The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (12 page)

“Eva, I need that copy by five.”

The deputy editor irritated her more than an ill-fitting shoe.  His was the glamorous task of taking credit for other’s work, including Eva’s.

“It’s done and in your inbox, Simon,” she said.

Eva pulled an annoyed face.  She rose and meandered past several cubicles to fetch some water.  When she glanced up above the water cooler, the plasma screen transmitted breaking news on mute.  Eva would normally ignore the repetitive broadcasts.  This time however, she stopped. 

A RTL emission from Berlin presented a special program on the main BBC channel.  She edged closer to the screen and turned up the volume.

“Sir, what do you know about the disappearance this morning of the Deveron Manuscript?”
demanded the female reporter.

The older man held out a hand to shield himself from the glaring camera lights.  A caption flashed at the bottom of the screen:

Raimund Eichel, Berlin Police.

“As we’ve already stated, we’ve only confirmed that the missing items from the Pergamon Museum are objects from Priam’s Treasure. We're still carrying out a full investigation,”
said Eichel as his English danced with hints of Americanisms.

“Can you tell us about the circumstances surrounding the theft?”
the reporter asked.

“Whoever is responsible knew what they were after.  It’s still too early to tell.

Eichel glared directly into the camera lens.
  “No artifact has gone missing or been damaged on my watch and this is not going to be a first.”

“What’s so significant about this particular manuscript? There’s very little information on it. Why would anyone want to take it?”

“I've not mentioned any manuscript!”

“But we’ve been told that an ancient document is missing. Can you confirm these accounts?”

Eichel’s face turned ruby red.
  “What I believe is immaterial.  We work with facts.  Thank you!”

Eichel set a hand in front of the camera lens turning the screen black.

Eva eyes remained glued to the screen.  She’d hardly noticed the three colleagues who’d stopped to follow the emission.  “This is it,” she said.

The three shot her baffled gazes.

* * *

3:25 P.M.

Central London

The train submerged under a tunnel.  Its speed squealed on the tracks, howling throughout the carriage.  Calla brought to mind information she’d kept concealed for years. On her right ankle, just above the bone lay a coin-sized birthmark.  It resembled a tattoo, so much so that, at Beacon Abbey Academy, an exclusive boarding school, the head teacher reprimanded her presuming Calla had paid to have a tattoo engraved.  That alone constituted grounds for expulsion. 

It had taken a trip to the local hospital to verify the legitimacy of the birthmark. The border was calligraphic, with rows of petals designed in sync.  In the middle, lay a depiction of a three-petal flower and two unreadable symbols.  She’d always imagined they looked like Egyptian hieroglyphics, but now, having seen the manuscript, she thought otherwise.  Calla recognized the two inscriptions.  This alone had convinced her to follow the instructions of the note in Berlin.

At the age of five when Calla left the orphanage, a few documents were sent home with her adoptive parents, detailing the nature of the birthmark, given its unusual form.  It was easy to think the birthmark had been intentional with its unreadable characters carefully etched in microscopic letters.

There had to be more to the Deveron Manuscript.  The markings on her ankle were too similar to those of the Deveron. Loftier questions loomed in her mind. 
How did the manuscript and goblet find their way into my pocket in the first place?  Why must it not get into anyone’s hands but mine?

Who were these wrong hands? 

Governments, politicians, mercenaries or simply anyone who wishes to pay the highest price?

Calla peered out the window, her reflection enhanced by the dark tunnel. 
Surely someone else can do this better than I. 

The train navigated into West Kensington Station and she disembarked walking the seven minutes from the station to her apartment. After a short hike, she stood at her gated entrance and found her apartment keys. 

She could think a little clearer in the safety of her environment and would begin systematically, by heading to Allegra’s house. 

Calla stopped short of opening the door. 
I don’t know that much about Allegra. Even after all the time we’ve spent together.

She fumbled with her keys, her mind trying to recall where she kept Allegra’s set.
Ah yes!

It had been a warm afternoon when she’d met Allegra at the local supermarket.  She recalled how amused she’d been.  In her own charming way, Allegra tried to explain to the cashier how pomegranates were grown and where they originated.  Allegra had bought about five kilos worth, which naturally sparked off a conversation with the cashier.  Overhearing the discussion while standing behind her in the queue, Calla had filled in the missing elements.  “Pomegranates are from modern day Iran and have been cultivated in Caucasia since ancient times.”

Allegra glimpsed back and both burst out laughing.  It was invigorating to meet someone with an interest in foreign cultures. The two naturally bonded despite their age difference and a friendship began.  A few weeks later, when Calla explained she was looking for a new challenge, Allegra told her she knew of an interesting opening.  Little did Calla know it was to work as a curator for the British Museum.  That was seven years ago. 

Calla slotted the keys through the keyhole. She inhaled then paused before pushing the door open and dropping her travel bag on the floor.

She scanned the room. 

Her studio apartment was enviable by many standards.  With a mezzanine floor, large enough to fit a bed and a closet just above her kitchen and bathroom, the apartment suited her modest life.  She kept it neat and minimalist, a habit she had acquired in anticipation of a nomadic life.  From the day she’d set foot in the home of her retired missionary parents, she’d expected not to stay there for the rest of her life.  Life would be one of pursuit for her identity and her purpose.

Calla tore off her jacket as she scanned the quiet environs.  Was it just a feeling, or had the Archeology Today magazine she’d been reading slipped off the kitchen table. 

Striding to the kitchen counter, she picked up the publication and paged through it slowly.  She’d searched for a reference, an item on the Pergamom Museum shortly before leaving for Berlin. Even so. Why was it on the floor?

She reached for a glass in the cupboard and gulped down a cold glass of water before returning to the front door to fetch her carry-on.  She removed the diplomatic bag, hurtled upstairs to the mezzanine floor and drifted into a generous landing comprising of the bedroom and the bathroom.  Above her neat double bed, a double-glazed window looked out onto a shared and fashionably groomed garden. 

She unlatched the window and glimpsed into the garden. 
Looks like Arthur has been taking care of my mint.

Sluggish as he was at gardening, Calla was grateful for her neighbor Arthur, a retired journalist who took pride in giving the garden the attention it deserved.

Calla marched to her bed and knelt down beside it.  She located a hidden button underneath her mattress.  Painted in the same color as the bed frame, it was undetectable, almost invisible.  A small trap door on the floor beneath her bed slid open.  It was no bigger than a serving tray.  A foot deep and thirty inches wide, it treasured few contents.  Those had been her instructions when Jack had helped her fit it. 

“I don’t want a key.  Can’t we get my thumbprint for identification?” she had asked Jack.

“Piece of cake,” he’d replied.

 She placed her thumb on the smooth surface.  The metallic flap slid open.

Calla reached down the hole and found Allegra’s house keys.  Allegra had wanted her to have them.  “Just in case.  Who knows?  I may lock myself out.” 

She jingled the chained keys.  “Looks like Allegra was right.  I need you now.”

Calla carefully placed the manuscript and the goblet inside the trap door. 

Am I really going to do this?

She slid her thumb across the edge of the trap door.  It shut effortlessly, covering the hole and leaving no evidence of its existence.

Calla shot upward and hurtled back down the stairs. She gathered a few items from her carry-on, and placed them in a shoulder bag.

She bolted the front door and began a hunt for her Audi on the quiet street. 

CHAPTER EIGHT

3:29 P.M.

Central London

Eva shuffled back to her desk and picked up the phone.

She waited until he picked up.  “Alex.  Could I come and talk to you?”

“What is it, Eva?”

“I want to follow a story.”

Alex Maxfield’s office was at the end of the maze of cubicles.  He glimpsed up through the glass doors and caught her eye before gesturing for her to cross the ten meters towards his private office.  “Get over here.”

Eva hung up the phone down and cut across the room, passing several cubicles to the dreaded glass door that read:

CHIEF EDITOR

ALEXANDER MAXFIELD

Alex had given her exposure when most editors would have just thought she was not worth the risk.  This fact alone made Eva highly confident around him.  She was smart, she’d been told by the papers that rejected her, just not the kind of expertise they needed. 

She shut the door leaving the tumult of the busy paper behind her.  Alex sat hovering over a document he was reading.  “What is it now, Eva?”

The fan in his room revolved, satiating the silence between them.  Alex was an old-fashioned reporter accustomed to traditional ways.  Why use a laptop when the typewriter still works?  Good thing he no longer wrote columns.  He only approved and marked copy with his unforgiving red pen.  Still, he had been coerced into investing in newer technologies for the office, including the iMacs on each desk. 

Eva approached him.  “I’d like to be assigned to the story in Berlin.”

Alex, a middle-aged, heavyset, Asian man, with a balding head and just enough hairs to cover his crown, kept reading, his eyes focused behind bifocal glasses.  Without glancing up, he grunted as he spoke.  “What story?”

“The Deveron Manuscript.  Priam’s Treasure?”

Alex raised an eyebrow.  “That’s slightly complex for you.  Why not stick to the gossip column, or fashion?  You’re a good celebrity reporter with your contacts in that industry.”

“No!” The volume of her voice surprised her.  “I need this story!”

Alex stopped reading and put the piece of paper down.  His thick, dark-rimmed glasses enlarged his eyes like a bug under a magnifying lens. “What is this really about, Eva?  Do you think that you’re going to get what you want?  Has no one ever said no to you?”

“You don’t understand, Alex.  I need to do this.”

“Not this time, Eva.  Now, good day.”

Alex smacked his lips and continued reading his document.  He marked the text with so much red ink it could rouge a woman’s lips.  Eva guessed the poor journalist would have to rewrite the entire thing. 

As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.  “This story needs an experienced journalist, not a prom queen flashing daddy’s credit cards.  My final answer is
‘no’
.  I’m sorry.”

The blood in her veins rose to her cheeks.  She placed a firm hand on the back of her neck and steamed through her nostrils.  “That’s not fair!  You’ve not even heard me out.” Her voice quavered.  “Don’t you know who you are talking to?”

Alex tapped the desk with his pen, awaiting an on-firing verbal assault.  “Ah! The Riche family card again! You can’t pull that one here anymore.  I did your father a huge favor by hiring you.  Now get out!”

Eva’s lips trembled.  “You’ll regret this!”

He stared into her angered eyes.  “Is that a threat, Miss Riche?”

She leaned towards his unkempt desk, her speech self-assured as she stooped forward.  “No, Mr. Maxfield.  I quit and will write this story on my own.  You’ll see!”

She flipped her auburn locks and stomped out of the office, damaging the glass door as it slammed behind her.

* * *

4:37 P.M.

Allegra Driscoll’s Residence

West London

St. Giles Square was deserted.  A quaint little garden square, tucked away a few minutes’ walk from Hammersmith Bridge.  Calla relished walking through the square.  She paced briskly along the sidewalk of the iconic common, laid out in the economic boom of the 1820s.  Lined with paired, classical-style villas, arranged around a central public garden, Calla often came here to sit in the shade of its cherry blossom trees.  In times of deep contemplation, she sat in the center, with the statue of the champion, Greek Marathon runner Stylianos Kyriakides edging her on in her thoughts.