The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (2 page)

The integrated group of international scholars, historians, anthropologists, government and policing officials, analysts and independent consultants from five nations carefully watched the chairman as he turned to the next slide.  Most of the on-looking faces coveted a seat within Taskforce Carbonado. 

“After this brief, we’ll select ten of you for special operation, Taskforce Carbonado.  We’ll build a team from within this gathering to investigate its authenticity and lead some of its retrieval efforts.”

A sharp-looking blond woman with a southern American twang interrupted him.  “Why now?  We normally explore issues of a criminal nature.  Hardly cultural heritages.”

“The Deveron has resurfaced in Berlin after a global disappearance of more than fifty years.  Here at ISTF, we aim to prevent crime of any sort, even though our most recent endeavors have been linked to cyber crimes.  The Deveron’s black market worth alone makes it a highly sought artifact.  And therefore a potential criminal target.”

“Excuse me, but surely the German government can tackle this on its own,” said a lanky, French researcher.

The chairman’s disapproving eyes dimmed as he pursed his lips.  “The Deveron is a historic, cryptic manuscript.  Some think it’s an ancient letter, others an instruction manual of some sort.  We’ve learned otherwise.  The Deveron family, whose ancestry hails from Cheshire in northern England, first discovered it in 1879, just off Britain’s shores.  Research that we have commissioned to experts in this very room suggests that it details the whereabouts of potential resources that will make crude oil seem like dinner leftovers.  Believe me, ISTF needs to get to this first.  Our efforts will reap significant economic value for our five governments…and the globe.”

“How’s that?” interrupted the Parisian.  “There’s even skepticism here as to whether it really is authentic and we can’t even read it.”

The chairman sighed deeply, exhibiting more frustrated undertones than intended.  “There’re an estimated 1.3 trillion barrels of proven oil reserve still remaining in the world’s major fields, which at present rates of consumption will only last another forty years.  Our resources, Ms.—”

“Pascale.”

“Ms. Pascale, we believe the document was carefully encrypted to hide certain newfound resources.  The light at the end of the Deveron enigma could add several hundred years to that figure.  As you know, the rising cost of oil has now forced global governments and oil companies to look at exploiting other means of resources.  But, we’ll delve into that in a minute.”

 He searched the room for more cynics before the gathering quieted altogether.  Few attempted to challenge his perspective and waited with silent nodding for more revelation.  Heavily funded by five governments - the UK, France, Germany, Russia, and the USA, the highly secretive group was known to those privileged to be told of its existence as the International Security Task Force - the ISTF. 

It had formed shortly before the year 2000 in anticipation of Y2K disruptions that threatened to encourage amateur and professional criminals.  Integrating the full range of investigative, intelligence, audit and prosecutorial resources, ISTF intervened in global criminal investigations.  It acted swiftly and expediently.  Though only comprised of about five hundred permanent staff, ISTF stepped in where Interpol, the CIA, and MI6 left off.  They answered to no directive or jurisdiction.  A lawless unit fighting to uphold international law.  This called for the utmost secrecy. 

The five-member governments signed off its funding yet did not flinch if at times its illicit policing and investigative schemes were unconventional.  The wider public remained ignorant of its existence, although knowledge about the group had leaked in online blogs and on unauthorized websites. Media groups that chose to give it column space speculated and dubbed the ISTF ‘a waste of time and resources’.

The Guardian had downplayed its efficacy.  According to the publication’s article that appeared three years ago, the group had officially ceased operation. The government denied its existence and that was the last mention or coverage on ISTF in the media. 

The chairman drummed the podium and waited for the bustle to settle.  “Nominations will be made at the conclusion of this gathering.  Over to you, Chester.”

Chester Hitchens, an animated, Museum of London archivist marched to the presentation stand.  He adjusted the feed backing microphone, lowering it for his short frame.  With unsteady fingers, he straightened his thick glasses.  Though he spoke with eloquence, after only a few words, he paused short of a stammer.  “The Deveron Manuscript, printed on vellum, first came on our radar in 1962.  Back then, we anonymously received images of the first two pages at the museum for validation.  To this day, we fail to know who sent them.  Although we couldn’t establish the nature of the writing, nor its contents, our archivists declared it a manuscript defying all decipherment.” 

Chester’s demeanor changed. He slammed his fist on the desk.  “Even so, I believe it is not a fake!”

Murmurs erupted within the conference room. 

Professor Chiyoko Hosokawa, a Princeton University linguist and anthropologist, added her thoughts.  “In my opinion, the closest script to the Deveron Manuscript’s strokes is the Voynich manuscript.”

“But even so, has any one actually seen it?  Touched it?” asked a bearded Russian professor.

The chairman approached Chester and laid a hand on his shoulder.  He readdressed the gathering.  “The taskforce team will gain plenty of opportunity to do so.  With the heightened threat of fundamentalist groups relying on looted antiquities as a major funding source for all sorts of crime, it is essential that ISTF eliminate any peril posed by the re-emergence of this manuscript, including the risk of the transfer of artifacts across borders.  ISTF must possess it, analyze it even if the German government disapproves.”

The heightened debate continued. 

Seated close to the back row, Calla assumed the rising disagreements would continue for a while.  She searched her notes.  Like Chester, her credentials had earned her a seat in this congregation.  ISTF was looking for the best from the best.  She passed a lanky hand through her waist long, dark mane and faded into a daze.  Bored?  Not exactly.  The clock above the projector read 5:50P.M.  She had to make a move within ten minutes seeing the indecisive gathering had failed to reach a conclusion. 

Does it really matter?  Why are they comparing it to the Voynich manuscript - a medieval merchant’s, science scheme?

The Yale University owned Voynich document had baffled many linguists, anthropologists, politicians, and cryptographers for decades.

Calla half listened not exactly certain why Mason Laskfell, chief of ISTF, had recommended her for this meeting.  At twenty-nine, she was one of the youngest curators at the British Museum in London, in charge of the late Roman and Byzantine collections. 

She thought back to the phone conversation that had taken place last week with her friend Allegra Driscoll.

“You should consider attending.  ISTF work is top secret and never mandatory.  Evidently, Mason Laskfell thinks highly of you,”  Allegra had suggested.

“But up to now, even I, the least of skeptics had thought the Deveron was a myth?”  Calla argued.

“Go to the meeting at Watergate and then make up your mind.”

Calla had reluctantly agreed.  That conversation had only been a few days ago. 

Recently, Calla had been promoted to curator having worked her way up from cataloger, to restorer and then to curatorial assistant.  Holding Masters Degrees in two fields of specialization, Linguistics from Cambridge and History from the University of Chicago, she was knowledgeable about anthropology and more technically savvy than most.  Her ability to see historical data and information as the lifeblood of human advancement allowed her to perceive the world in more accurate detail than the average person. 

 Her virtuoso skills and proficiency at paying special attention to specifics were needed at the museum. She evaluated the best way to preserve waterlogged, wooden artifacts, conducted x-ray analysis, tracked inventory and submitted items for radioactive dating.  Volunteering as a teenager at various museums in the UK, Greece and Italy had stimulated her interest in history and languages. She glanced round the room and wondered why Allegra was not present. 
Why would she encourage me to come and not turn up?

She brushed the thought away. 

It was not uncommon for Calla to take part in such an assembly.  As a superior linguist and historian, periodically, various organizations like ISTF and even the government called on her for her special knack in restoration science and her knowledge of the role languages play in social and cultural situations. 

To the envy of most, learning and academia came effortlessly to Calla.  She had often tackled sensitive intelligence, sometimes relating to the methods of cipher communications used by domestic and foreign powers. 

Unlike today’s briefing, her linguistic projects usually involved foreign code deciphering - all accomplished in the late, candle burning hours after her work with the museum.

 The noise level in the dim room rose.  A second presenter from Munich left the podium, not having offered any new insights on neither Voynich’s cryptic document, nor the legendary Deveron Manuscript. 

Skepticism filled the room.  Calla herself was a cynic.  To her knowledge, none had laid eyes on the Deveron since the sixties and none of those who had, could actually describe it.  Even the projection photos showed only three questionable, low resolution images. 

The room overpowered the next presenter - a British Intelligence, research analyst.  “Order! I’m not finished yet.  We must consider the implications the Voynich script will have on the Deveron decryption.  The two scripts seem identical,” she insisted. 

“We don’t know that.  They look similar, but there’s no concrete proof.”  The comment came from an outmoded, Art History professor from the University of Paris Sorbonne, seated in the front row.

The man on Calla’s right leaned over and whispered.  “I don’t know about you, but I could use a break.”

Calla’s nostrils took in the putrid smell of coffee breath.  She moved her head back with a grimace of nausea and nodded in response. 
I’ve heard enough.

Seven more minutes passed. 

She could make it on time to the National Archives.  The drive would take her close to an hour down Chelsea Embankment then towards the A4 highway. 

The meeting went over by ten minutes. 

She bit her lip and tapped her frayed notebook with a nervous glance at the clock on the wall.  Calla shuffled her feet, ready to mince to the back of the room.

Rising to her feet, she grabbed her colonial shoulder bag, straightened her smart, khaki trousers and slid on her trench coat.  A tomboy by nature, and not concerned about appearances, she kept each item she wore neat and flawless: from her short nails and flat ballet pumps, to her trim blazer.

Almost on cue, the presenter concluded her presentation.  The meeting chairman stepped onto the podium.  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll announce shortly who’ll work on the Deveron Manuscript in Berlin.  Some of you will get a call soon.”

Calla barely heard the words.

* * *

6:50 P.M.

Calla checked the speedometer of her worn Audi A3 hatchback.  The grim clouds above the London skyline echoed her very thoughts. 

Somber. 

Anguish, like a mantle engulfed her. 

After several minutes, the automobile came to a traffic light.  Philler despised tardiness, but he owed her a favor.  Last January, she’d translated a lengthy manual for him, all to impress the brunette who worked at his local library.  She shook her head, remembering the hours she’d poured into the document.  

Calla checked the traffic light again.  It turned green.  The car ahead of her failed to move.

She slammed the car horn.  “Come on!”

An aggressive remark for her upper-class, English accent.

Thirty minutes later, the car pulled up in front of the National Archives building in the London suburb of Kew.  Calla hurried through the main entrance.  Tuesday meant the offices stayed open until 7:00 P.M.  She checked her watch. 

“We’re closing in ten minutes.”

The stern voice came from a tired female face behind the reception desk.  Calla thanked the middle-aged, Caribbean woman and scanned the lobby hoping not let this opportunity pass her by.  She pulled out her cell phone from her purse.

“There you are.”

Thank God!

The receptionist relaxed her face as Philler, the business systems manager trotted towards them.  His black-rimmed glasses didn’t hide the fact that he was aging.  He seemed older than she remembered. 
Has it been three years?

Philler gestured for her to sidle through the glass barriers.  “She’s with me.  Sign her in as Miss Cress.”

“Philler, we’re closing! No more visitors.”

“She’s my niece,” he lied.  “I’ll be responsible for her.”

The receptionist shook her head in disbelief.  “I’m gonna look the other way.”