back to the package. The box looked old, its leather binding splitting, but someone had attached a very modern padlock to the front and taped the key to the top. No label to say whom it was from.
“Opening the box,” Matt said aloud, “is how the horror movie starts.”
But the occupational hazard with his line of work was curiosity. You couldn’t spend your career solving puzzles without getting a fairly insatiable case of need to know, especially when you spent so much time hearing That’s outside your swim lane, Petty Officer.
What the hell. Probably a prank anyway. Matt went for the key.
It took him a moment to realize that the thing inside was a radio. Jesus, had radios ever changed since they made monsters like this bulky thing with headphones and transmitter. He ended up hauling it out onto the fluffy down comforter, examining it from every angle. Second World War era? Surprisingly good condition. Matt felt around the case, finding some scraps of yellowed paper: a series of dates, a list of what looked like radio frequencies—a World War II frequency rota, what the hell . . . and a letter in an envelope, the outside marked Petty Officer Matthew Jackson.
Dear Petty Officer Jackson . . .
（Maybe handwriting didn’t have gender, but Matt was laying odds this was a chick. Very few guys he knew wore flowery cologne, and this envelope smelled very faintly of lily of the valley.）
There is no way in the world you will believe what I’m going to tell you, but if you tune this wireless receiver to the first frequency on the enclosed list and transmit your position, we’ll give it a go. I’ll pop in on that frequency every day at noon York time until I hear from you. Hopefully the wireless is in condition to transmit; please find a second battery of the correct type enclosed, just in case.
You’re probably wondering who I am—a special duties linguist in the Women’s Royal Naval Service. I have no idea what rank an ST1 is, but I know you are a petty officer in the United States Navy—as a fellow petty officer, I am begging for a moment of your time. Please hear me out.
He couldn’t read the looping signature—L something. Matt laughed out loud. Definitely a prank. Mentally thumbing through which friends might have pulled this off at long distance, Matt glanced at the clock. Nearly two hours to noon, but the wireless was old and tricky, and it took him a while to get her going. He ended up calling down to room service for water, vinegar, lemon juice, and salt （“Tea to go with that, sir?” asked the puzzled woman on the other end） and hunkered down to polish the flakes of rust out of the dials, figure out how the old-fashioned band worked, and test the battery. He was already composing a reply once he figured out who was on the other end: Thought you got me, you assholes; think again.