The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (18 page)

“I don’t follow.”

“Look here.” He showed her a cryptographic system he’d pulled from one of Allegra’s shelves.  “Some of these might help.”

Exhausted from the events, but running on adrenaline, Calla examined it.  She slowly minced over to the full library and surveyed a handful of cryptography systems.  They were cataloged in chronological order, possibly by Allegra herself.  Many were ancient, some newer.

“Taiven, I’ve never studied these methods.  I really do not know where to begin.  I’m not familiar with these ancient cryptographs.”

“Therein lies your task.”

Calla hoisted herself on the edge of a large couch, adjacent to the shelves. 
How does he know all of this?

She still did not know who
he
really was.  Butler, agent or—?  Instinct told her she could trust him.  “Is Allegra alive?”

“I don’t know.  But, I’m certain she meant for you to have this manuscript.  She really believed in you from the moment she met you.”

Calla sighed, recalling the encounter.  She chuckled.  “We met in a grocery store.”

“Call it chance, call it destiny.  It is what it is.”

Calla smiled in agreement though her amusement was short-lived.  “What about the police?  Won’t they be back?”

“The police are not your main problem.”

How could he guarantee that? Nevertheless, she had the feeling he was right.

He reached for an envelope from his pocket.  “Allegra left this for you.”

She grasped the short note and paced the room reading it carefully.  “Says here that, if Allegra does not leave Berlin with me that I should consider her gone.  This is her will.  I don’t understand.  She’s left everything to me.”

“That would explain the Maserati.  It was ordered for you a month ago,” said Taiven.  “Welcome home.”

Calla refused to digest this new piece of information. 

Nothing made sense.  Perhaps it would by morning. 

“It’s really late.  I’m tired and have a long day ahead tomorrow. I need to get a head start,” she said.

Taiven nodded.  “There’s something else.”

Calla could not imagine what other hidden revelation he’d failed to pull out for the night. 

He left the room for a few minutes and returned with a document.  “Ms. Driscoll also had this prepared for you.”

Calla took the document from Taiven.

“It’s a diplomatic passport.  You now have diplomatic status when you travel, it’ll help with the police situation.  Just sign here, and I’ll have all of this notarized before the morning is out.”

Too tired to argue she nodded.  “Thank you, Taiven.”

“You should find everything you need in there.”

He turned to the oak door ready to retire for the night and gave her one last glance.  “You’re safe here, Calla.  Good night.”

Without looking up, Calla instinctively responded.  “Good night, Taiven.”

The door remained ajar, swinging lightly. 

“Taiven?”

* * *

The chief inspector of police cursed under his breath.  They’d left in such an upheaval.  He hated being overpowered by these government types. 

The station was quiet now.  Most officers had left, except for two or three on the night shift.  He fumed at his prisoner’s hasty departure and rose aiming to get a good glimpse of the station floor. 

The cubicles were empty. 

Good. 

He continued to the door, separating the main floor and his private office.  He gave the space one more look and closed it behind him, locking himself in the solace of the warm space. 

He needed some answers.  Picking up the secure phone, he dialed a number from memory.

“Yes,” said a grumbling voice.

“Mr. Laskfell.  I arrested her.”

“And?”

“I was interrupted.”

Mason was not impressed.  “She mustn’t begin any translation work on that manuscript.”

“What should I do when I get her?”

Mason’s silence bothered the inspector.

“Where’s she now?” asked Mason.

“A government agent, probably from MI5 picked her up.”

“Follow them.”

He wanted to be sure.  “Can I use my discretion?”

“Yes!”

The phone slammed in his ear and the disconnected line shrilled an irritating tone.  He replaced the receiver and collected a few things, turning the lights off before stealthily unlocking the door of the office. 

A giant man by many standards, he left the office walking with swift movements through the open seating workplace, scattered with messy desks, cluttered to the brim with files. 

How anyone does this job day in day out, he didn’t know.

At the end of the room, the inspector turned into the dark corridor that led to the lifts.  Clasping his coat and briefcase, he pressed for the ground floor.  The double doors dragged open, and he stepped inside the isolated chamber.

As the doors began to pull shut, a startled man stood staring at him from the corridor. 

The bewildered man glared at the inspector and shuffled towards the elevators, not once easing his gaze off the police inspector.  The brisk walk turned into a sprint stopping short of the closing doors, as the steel frames nearly slammed his nose. 

It was just enough time to catch the inspector’s despicable smirk.

The distressed man stood in the hallway questioning what he’d seen. 

There was no mistaking it.  He’d witnessed an extraordinary resemblance of himself. A body double
and
a remarkable reflection of his own frame, only the likeness refused to surrender to his command. 

His identity had been stolen.

Literally.

The quiet elevator sailed downward as Slate whistled. He clasped his hands to his broad chest as the elevator advanced to the ground floor.

Then silence.

* * *

DAY 6

6:46 A.M.

West London

Calla woke in a cold sweat.  At first, she could not piece together her environs as she focused her eyes in the dark room. 

Had she slept in her clothes? 

Upon entering the room, she’d collapsed on the bed poring over Allegra’s notes and must’ve drifted off to sleep.  The bedside clock blinked red, the only sign of movement in an otherwise still room.  She could just make out the numbers. 

6:46A.M.

She scrambled off the master bed, upholstered in baby blue and white, matching the rest of the furnishings.  Grateful for the few hours’ sleep, even with so much still processing in her mind, her stomach rumbled with hunger. 

She traipsed to the adjacent bathroom before sliding under the shower and dragging on some underclothes - a spare pair of jeans and a light green sweater. She meandered downstairs for breakfast.

When she drifted into the kitchen, Calla found Pearl rigorously working at a lamb dish.  Pearl seasoned the meat and glimpsed up from her work when she saw Calla approach.  “Good morning, Calla.  I remembered you like a honey roast lamb.  I’ll have this ready for dinner.  What would you like for breakfast?”

Calla attempted a smile as she settled onto a kitchen stool.  “I’ll just have a green tea for now.”

“All right.  I’ll get one for you.”

Pearl, a bright Brazilian woman, moved around the kitchen with duteous ease as she brewed a pot of steaming tea. 

Calla spoke above the clamor of the boiling kettle.  “Is Taiven up yet, Pearl?”

Shock flashed upon Pearl’s face as she stopped what she was doing.  Her ebullient, Brazilian accent rose to a high pitch signaling nervousness.  “Taiven hasn’t worked for the Driscoll family for decades.  In fact, he left years ago in pursuit of employment elsewhere.  We haven’t heard from him since, at least not since I started work here. 
Santo Deus!
  He’d be an old man by now.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

9:15 A.M.

British Library

St. Pancras, London

Calla cruised out of West London steering the Maserati into the busy city streets. She remained baffled by Taiven’s existence and now, his disappearance. 

Was Pearl right?  Had Taiven really been some sort of phantom or was he shrewd enough to go in and out unnoticed. 

Agents are good at that.

Is he a piece of my imagination like my bruised chin in Berlin? 

Yes, he seemed young for a butler.  Nevertheless, Calla still felt she could trust him.  He’d given her renewed appetite in her quest.  Her parents could be alive, and he’d supplied her with more information than any archive or document she’d come across.  Calla decided there and then she would decipher the coded Deveron Manuscript. 

She steered into St. Pancras International and parked in the provided parking garage on Goods Way.  She paced the short, three-minute trek to the British Library, the largest public building constructed in the UK in the twentieth century.  Designed by architect, Professor Sir Colin St. John Wilson, it mimicked a cruise liner ship. 

She moved swiftly, perhaps for fear of being recognized and held on to hope, now that she was armed with more clues. 

Her instincts had been right.  If the computer had not timed out at the National Archives, she would have discovered more about her parent’s work with the Secret Intelligence Service.  The manuscript they guarded and possibly deciphered was now her only clue and rested securely in her shoulder bag.

She had to start with the facts. ISTF believed that part of the Deveron document had been deciphered, even though the details were sketchy.

Her cell phone rang. 

Hoping it was news from Allegra, she answered it. “Hello?”

“Calla?”

“
Nash.”

“Where are you?  You okay?”

Calla closed her eyes, sighing deeply.  She trusted Nash with her life and needed help. 

Could she tell him?  She’d not been ready to disclose any of her recent discoveries to anyone, still trying to make sense of it all. “I’m at the British Library.  At St. Pancras.”

Nash’s gentle voice bathed her ear, troubled with concern.  “When did you get back?”

Calla moved rapidly through the main entrance.  “Yesterday afternoon.”

“The commotion here is all about Allegra’s disappearance.  Operation Carbonado is on hold.”

Calla relaxed whenever she spoke to Nash.  He had a way of making her feel unpretentious and capable.  She shoved a hand in her pocket and paced the tiled floor, nestling the phone to her ear.  “Really.”

“Please tell me you’re okay,” he said.

“I could use a friend.”

“I’ll be right over.”

His involvement would pose a risk for him yet she needed Nash’s heightened sense of judgment in perilous situations. He was resourceful, a trained field man, an intelligence analyst
and
a brilliant linguist.  Most importantly, he alone understood her complexities, yet never questioned them. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

Forty-five minutes later, Nash strode through the main entrance of the British Library as Calla sat in the lobby flipping through some notes. 

She raised her head when she saw him. 

He approached with a sure stride and enveloped her in a secure embrace.  “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

She sank into his protective frame and exhaled, his enticing scent, washing over her.  She shut her eyes as he stroked the dark locks of her lengthy ponytail. 
Will he understand? 

He certainly could be trusted. And, they could cover more ground together.  She tilted her head upward and gazed into his persuasive eyes.

A deep look of concern overpowered his face.  Nash pulled back from the embrace and cupped her high cheekbones.  “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I was worried about you.”

The library was filling up with intrigued scholars, students and the odd tourists. Still caught in Nash’s arms, she pulled away.  “We need to find somewhere quiet to talk.”

“Let’s go to one of the reading rooms.  There must be a quiet corner in there somewhere.”

Nash knew his bearings and led the way with Calla tailing behind. 

Though a regular at the library, Calla glared upward, admiring the glass tower of exquisite gold-tooled, leather-bound books known as the King’s Library.  They passed tables of engaged conversationalists who went about their business on the floor of the main reading room, surrounded by an astounding 67,000 books.

“I’d like to go to the Manuscripts Reading Room,” said Calla.

“First tell me what this is all about.”