The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (3 page)

Calla followed Philler.  They took the elevator to level two.  Once there, they wormed down the hallway lit on one side by the early moonlight peering through the glass façade.  April had promised an early spring this year.  Calla’s tension eased at the thought.  It was her favorite time of year.  Her thirtieth birthday would be here before the end of the summer. 
This year will be different.  I’ll find them!

They stopped at a secured door missing a label.  Philler produced a chained pass from his pocket and swiped the card reader pushing the door open for Calla.  “This is a staff research room prohibited to the public.  The computers in here have unrestricted access to all known civil servant records.  Click on the blue book icon and select ‘civil records’.  The rest should be straightforward.”

He handed her a green Post-it note.  “This is the password you’ll need.  Use it when prompted.  I can only give you ten minutes maximum.”  He straightened his glasses.  “That gives me plenty of time to sign out without raising any suspicions.  They’ll assume I was checking the systems.  Okay, I'll leave you to it.”

Philler switched on the fluorescent overhead lights and turned to depart. 

“Ten minutes, tops,” he called as he shut the door.

Her tone was courteous.  “Thank you.”

The door closed behind him.  Hundreds of brown boxes, neatly piled together, stood on gray steel shelves.  They rested in an endless row of archives on the far side of the spotless room. 

Calla felt a chill through her spine. 
It must be close to five degrees in here
. 

She shook it off and moved towards the multi-screen computer on a silver, metallic desk. 

She switched on the computer. 

Just what she’d imagined.  It used secure socket layer encryption to ensure privacy of information.  She entered the authorization from Philler’s Post-it.

Philler and Calla had met five years ago in an IT training course on SMART technologies.  His easy-going manner had made it easy for her to befriend him.  Even at his ripe old age of sixty-three, she had never met anyone more knowledgeable about computer systems and software besides Jack Kleve, her dependable colleague.  Jack knew everything about modern technologies, or close to everything.  She smiled at the thought of their odd friendship.

The computer authorized her entry and lit up to a screen with four boxes.  Calla chose the civil records icon as she’d been instructed.

It was a huge risk for Philler to let her use the restricted room to investigate a name she’d received concerning her birth and adoption.

Marla Cox. 

If only I knew. Are my parents dead or alive?

She muttered under her breath. “All right. Just be ready for whatever you find.”

As the computer churned, she pulled out the only form she’d ever seen on her adoption. It came through a court in England. 

After several years of research, she’d made the decision to contact the General Registrar Office and request the rights to obtain all records about her birth and adoption. 

Just a month ago, it had taken every inch of her willpower to apply for a certificate of her original birth entry - as well as her adoption certificate.  Even then, they were incomplete records, lacking information on her biological parents. In fact, they raised more questions.

She scanned the adoption document briefly.

…Date of adoption order: 27 June, 1987

All it confirmed was that she had been adopted at the age of five.  She fumbled through her bag for what she believed was her original birth certificate.

…Date of Birth:  29 May, 1982

…Place of Birth: County of Essex

…Father’s forename and surname: Unknown

…Mother’s forename and surname: Bonnie Tyleman

Many certainties or better yet, lies had become apparent to her shortly after receiving these documents.  She wished to separate the lies from the truths and so began an intensive investigation into her past. 

Calla followed all avenues open to her - sometimes on ancestry websites, sometimes by grilling her evasive adoptive parents, who had christened her Calla Iris Cress.

The name Bonnie Tyleman had yielded no concrete results.  She’d taken the information to a private investigator two years ago, paying the greater portion of her savings to locate Bonnie dead or alive.  His investigation yielded two Bonnie Tylemans. 

The first had changed her name legally, several years prior to Calla’s date of birth, to Marla Cox.  The investigator found the second registered as a civil servant in a public record.  Armed with that vital information, Calla pursued further without his services. 

The touchscreen monitors took every ounce of technical knowledge she possessed to navigate through the complex software system.  Thankfully, she was technology savvy in these new government encryption programs. 
You are a lifesaver, Jack.

Jack had given Calla a quick lesson in working the new capacitive, touchscreen tools such as the ones in front of her.  The screens were capable of registering physical contact through most types of electrically insulated materials. 

“You can even use them with gloves,” Jack had said.  He’d also given her a quick course in Oracle and SQLite database software.  His brilliance as a software and technology developer, recently sought out for ISTF special operations, fascinated her. 

She slid her bony finger across the screen working fast with one eye on the time. 

Seven minutes to go. 

Resolve filling her, she scrolled through windows of texts and flashing images.  Finally, she landed on the catalog database screen. 

She stopped.

A bold headline stared back at her:

Civil Servant Commission 1800-1990.

 
Could this be it?

The cursor blinked. 

She entered the name Marla Cox and waited a few seconds. 

Twenty entries found!  Damn, who do I pick?

She glimpsed to the right of each entry, hoping for a period or date.

None!

What the heck?  I have nothing to lose.

She hit the back icon and returned to the previous screen.  Calla typed a name that had badgered her mind since the day she had discovered it.

Bonnie Tyleman.

“Okay,” she muttered. “Get ready for whatever you find.”

The cursor blinked uncontrollably, searching the machine for information.

Come on!

Five minutes left!

She waited, tapping the fingers of her right hand nervously on the desk.  The machine failed to respond. 

Philler knocked on the door from the outside, giving her a two minute warning.

Nervous energy brusquely flowed through Calla’s veins.  She had waited a long time. The machine churned on, like the unending wait for a London bus. 

She knew enough about genealogy, DNA tests that determined a person’s ethnicity.  She would not go to these extremes.  For now, she gave the dawdling computer a chance. 
Why’s it taking so long?

Who had brought her to the orphanage?  Why?  Were her parents still alive?  Perhaps they lived right here in London or maybe on mainland Europe.  Where had she inherited her olive skin, emerald-amber eyes, dark hair and athletic physique?  No one had ever told her. 

Could it be that her parents were of Caucasian, Asian, perhaps Latin American, French Gypsy or even Indian decent?  For all she knew she could also be the product of mixed race.  For her thirtieth birthday, Calla wanted answers.

Search result…

Finally.

More than 200 entries found.

Now what?

She rose and hit the enter button several times.  A drop of sweat fell onto the silver surface of the desk. 

Without warning, a continuous beep shrilled from the machine’s speakers.

“No, not now!  Do not lock me out!  Come on!”

The screen flashed a warning. 

You are not authorized to access this information!

Panic crept in like an unsolicited visitor.  She slid her trembling fingers across the screen.  Her efforts seemed futile as the computer continued with its loud warning.

No!

A hand stretched across her shoulder and hit two function buttons simultaneously!

“What’d you do?”

Philler’s knit eyebrows told her he was not amused.  He shut off the machine.  “You practically raised the alarm.  We’ve gotta move.  A systems security person could be here any minute.  I’m afraid you have to leave now.  God knows I’m in enough trouble already.”

“Please Philler, this is my only chance!”

Philler sighed.  “I can’t Calla.  I’m sorry.”

The door flung open with a thud.  A female data security manager with a tight grip on the doorknob blocked their only means of escape.  She marched into the room followed by a seething male security guard. 

“What’s going on here?  My computer has registered irregular activity coming from this room,” hollered the man.

“Just a routine checkup,” Philler said.

The woman’s eyes fell on Calla. “And she?”

“Just a trainee.”

“Let’s go!” commanded the guard.

Calla picked up her belongings and rose, followed by a jittery Philler. 
God, I hope he doesn’t get into trouble.

The security guard jostled her out of the building. It did not surprise her. 

“Hey, it’s public property,” she called back.

She wiped her brow. 

So close.

CHAPTER TWO

DAY 2

9:12 A. M.

Thames Embankment, London

Calla glanced up from her laptop as cars zipped by on Victoria Embankment.  “Sir, could you please close the window?” 

The morning sun cast its rays on the cool, aluminum café table.  It peered in through the glistening square windows that overlooked the river walk along the north bank of the River Thames.

“Yes, of course,” said the waiter.  “Sometimes the blue skies can be deceptive in April.”

The cell phone beside her laptop had been silent all morning.  She scrolled through her in-box, landing on a text message sent by Allegra Driscoll the night before.  Allegra was Calla’s life mentor, or so she hoped.

Calla,

As you may know by now, I’ve been selected to lead Taskforce Carbonado. 

I’ve also chosen you as part of the team. See you in Berlin tomorrow.

Allegra

She slid the phone in the back pocket of her denims.  Jack and Nash were running late.  She scanned a number of summary notes that had been emailed overnight.  Calla did not know how long she would be on the Deveron project. 

I need to get cover at the museum before the end of the day.

Her mind reeled back to the events of the day before.  It had taken her all of seven months to persuade Philler to give her access to the restricted computers.  Her efforts had generated nothing.

Nothing!

The embankment cafe was already a buzz of activity even at 9:00 A.M., mostly coffee and breakfast takeaways.  Calla liked the drone of a busy place.  Even with the ear-splitting tumult of clinking glasses and plates, she stayed focused on her thoughts - her fruitless research.  She possessed a rare ability to tune out intrusions and people’s voices.  Right now, bridging the gaps in her past ranked high on her exhaustive to-do list. 

She missed the remoteness of her less prominent offices on the other side of the city.  These Watergate offices were overbearing.  At the museum, her colleagues were sharp; the work stimulated her and the pace remained exhilarating.  There was nothing more gratifying than conducting original research on Roman artifacts, or even developing a study program on endangered languages. 

The British Museum allowed her to delve into the wealth of books, pamphlets and journals in one of the world’s specialist anthropological collections.  Some of her best work with ISTF had come after hours spent in the anthropology library.  This would be the third time ISTF had called on her expertise in the last eighteen months. 

I’ll do it.  I’ll go to Berlin.

Could she decipher the Deveron Manuscript?  Probably.  Contrary to some of the thoughts shared at yesterday’s briefing, as far as she was concerned the Voynich was a fabricated document.  However, she would need to see the Deveron text herself.

She’d sat for several minutes without typing, her screen diverging into energy saving mode.  The reflection in the black screen stared back at her, reminding her of the futility of yesterday’s efforts.