The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (13 page)

She often wondered what Sir William Blake Richmond, the sculptor had purposed in his design.  Was it to cheer on those who sat under his gaze? 

She could use that now.

Calla scampered to Allegra’s villa that faced the square and pushed open the front gate.  Like the other mansions on this piece of land, the residence showcased a stucco front, pediments, and an iconic porch.  Allegra lived alone except for Taiven, the butler and Pearl the housekeeper.  Taiven had served her since Calla had known Allegra, and was often seen walking two chocolate Labradors.

Calla stepped to the front door and buzzed the doorbell.  If Taiven was not around, she would use her key.

She waited. 

Never having asked much about Allegra’s family or relatives, the thought whether Allegra had family, husbands or lovers crossed her mind. Allegra never discussed the topic, therefore, it never made its way into any of their conversations.

As she slotted the key through the door, a light came on in the entryway.  The arched door with ornate, beveled glass pulled open.  Taiven, a square-faced, dark-haired butler, held his shoulders erect and cast her a generous smile.  He was young, perhaps thirty-five at the most, imagined Calla.  Striking in appearance, he studied Calla with his ice blue eyes. 

He was of Middle-Eastern origin.  Where exactly?  Calla was not certain.  Today, as every other day, he wore a black tailored suit, traditional white gloves and a white shirt topped with a light blue tie. 

She’d never known anyone under the age of fifty to be a butler, or were those her own preconceptions?  Well respected by Allegra, Calla was not sure when Taiven had started working for her.

“Good evening, Miss Cress.”

“Hi Taiven, is Allegra here?” asked Calla.

 Was this is a stupid question? 

Still, she would be cautious.

He stepped aside to let her in.  “I knew you’d come.”

She peered at the enigmatic butler, his nonchalant invitation puzzling her. 

Calla breezed into the breathtaking entrance as Taiven helped slide off her jacket. 

Allegra’s home was every inch an extravagant household.  Calla was never at ease with the ways of the rich and how they were waited on.  Her life had always embraced simplicity and modesty. 

“How did you know I was coming?” she asked.

“Ms. Driscoll informed me to always let you in.  Can I assist you with anything?”

“Maybe.” she replied.

She followed him through the main landing under a jeweled, eighteenth-century chandelier.

“Taiven, have you heard from Allegra?”

“With regards to?”

He would know soon enough.  Right now, she needed to learn all she could about Allegra’s investigation of the Deveron Manuscript.

“I’m looking for a language dictionary, perhaps in Allegra’s office.  I need help with some translation work.”

Taiven nodded giving away none of his thoughts as he led her through to Allegra’s den, past the curved staircase.  Allegra loved all things Victorian.  They gave her the feeling of delicacy, yet allowed modern feminine expression.  The interior of her home was no different, every inch Victorian in appearance and the den was no exception.

Taiven proceeded to a bookcase-lined wall.  “This way.  You’ll find the dictionaries on the third row from the bottom.  Here, help yourself.”

Calla swerved over past the leather sofa, covered with a red throw, obviously a special reading spot for Allegra.

“Also, try the shelves by the window,” he added.

Calla made her way and knelt down on the carpeted floor.  She brushed her fingers along the edges of a few dictionaries and references.  Would Taiven stay or leave her to investigate in seclusion?

Sensing her discomfort with his presence, Taiven progressed to the door.  “If you prefer something more high-tech, you can also use Ms. Driscoll’s online files.  Her laptop is on the desk there by the window.  She created the programs herself.”

Calla tilted forward.  “Would that be okay?”

“By all means.”

She failed to contain her curiosity.  “Taiven, have you heard about Allegra?”

He slowly drifted back into the room without a word.

Calla pressed on.  “Do you know that the German police and our government are looking for her in what seems to be a case of disappearance?  I personally don’t believe it.  She may have been a victim of Sanax.”

Taiven had crossed the length of the room and taken a seat on the edge of Allegra’s reading chair.

“So you know about Sanax?”

“Allegra told me about it.”

Taiven removed his gloves and placed them in his pocket. “Ms. Driscoll always warned me about this day.”

 
“What day?” she asked.

Taiven ignored her question and stood to leave.  “Do let me know if there’s anything you need.  The computer requires an iris scan in the identification device.  Yours have been authorized.”

He gravitated back to the entrance and left her speechless in the somber room. 

Why had he not answered?

* * *

4:40 P.M.

ISTF - Intelligence Services

“I have Slate Mendes for you.”

Mason shifted in his seat and stared at the interphone. 
What’s he doing back so quickly?

He pushed down the interphone button
.  
“Let him in.”

A robust man, just short of six-foot-two, coasted into the expansive office.  Clothed from shoulder to foot in black, he sported a brown-leather jacket and stocky army boots as he moved with adroitness. His comportment suggested he was a fighting man.  With no step wasted, every motion was carefully drafted.

Mason glimpsed up from his work not recognizing him. The man’s full head of hair ebbed from his face like frozen waves and fell in brown locks to his shoulders. With a narrow nose, his menacing eyes pierced straight through Mason’s astonished gaze.

Mason reached under his desk and lightly rested his hand on the panic button.  “Have we met?”

“
Ich habe garnichts gefunden in Berlin
,” said the man in German.

“So you found nothing in Berlin.  Who are you?”

The man reached in his jacket pocket. 

Mason’s hand stirred, ready to activate the button.

The man pulled out a sponge looking object and smeared his face clean. 

Mason’s leaned forward with a fixed gaze.  Accustomed to many life threats, the action put him on complete alert.  He was never caught off guard, a vestige from his combat days. 
Make your first move?

The unsubtle man, now seated across from the desk, pulled a wig off his head.  In calculated movements, he began to rip strips of foil from his face revealing a smooth, clean-shaven bald head. With a long neck jetting out of his long-sleeve, muscular shirt, his narrow eyes became more recognizable as Slate drew into form, discarding his lifelike, facial disguise. 

Mason’s chin dropped. 
Military cloaking!

Unaware that testing of disguise technologies had commenced, Mason’s lips curled into a smirk.  ISTF was experimenting with two core technologies and one made soldiers invisible - disguised to an enemy’s infrared and motion sensors.  Slate had obviously gotten a hold of the facial adaptation technology, or the
‘mask’
.

They’ve put in great efforts here?

Mason relaxed his shoulders.  “Slate?”

With a focused gaze, Mason lifted an eyebrow.  “You’re impressive, Slate!  You pulled off a disguise that had me fooled.”

Slate threw his shoulders back, a wide grin arresting his face.

“I see you had access to my underground labs and got a hold of the
‘mask’
,” Mason said.

The ISTF technology labs were working on several prototypes that kept the identity of commandos and agents undisclosed, as they carried out undercover missions.  The
‘mask’
, as it was fondly known around the labs, used technology that reduced a person’s facial signature.  It allowed agents to be concealed in a variety of environments, temperatures and lighting conditions.  Built into combat uniforms and body suits, the mask could be independently used on flesh and equipment. The cloaking did not hamper the ability to breathe, see or hear.

Slate leaned in with one hand on his knee.  “The German language training program also came in handy.”

 Mason raised an eyebrow.

Slate was far from fluent in any language; nevertheless, his ambitious mind took on any given challenge.  Mason cast him a knowing grin.  “I’m really proud of what they’re doing down there.”

Damn he was good!
Mason recalled the day he’d decided to groom the scrawny boy, whose parents had served on his family estate for over twenty-five years.  Malnourished, even though he could help himself to anything that fell off Mason’s table, Slate had showed much promise and loyalty.  He was fearless.

Mason remembered the year well.

1987. 

Before that day, no one would have believed that a storm so great could hit England.  It occurred one night in mid-October.  A storm its size had not been seen in England for close to three hundred years. With winds gusting at up to 100mph, massive devastation swept the country killing eighteen people.  It was later declared a rare event in that part of the world.

Though only ten, Slate had demonstrated much capability and courage when he rescued the woman Mason called,
mother
. 

Mother!
Mason could barely bring himself to think of her.  She’d been trapped in her smoldering bedroom.  Slate realized she was amiss.  The other estate residents had escaped and congregated on the front lawns.  Slate whisked to the burning wing and ripped open a small gap through the blazing wood planks for the stronger men to pull her out.  Once on safe ground, the tiny boy had been hailed a hero, most of all by a grateful son, Mason. 

Victory had been short-lived.  That December, Mason’s mother passed away.  The memory of her passing angered him, like a fresh wound left open to flying vultures.

The following summer, Mason ensured Slate received a well-rounded education, academic yet militaristic.

Mason withdrew his hand from the button. “What happened in Berlin?”

“I met Cress at the entrance of the Pergamon.  I passed off as a local German journalist.  She didn’t know anything about the disappearance.”

“Did you plant the device?”

“Not yet.  I have a plan.”

Slate pulled out a remote, mobile listening device no bigger than a pen cap.  “This’ll be planted today.”

Mason nodded in accord.  “Is Cress still in Berlin?”

“She’s back in London.  Arrived this afternoon.”

“What do we know about Allegra?”

“Completely vanished and with the goods it looks like.”

Mason rose slowly and advanced to the full-length glass window overlooking the Thames.  He rubbed his gray, dusted goatee in deep strategic thought.  “Did Cress meet Allegra?”

“No.”

The sun was setting, reflecting shades of lilac, tangerine and scarlet on the Thames below.  Mason took in the captivating view from his office, before turning to face Slate.  “I don’t think Cress has the manuscript.  Allegra would not have risked it.  Also, she would have been detected at the airport.  I alerted the police the minute I learned of Allegra’s disappearance.  Have you searched Cress’s residence?”

“I searched her hotel suite in Berlin.”

“Go to her London place.”

Accustomed to taking orders, Slate grasped the armrest ready to move.  “I think it’s a waste of time.  She wouldn’t hide anything there.”

“We must be sure.  I’ll have her emails and correspondence monitored.  That’s easy enough.  However, her outdoor activities are what concern me.  Don’t let her out of your sight!”

Slate rose to leave.  “What do we do if Allegra comes back?”

Mason returned to check the slim laptop on his orderly desk.  “Given the evidence they have, the German police think she was a victim of biological warfare.  A particularly interesting one the Russians have been testing called Sanax.”

Slate kept his focus on Mason without a twitch.  “What’s Sanax?”

“Sanax was developed by Biopreparat, a vast network of secret laboratories in Russia.  Each has been focusing on a different deadly agent.  Our intelligence claims that when Sanax is used in a normal weapon, radiation is sent through the body disintegrating body matter.”

Slate stroked his chin.  “Is that what you think happened to Allegra?  What about the manuscript?”

“Not for a second.  Your job is to get me that manuscript!”

Mason’s interphone beeped signaling his next appointment, yet the interruption did not distract his thought process.  “If Sanax was used, we should start to worry.”