The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (14 page)

“Should we?”

I need that manuscript.

Mason shook the thought away with a wave of his hand.  He’d once obtained a photograph of the Deveron Manuscript.  That had been back in the sixties.  The quality had been so poor he’d not attempted any real translation work.  The manuscript had then disappeared.  With its discovery, just three nights ago by the Russian museum worker, new hope had been ignited. Once the Deveron’s secrets were unleashed, he’d finish what he had begun all those years ago. 

Even with a seat on the Joint Intelligence Committee, Mason had no authority to interfere with the German police investigation. He could intimidate Allegra and Cress, though.  “It puzzles me that Allegra refused to use one of my other more qualified subordinates.  Cress knows something,” Mason said.

He intended to find out. 

He eyed his attentive wunderkind.  “She’s our last link to Allegra.  Find Allegra, if she’s alive and follow Cress.  Get that manuscript!”

Mason waved him out of the office and with one used to orders, Slate strayed from Mason’s rage.  He’d known Mason a long time. The women had touched a raw nerve.

CHAPTER NINE

Calla peered at Taiven from behind a volume of ‘Lost Languages: The Enigma of the World’s Undeciphered Scripts’. 

Is he not concerned? 

Had she shared too much too soon?
He’s so willing to let me have my way amongst Allegra’s possessions.

She replaced the book on the shelf.  “Thank you for helping me out, Taiven.”

The den, decorated in tones of red and burgundy represented perfection.  How many times had they sat in here, poring over books and historical documents? 

Allegra enjoyed the wooded smell of an authentic fireplace.  A Picasso hung over the mantelpiece - an original, no doubt.  The only clues to Allegra’s past were collected in a series of photographs carefully displayed on an antique chest of drawers.  They boasted of distant travels, celebrity encounters, politicians and other influential dignitaries.  There were no depictions of past lovers, a husband, or even a family member.  There was one image though, of Allegra on a hunting trip with a full-lipped young woman.  Calla guessed it had been taken more than a decade ago.  She didn’t recognize the woman.  Was it a sister?  A friend?  A niece?  Calla had never asked.

She placed her elbows on the desk, turned on the computer and performed a file search on the hard drive for anything relating to the Deveron document. 

Why did she know so little about this?  She was quite informed about many cryptic documents, but why had she not paid closer attention to this one? 
Who wants it so bad and why?
 

Why would anyone take Allegra’s life for it? 

She found a folder titled ‘Deveron’.  Calla scrolled through the documents within and came across some more files.  Allegra must have done some extensive research.  She scrolled through five files, each focused on the symbols of both the Voynich and the Deveron.  Not a single file showed any actual translation work.  How had Allegra gotten a hold of the Deveron prior to two days ago?  Calla had not even seen a copy of the manuscript prior to the Watergate House meeting.  Had it not been sitting in Russia for at least seventy years?  Where was it before Berlin? 

The questions flooded her mind as she copied the files onto a memory stick she kept on her key chain.  She was yet to find a deciphering dictionary or a cryptograph system.

She shot up and explored the room, searching through the monstrous library. 

Nothing stood out.

She placed her hands on her hips and glimpsed at the clock on the far wall.  She’d been in Allegra’s den an hour after which, she switched off the computer and left the room closing the door behind her.  The late sunset had set in. And Taiven was nowhere to be seen.

“Taiven?”

No answer.  Was the housekeeper about?

“Pearl?”

Silence.

She hesitated by the curved staircase that led to the upper rooms of the residence and set a hand on the banister, a golden masterpiece.  Would it be out of order if she went upstairs? 

Her foot settled on the first step. She would take her chances.

The lights in the upstairs hallway glared dimly on the first floor.  Never once having ventured there, Allegra used this part of the house as her main living space.

Allegra I need to know more.
Help me.

The room at the end of the hall must be the master bedroom. 

Calla approached the door and peered back before pushing it open.  Darkness shrouded the room as she groped for the light switch and blinked when she found it, mesmerized by the furnishings.  A stateroom for any royal.  

Almost out of place, the room flaunted a modern interior compared to the rest of the house.  Two doors led off the main room.  As Calla explored, she discovered one was the bathroom and the other a walk-in closet suitable for any countess.  The room responded to a remote control panel at the foot of the bed.  Allegra had spared no technological expense.  Everything needed for a business, diplomatic or intelligence call was at arm’s length - including a video-conferencing unit in one corner of the room.

Calla found the closet door. 
Where does she store the things closest to her heart?
 

She dragged the door wider and glanced back as if startled by a noise.

The plasma screen at the opposite end of the master bed illuminated, alarming her. 

Convinced it was all clear, she accelerated her investigation. 
If Taiven finds me, I’ll make up some ridiculous excuse.

Calla discovered an island of drawers in the middle of the generous walk-in closet.  She pulled open drawer after drawer before settling on the bottom one - the only one that was locked. 

Where’s the key?

She patted the top of the wooden drawers. 
There must be a key around here somewhere.  

Allegra’s dresser was on the right.
 So, this is where she made herself look as glamorous as a Greek goddess.
 

The dresser displayed some of her collection of perfumes, rare and expensive including Fragonard from the French perfume house. 

A collection of silver, horsehair brushes lay next to a glass jewelry box.  Calla unlatched the container and searched through its contents.  Nearly abandoning her investigation, her eyes fell on a small key - silver and smooth. 

She seized it and sidled to the locked drawer. 

Perfect!

The latch snapped open. 

Calla’s eyes glossed over two bundled documents and a small velvet box.  She reached for the container and unlocked it carefully. 

Her eyes fell on a pendant - a gold chain. 
Most definitely Victorian
.

She unfastened it. A man’s face glared into her eyes.  From the fashion of his beard and hat, Calla guessed it was late nineteenth century.  Slightly faded, it was worn and had been finished in Sepia.

Calla hated prying.  Or, was she simply looking for clues to help her with the translation?  Combing through the stack of documents she came across a birth certificate.  It looked moderately old and tattered, but well preserved.  There would be no secrets here.  Allegra was close to seventy, though she looked a flattering fifty. 

Nothing prepared her for what she read on the worn document. As she studied the barely legible words, her focus was set on the date. The cursive script slanted steeply to the right. 

Sure enough, as accurately as she could see, it read:

This certifies that:

ALLEGRA MAY DRISCOLL,

born to SUSAN and CLIVE DRISCOLL

on Monday, 11 May 1881,

at St Mary’s Hospital,

Moorcastle, Antrim, Northern Ireland

It carried on, but Calla eyes reverted to one minuscule detail. 

A number. 

That date of birth.

1881.

* * *

5:15 P.M.

West London

A biting breeze drifted through the faintly cracked window of Nash’s BMW.  He half listened to mind-numbing tunes on the radio.  With the car maneuvering at moderate speed through commuter traffic, a popular station flipped from old to new tunes, with the occasional report on weather and traffic.  It distracted him from his perturbed thoughts.  He was not really listening to anything.  His downcast eyes focused on the road ahead, as he struggled to understand where he had failed her. 

Despite the many times Calla had shut him out of her life, he could not bring himself to resentment.  He cared immensely for her wellbeing and battled to comprehend her recent detachment from him.
Why hasn’t she contacted me?  It’s been two days.

Too long for his contentment. 

Calla’s lack of communication completely swayed him from Jonathan’s news from his father.  He did not care to end up like the old man. 

Alone.

Nash had always identified more with his care-giving mother, whom he saw less now due to his frequent overseas assignments.  She’d left his father when George Shields resigned from the Foreign Service for a job within the Board of Governors of the U.S. Federal Reserve System. 

When Nash came home, after graduating from Stanford University with a political science undergraduate degree, he overheard the argument. 

“I can’t always be in the shadow of your career, George.”

Nash feared the worst.  And his fears fell upon him when his mother left, shattering his life.  It was then he’d known a government job could not tie him down forever.  He could do better working for himself.  And even better, if this idea of his succeeded.  That way, those who got close to him would never take second priority in his life.

The newscaster predicted smooth road travel for the evening’s rush hour.  Nash wheeled on to an empty roundabout that journeyed towards West Kensington and steered into Calla’s neighborhood. Primarily a residential locality, consisting mainly of Victorian terraced houses, many were recorded on the statutory list of buildings of special architectural or historic interest.  It was one way of preserving London’s extensive history.  Listed buildings could not be demolished, extended, or altered without special permission. 

He’d tired of waiting for Calla’s call.  Going to her apartment made better sense. 

His BMW swerved into the quiet street and searched for parking, having driven the thirty-minute drive from his apartment near Hampstead Heath. 

Nash nosed into a free parking space across the street from the double-duplex homes that lined Calla’s street.  Glancing over at her house, he decided to try her cell one more time. He fished for his phone in his pocket and stared intently at the houses, catching a movement out of the corner of his eye that came from across the street. 

He switched off the light inside his car and surveyed the environs.  A figure flashed before his eyes.

A night intruder?

The figure leaped across the mini fence, a few feet from Calla’s front door.  Nash placed the phone back in his pocket, his eye following the obscured character approaching her apartment.

He observed as the burly man snapped her lock, a professional no doubt.  The intruder peered round to see if he was being observed before proceeding through her unsecured entrance.  Concealed by the shadowy street, the man shut the front door behind him with caution.

Nash toyed with the idea of going in after him. 

He jumped out of the car.  Nothing really intimidated him, least of all a low-life prowler, or assassin for that matter.  He locked the car, checked for on-coming cars, then shot across the road in a military crouch.  He hurdled over the gate then stood with his back against the wall as he peeped through the window. 

Darkness.

The street lamps cast a spotlight on the building, eliminating any desire to be inconspicuous.  Nash peeped through the window overlooking the street. 
Damn.  I can’t see a thing!

Gritting his teeth, he decided to go round the back.

Then, he heard it.

A vehement thud.

The noise came from Calla’s front room. 

Nash stooped under the window as a dark shadow approached and peered outside for a few seconds. 

He edged against the wall and his ears caught the cacophony of sirens.

He nearly lost his balance as an ambulance whisked by breaking every speed limit in London.  Its alarms screeched, puncturing the stillness of the early evening. 

The intruder moved away from the window. 

What does he want?

Nash fiddled with his pockets for his military-grade cell phone.  He’d had it since his mission in Syria.  Ancient by modern standards, nonetheless it had the right features he needed and refused to part with it. 

He forced down a button and out slithered a thin, film of plastic.  It resembled a two-inch, negative strip, but functioned as a night-vision android camera.