The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (11 page)

3:23A.M.

Calla inched to the door and peered through the peephole.  She did not have a gun.  She now wished that she’d listened to Nash and obtained one through ISTF.  “For your safety. ISTF work is dangerous,” he’d said. 

But even if I did, would I really shoot anyone?
 

Behind the door, a hotel porter in uniform stood tapping his feet, pressed for time. 

“Leave it at the door,” Calla said.

“It must be signed for.”

“Okay, show me your hands.”

The porter raised an A4-sized white envelope to the peephole that resembled an express, courier package.

“Who’s it from?”

He peeked at the package and attempted to read the writing in the top left corner.  “I can’t say?  Looks like it came from London.”

She took in a deep breath and dragged the door open.

SECOND

CHAPTER SEVEN

DAY 5

3:02 P.M.

Heathrow Airport, London

Calla clutched her carry-on as she stood in line at the immigration counter.

“Next!”

Advancing, she handed the female officer her passport. 

She waited.

Since opening the door to the porter outside her hotel suite in Berlin, nervous energy had been flooding her veins.

He’d seemed credible enough.  Yet, she’d concealed the goblet behind her back and opened the door with discretion.

Instinctively, the porter handed her the package through the door crack.  “I’m sorry to deliver it now.  Please sign here.” 

He held out an electronic device for a signature.

Calla gazed at the parcel.  No information about the sender was evident. 

She signed for it.

He observed her with a curious gaze.  “Sorry to come at such an hour.  I saw you come in at the reception and wanted to get this to you.  It was delivered urgently.”

“Who delivered it?”

“I don’t know.”

The porter left and she took the envelope back through to the dining room. 

Who’d send me a package at this hour? 

She shook it. 

No odd jingles. 

She placed it under her nose. 

No odor.

She took a deep breath and tore it open, peeling the thick tape around the edges with heightened caution.  After one final tug, she thrust her hand in the bubble-wrapped interior and waited for whatever her hands would discover.  The contents slid out without effort and Calla’s eyes fell on the words:

DIPLOMATIC BAG

A document carrier, royal blue in color with the white government seal in the middle and a footnote at the bottom, was concealed inside the envelope. 

Property of Her Majesty’s Government.

Only to be opened by authorized personnel.

No other message or notes were present.

Calla knew what to do.  According to international convention, packages carrying official papers or other materials were above the law.
These documents can’t be opened, detained, or violated. This is my ticket out of Berlin.

She placed the goblet and the manuscript within the diplomatic bag. 

She had no alternative.

Calla had kept the items close at hand on the flight home that lingered like the dawn. There was no turning back. It was not until the plane landed that she realized the extent of her peril. The diplomatic bag was safe from interference, but was she? 

“Miss?”

Calla disengaged from her fear-provoking thoughts, her shoulders tightening.  The immigration officer sat behind a booth.  Her gray hair, held in a neat bun, reminded Calla of a ballet teacher she once knew. With good posture and an uncompromising face, the woman’s eyes gave nothing away. 

The officer studied Calla’s passport, flipping from page to page with a cautious finger.  Numerous stamps adorned several pages of the European document.  They’d been collected in the last several years traveling globally for work, study, and anthropological projects. 

Praying she would not break out in a cold sweat, Calla gripped her carry-on with her right hand, as if to remind herself that it was still there. 

The officer flipped through her passport and stopped at a page. 

Calla raised her chin, desperate to know what she was studying.

“Looks like you’ve done quite a bit of travel?” the woman said.

Calla attempted a relaxed smile.

The woman continued her investigation of the travel document, not once glimpsing up.  “What sort of work are you curators doing these days?”

Calla smirked at the officer’s ignorance of her profession.  “A lot of our work is behind the scenes.  Work with artifacts varies from planning, organizing, interpreting and presenting exhibitions, to caring for museum collections.”

“Interesting.”

“Where are you flying in from today?”

There was no way round this one.  “Berlin.”

The woman raised her head, and studied her face for the first time.  She flicked through two more pages and then scanned the travel document under a laser light.  “I’ve never been to Berlin.  I hear it’s a delightful place.”  She held out the passport to Calla. “Welcome home.”

Calla’s distressed breathing halted as the officer stamped her passport and held it out to her. 

“Next, please!”

Without any checked bags, Calla hastened to the arrival hall intending to expedite through customs. Two uniformed men stood between her and the door to her freedom. 

Calla marched briskly towards the exit without acknowledging them. 

“May I check your bags?” insisted one of customs officers.  “It’s just a random check.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes, we sample passengers throughout the day.”

Adrenaline fired through Calla’s veins. She carefully handed him her carry-on. 

The man handled the brown-leather, hold-all bag and threw it open. 

“I’ve only been out of the country for forty-eight hours.  I’m afraid I didn’t do much shopping,” she said.

The officer dug deep into the various compartments, pulling out item after item, mostly her clothes and toiletries. 

His hands fell on the diplomatic carrier.

“Hey, Clive.  Come over here.”

Calla’s lips trembled.

“Hey mate, I’ve actually never seen one of these.”  He held out the pouch to his colleague.  “I’ve always wondered what they look like.  Now, I know.”

He stashed the item within her bag.  “It’s my first week on the job.”

After he replaced all the contents, he zipped up the bag.  “Thank you.”

Calla stepped out of Terminal 5 into the warm sunshine. 

What the heck am I doing?

She scurried down the escalator towards the London Underground station, glad she’d left her car and wouldn’t need to wrestle with traffic from Heathrow.

Calla bustled towards the eastbound, Piccadilly Line platform, heading for Central London.  When the train approached, Calla proceeded towards the last carriage.  The doors slid open and she veered towards the seats at the back of the compartment, scrambling past disembarking passengers.

Except for a couple with a bubbly toddler seated across from her, the carriage remained empty when the train clanged its doors shut.  She plunged into the upholstered seats and for the first time since leaving Berlin, unwound from her ordeal. 

Her mind mused over her accomplishment and the risk she’d taken.  She’d done as requested and carried the items out of Berlin. Something about the note made her do it - the fact that it mentioned her parents and was in Ayapaneco. 

It was meant only for her, seeing that only two people knew that she understood Ayapaneco, Allegra and Izek Vargas.

It had started as a hobby.  The two living souls who could properly communicate in the language were both in their seventies.  Izek was one of them.  Calla’s fascination with lost languages had prompted her to dedicate one summer to learning the grammar basics with Izek.  He’d not been easy to sway, but Allegra used her influence yet again to have him instruct Calla.  Izek agreed after much persuasion on condition that the government would aim to teach the language to a new generation.  Calla decided not to publicize her new skill to anyone, at least not until she felt she could teach it to willing students.

Calla clutched the bag to her chest.
What about the German police?

Perhaps it had been a just kind suggestion. 

She’d find out soon enough.

* * *

3:06 P.M.

Guardian Newspaper Headquarters

North London

“How many pink carnations will that be?”

Eva Lily Riche admired the charming, pink carnations the florist held in her hands.

“Please add some white lilies.  That’s how she liked them,” she said in a British twang, though her tone hinted at French pronunciation.

A tear welled up in Eva’s eye. 

How ironic the significance of the bouquet. 
I’ll never forget you.

The florist placed a gentle hand over Eva’s manicured fingers.  “Are you okay?”

The flowers’ perfumed scent brought back pleasant memories of perpetual summer days in the south of France - the family villa in Eze overlooking the cliffs of the French Rivera where Eva had spent most summer vacations away from the tumultuous life of boarding schools.  Those had been the best times with Maman. 

School had seemed more like banishment - a place for juvenile girls to be seen and not heard and to be churned into perfection for an unforgiving society. 
How I miss you, Maman
.

“Yes thank you.  I'll take a dozen carnations and a dozen, white lilies in one large bouquet.”

The florist disappeared through the beaded curtains.  As Eva waited, she hoped she would survive the next twenty-four hours.  The anniversary of the day her mother lost all sense of her world.  Every year, Eva purchased the same bouquet.  It was how she remembered her mother, Madeleine Riche, a true socialite in her time and the woman her father had fallen for madly.  When Madeline had slowly lost her memory, her father Samuel Riche confined her to a care unit in Lausanne, Switzerland.  Eva could not bear to go there; it only made her weep, and ever since, her father had looked at her differently.  She had been his little girl, yet somehow, all that had gradually changed. 
Papa, why don’t you love me the same way?

The florist returned with a fully bound bouquet.  “Will that be all?”

“Yes.  Thank you.”

The florist hesitated and grasped Eva’s cold hands.  “Miss, sometimes it’s in grief and misfortune that we champion our fears.  Rise to yours.”

Was she right?  Would Eva ever champion the fear of never having her father’s affection? 

Eva managed a smile.  “You’re kind and wise.”

She paid the florist and received the spread, inhaling the aromas as she strolled out into the afternoon sun.  The gratifying fragrance filled her nostrils. 
You’ll lighten up my dull desk at the Guardian. 

Her coffee break was almost over.  She paced the few blocks over the moat and into York Way.  The office was on the third floor of the Guardian tower.  She took the stairs - a firm believer in keeping active and moseyed to her desk just in time to hear the last ring of a missed call. 

She slumped into her seat and answered several emails.  No stimulating assignments stood out for the week. More galas to attend and celebrity interviews to conduct.

She browsed through her diary. 
Is it always going to be like this?

Was the florist’s advice sound? 
Papa will never be proud of a gossip columnist.

Confidence had been her new friend, ever since she was hired.  It had not always been this way, certainly not at school.  Though born and bred from money and prestige, respect and accomplishment had eluded her.  So far, fame had sidestepped her too.  Proving to her over-accomplished father, Samuel Riche, that she was a worthy daughter, remained a momentous feat.  He demonstrated greater regard for the boys in the family, especially her elder brothers Léon and Anton.

Léon was a senior executive at Bourgeois Wines, the largest exporter of French wines, while Anton, a Stanford Law School graduate, was a highly sought corporate lawyer.  Anton also practiced human rights law, pro bono.

Samuel and Anton were the only father and son act to be listed on Forbes’ list of wealthiest entrepreneurs with a considerable empire comprised of legal firms, luxury brand wines and global security systems.