The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (10 page)

Eichel held his position.  “Surely you have access to her files.”

Calla sighed.  “Even if I did, I wouldn’t be authorized to share anything.  Listen, unless you’re going to give me more information, I’ll just have to contact the British authorities.”

He drew back, narrowing his eyes. 

A shrilling beep came from his police radio.  The signal was weak. He studied it as it flickered on and off, before switching it off completely.  “Come. I think you’ve seen enough.”

They advanced back toward the door and an awkward silence swamped them, until they re-entered the security room.  Eichel roamed towards two museum officials and exchanged a few words. 

Calla’s inquisitive ear picked up most of the German conversation as the men debated whether to keep her for questioning.  Soon, agitated discussions escalated as police and other administrators determined the next steps in the investigation.

Faint lights overhead triggered Calla’s fatigue.  She signaled for Eichel’s attention with her hand.  “Herr Eichel, before I go, I need to know if your investigation will focus on Allegra’s disappearance.”

He turned his head and ambled to her side.  “We’ve alerted British Intelligence.  They’ll send an agent to help us with the investigation.”

“Can I go now?”

“Yes. For now.”

He escorted her to the exit of the museum.  “Please take my card.  I can’t force you, but advise you to stay in Berlin a few days, in case we have more questions.”

Calla took his card and turned to the door. 

He set a steady hand on her elbow barring her. 

She glimpsed down at his imposing fingers that gently gripped her arm.  Judging from his stance, he could certainly damage it if he wanted to.  “Frau Cress, we’ll expect your full cooperation.”

“Of course.  I take it the investigation here is going to focus more on the artifacts than finding Allegra.”

CHAPTER SIX

US Embassy, London

Nash shook David Masher’s firm hand.  The lieutenant-colonel reminded Nash of a witty comedian.  The kind of man you needed in the Marine Corps.  It kept the men in touch with normalcy, a leadership flair that Nash admired.  Masher had often used humor to help troops cope with combat and operational stress.

Masher’s narrow eyes gleamed at him like two pieces of steel.  His thick, ginger hair was neat and closely trimmed in standard keeping with marine regulations, styled so as not to interfere with the proper wear of uniform headgear.

Nash remembered the protocols well.  Even so, he did not miss the strict regiments.  The only facial hair visible on Masher was a faint, graying mustache.  

The two men moseyed down the long hallway inside the marine quarters at the US Embassy.  At the end of the narrow hall, Masher pushed open a private office and asked Nash to take a seat.

Masher settled into a mesh, swivel chair.  The position of lieutenant-colonel suited his brimming personality.  Nash eyed the silver-oak, leaf insignia on Masher’s uniform, in keeping with his rank and relaxed, confident that coming here had not been a mistake. 

He could trust Masher.

“It’s good to see you, Masher.”

“It’s been a while, Shields.  Although I can understand why you left the marines for a job within the NSA.”

Nash knit his eyebrows and fiddled with a sealed brown envelope in his hands.  He handed it to Masher.  “I need a favor.” 

Masher took the envelope.

“Could you hang onto this for me?  I need you to keep it safe.”

“What is it?” Masher asked.

A perturbed look fell on Nash’s face.  He was asking much.  “It’s a memory device.  I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you what’s on it.  I wouldn’t give it to you for safekeeping if it wasn’t important.”

Masher glared at him, his curious eyes questioning Nash’s face.  He gave him an empathetic nod.  “Okay, marine.  Then, I won’t ask.  Anything for the man who saved my life, twice.” 

“Much appreciated.”

Masher tilted his head.  “You okay?”

 “Yeah.  Just need to attend to something.”

Nash rose from his seat and saluted.  He despised leaving matters open with anyone, especially a friend like Masher.  He had learned in his profession, often shrouded with secrecy, whom he could trust. 

And, there were very few.

He strolled to the door.  “I’ll see you soon.”

Masher rose slowly to his feet, worry lines forming on his forehead.  “Nash.  Are you in some kind of trouble, son?”

Nash shook his head.  “No sir, not at all.”

* * *

1:46 A.M.

Calla clenched a sweaty palm, despising Eichel’s forward approach.  “Good bye, Herr Eichel.” 

Her collaboration would be with her own government.

Thirty minutes later, she sidled into the Adlon Hotel lobby.  The night staff in the quiet lobby hardly noticed her arrival except for a knowing nod from the receptionist. 

Calla rubbed slumber from her eyes as she ambled up to her suite.  Soft lights fell onto the dark carpeted hallway. 

Her body ached from weariness, lack of sleep and mounting worry for Allegra.  She'd struggled the whole cab ride with her conversation with Eichel.

Calla paused at her door. 

It stood open.

An inch wide. 

Someone was here. 

A cold shiver shot down her spine, embracing the dreaded option.  She placed a limp hand on the door handle, hesitated, then glimpsed back down the hallway. 

No one was about. 

She fought the urge to alert the night staff, but an inner probing and natural curiosity convinced her to proceed.  She stepped into the still room and lingered by the door.

Leaving the door ajar, she took a step forward.  Whoever had been here had come and left quietly
.

   She listened for any hidden sounds and ambled in slowly.  The street facing windows had been left open with silky curtains wafting in a quiet breeze. Calla proceeded to the window and closed it gently.  The dining room lights had been left on; the same room where she’d left all her belongings.  She inched over to the dark polished desk and inventoried her possessions.  Every item was accounted for. 
What were they looking for?

She continued her investigation throughout the rest of the suite, first the bathroom, then the bedroom, the living room and returned to the entryway dining room. 

Angst gripped her insides.  Yet again, she felt as if she was being observed.  The feeling pierced her with an invasive prod. Someone had marched into her privacy. 
What the heck did they want?

Calla refused to be intimidated.  She’d cured that a long time ago, after being bullied in elementary school.  She’d outsmarted her aggressor with a blow to her nose - short of breaking it.  Since then, Calla had sworn never to live her life in fear.  Her persistence and tomboy nature had seen to that.  She would fight this bully too.

Calla decided that the suite was empty.  She shut the front door and patted the pockets of her jacket for her phone. 

Her fingers grazed a bulky object. 
What’s this?

 She fished in her left pocket, and a moment later, her hand found and gripped a foreign object deep within her garment.  Perplexed, she pulled it out with one strong tug.  A neat bundle of folded, faded papers was in the grasp of her quivering hand.  At first, they resembled a series of old newspaper clippings.  She unraveled mashed papers, sheet after sheet.  Thin as a stretched woman’s stocking, the papyrus unfolded in her hands. 
What’s this?

She peered down at the script, but the low lights made it illegible.  Hurrying to the wall, she switched on the overhead lights never once taking her eyes of the papers.  The words were incomprehensible, the lettering unfamiliar and the writing calligraphic.  A series of neat patterns adorned the aging pages. 

Hang on a second?  Could it be?
In one involuntary measure, her hands rose to her nose and mouth. 

She gasped. 

The movement sent the papers floating in drawn-out, gliding movements to the carpeted floor.  They landed piled on top of the other. 

Calla counted under her breath. 
Seven!

She dipped down next to the historic pile, inches from her feet.  “It’s the manuscript!”  Her eyes blinked.  “It can’t be!”

Think Calla, think!  Where could it have come from?

She searched her recent memory, but even then, nothing made sense. 
Did Eichel plant them there?

He seemed like the type who needed a good investigative victory.  But how could he have managed such a devious feat?

She reached in her other pocket only to find a gilded, solid gold decanter from Priam’s Treasure.  No taller than the size of her index finger, its polished surface appeared a little scratched.  It was secured in a clean plastic bag.  Calla scrutinized the small decanter, and recalled it among the items displayed in London in 1878, before the loot of Troy found a permanent home in Berlin in 1945.  Priam’s Treasure had never been exhibited at the Pergamon, or anywhere else on the museum island, only in the neo-Renaissance
palazzo,
now called the Martin Gropius building.

Am I imagining this?

Until this moment, Calla had not believed that the Deveron document actually existed.  Possibly, because her factual mind told her there was no acknowledged documentation on its existence - a manuscript only few sections of five governments knew about. 

She picked up each sheet, one by one forming a neat stack in her unsteady hands. 

The remarkable lettering glowered back at her.  Along the edge of the sheets, someone had taken the time to lay out what looked like a three-petal flower using secret letters.  If only she’d paid closer attention at the London meeting.  As she continued her examination, she noticed that on page three, the writing went round in a design of a starflower with seven petals.  The letters, and at times the hieroglyphics, together formed the magnificent patterns. 

One did not know where to begin reading, as the words ebbed out, flowing in rhythmic streams, similar to a runny watercolor painting.  They were at times large - at times small, all forming the intended masterpiece.  Calla had imagined the manuscript would have been penned from left to right, or from right to left, as with most known scripts.  Her linguist and anthropological sides merged to see the manuscript for what it really was - a work of art and delicacy.

She examined the writing with a knowledgeable eye, accustomed to scrutinizing texts and symbols of all sorts.  She did not recognize one symbol, letter, hieroglyphic or punctuation.  The fact that some believed this was a military document baffled her as the calligraphy was art at its greatest. 

The script indeed resembled that of the medieval Voynich document.  Nonetheless, she had to be sure.  She would pull up the ISTF meeting notes and know soon enough.

Calla sprung to her feet not once taking her eyes off the document and the ancient decanter.  Her feet stood short of trampling a small folded paper she’d not noticed before. It had fallen out of the manuscript pages and dropped to the floor, inches from her shoe.  She stooped down to retrieve it and unfolded it with determination. 

What she saw threw her back a few steps.  Addressed to her and handwritten with haste, a message in the language of Ayapaneco glared at her. 
It can’t have been written too long ago.

Like so many other indigenous languages, Ayapaneco was at the risk of extinction.  It had been spoken in Mexico for centuries and survived many challenges including the Spanish conquest.  Ayapaneco had witnessed and triumphed over wars, revolutions, famines, and floods.  Only two living souls could speak this language today.  Ironically, they refused to talk to each other.  The Mexican government was trying to ensure Ayapaneco did not die with the last two fluent speakers.

Calla studied the language out of interest.  Not too long ago, Allegra had suggested she work on a month’s mission to aid the Mexican government in their efforts of sustaining the language.  That had been three summers back.  She could read the language, but was limited in reproducing it fluently.  Whoever sent this to her knew that little detail.

The note read:

Calla,

Get out of Berlin.  Take the Deveron Manuscript and the decanter with you.  You are the only one who must translate the Deveron and unravel its mystery.  It must never fall into the wrong hands.  Follow your instincts.  Never reveal what you find to anyone.  The manuscript belonged to your parents.  It's now your responsibility.

A thundering knock on the front door startled her.  She scuttled to her feet and instinctively hid the manuscript and goblet under a set of cushions on the couch. 

“Who is it?”

“Hotel delivery.  A package for you,” said a man’s voice in German.

At this time?
She checked her cell phone for the time.