The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (33 page)

Calla gawked at the contents therein as she stepped into the phenomenal space that resembled a weapon storeroom. Filled to the brim with early weaponry of various natures, the gladiator beamed, proud of his trophy room.  “These are souvenirs from those who’ve tried to get what you want.”

“What happened to them?” Calla asked.

He smirked.  “They walked away. Alive.”

Calla’s fingers settled on her parting lips at the sight of a gun amongst the plunder, certainly the most modern of all the weapons.  She grasped it in her trembling hands and noticed it was a Secret Intelligence Service, P99 Commemorative.  She’d seen one before at the ISTF Museum in London.

Following her gaze, the gladiator slowly reached for it.  “That, I took from your parents.”

“My parents?”

“Yes.”

“They were here?  When?”

“I really can’t tell. It’s been years.”

“How do you know they were my parents?”

“A young couple arrived here.  It must’ve been at least twenty-five or so years ago.  Or maybe more, I can’t remember.”

He glared at her.  “Just like you and your friends, they tried to get to this room.”

He fished around through the weaponry and produced a wooden box that he presented to her.  “This is yours, I believe.”

She cradled the container, identical to the first one they’d obtained previously in Oxford.

“Open it,” he said.

Inside, she found another carbonado.  This one glowed red, gold and blue - the colors of fire.

“Protect this well,” warned the gladiator.  “There so many covetous hands looking for that.  They’re not to be trusted.  You’ve very little time left to unite all three stones.”

“But you were saying something about my parents—”

When she moved her eyes from the stone and glanced up, the warrior had vanished.

Jack stirred. 

She scuttled back into the caged room. Behind her, with no cautionary warning, the door guarding the weaponry slammed shut.

Soundless.

She studied the space. Only an arched slump in the wall remained in its place.

As she glanced down at the container in her hands, Calla wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing.

Jack moved a pained leg as Calla threw herself at his side. “Jack, are you okay?”

Rubbing his neck, Jack regained consciousness and took in a deep breath. 

Nash roused himself from the numbness that had weighed him down and rose slowly dusting off his-shirt. 

He reached for his backpack and his eyes settled on her hands.  “What do you have there?” As if suddenly remembering his ordeal, he drew in a deep breath.  “And what the heck happened to that guy?”

* * *

Riche Enterprises Media Offices

Central London

Eva slid her fingers along the bubble-wrapped desk and chair that had been delivered the previous night.  She’d selected only Parnian designed furniture.  A small outlet in East London had stocked only a few items that they could deliver quickly.  More was on the way.  This was nothing like that cheap stuff she’d had to sit on in her last office.  As Chief Editor and Director, she could command this office as she wished.

She plopped into the chair and admired the executive Radius desk that didn’t disappoint, even for its dear price.  The leather chair descended back into a comfortable slouch. 
You’ll eat your words soon, Alex.

She stretched for the phone.  Eva had requested the business systems department for a secure line. 

She dialed a Berlin number.

Over the years, she’d established contacts, inside the Berlin police force, however shrewdly.  It all started with an old German boyfriend after university.  He’d ended up in Berlin as a police officer.  Eva was not sure why. 
Gruesome work really.
 
But I guess somebody has to do it.

They’d stayed in touch. 

Time to call in old favors.

Berlin was as an hour ahead. She tried his cell phone. 

No answer.

She left a scruffy voice mail, fibbing about a trip she was planning before placing the phone in its cradle.

Someone must know more about the Deveron.

This was the second time she’d contacted the Berlin police seeking information on who was in charge of the Deveron and Pergamon case. 

She breathed in the newness of her office, barely ready to function as a full-fledged newspaper.  Wasting no time, she dialed another number in Berlin, the Berliner Zeitung, a local newspaper company.

A woman picked up. 
“Ja?”

“Hello, Frau Fuhrmann.  You might remember me.  We covered the Berlinale, the film festival not too long ago.  This is Eva Riche, the journalist from London.”

“Ah ja,”
said the confident voice, who spoke with the elegance of refined English, even though her pronunciation was not quite there.  “Must be quite early in London.  Are you working on a story?”

“Yes and I wonder if you can help me,” Eva continued.  “I’m covering the recent happenings at the Pergamon Museum.  I’m following the investigation.  Tell me, do you know who’s covering the piece for the Berliner Zeitung?”

A heavy breathing, followed by a pause, hovered on the line.

Eva adopted a fiercer tone.  “I’m looking for a contact within the police investigation team.”

Frau Fuhrmann chuckled.  “Ah Eva!  Always on the go.  I remember you well.  You were the glitzy reporter mixing with the stars at the film festival after parties.  I remember the press often mistook you for a film star yourself.”

Eva bit her tongue.  That was the exact image she wanted to eradicate.  She’d been a bit of a party socialite, having naturally settled into it.  Her work then was the gossip column for the Guardian.

Frau Fuhrmann snickered.  “What would you want with such a high profile case?  Even our journalists are struggling to get the exclusive.”

Eva stopped herself from swearing. Before she could interject, the German reporter proved to be a little helpful.  “My colleague, Bernard may know.  Just give me a second.”

The phone went on hold.  Eva drummed her fingers on the bubble-wrap as the ghastly call-hold music screeched in her ear.  Within seconds, Frau Fuhrmann was back on the line. “The inspector you want is Raimund Eichel.  He’s in charge of the investigation.  But I understand he’s not taking any press interviews.  He likes to work in isolation and away from the curious eye of media speculation.”

Eva cradled the phone and turned around on her swivel chair, glancing out the window at the morning sunrise view.  “Do you have a number I can call?”

“Hold on a second.”

Eva heard more jostling on the other side of the line before Frau Fuhrmann returned to the call.  “I’ve obtained a favor from Bernard.  Here’s a number for Eichel’s office in Berlin.”

Eva took the number down. “Thank you, Frau Fuhrmann. I look forward to seeing you soon.  You know, I've my own paper now.”

“How nice.”

Frau Fuhrmann voiced her goodbyes and hung up.

Eva caught a glimpse of Mark, the personal assistant she’d hired at a moment’s whim. He’d come early as instructed to start his new job and crouched over his computer, attempting to connect his monitor, aided by the information technology staff.

She closed the door, picked up the phone and dialed the number Frau Fuhrmann had given her.

“Hallo,”
said a man’s voice. 
“Peter Manuel hier.”

Eva did not speak a word of German.  “Hello. My name is Eva Riche calling from London, do you speak English?”

“A small bit,” said the man in a scruffy, German accent.

Eva took a breath.  “Am I speaking to Raimund Eichel?”

“Nein.
  This is Peter Manuel, his deputy.  How can I help you?”

“Can I talk to Mr. Eichel?”

“He’s not here.  What is your business?”

“Where can I reach him?”

“What’s your business?”

A lie would not hurt.  He wouldn’t put her through if she admitted she was from the press. 
Flattery always works
. 

“I’m interested in security systems that can be employed in large companies.  I own a segment of Riche Enterprises in London.  I’ve heard that Mr. Eichel is an expert on the subject.  I believe he would be able to advise me.”

Peter knew the Riche group of companies well.  He’d even applied several years ago at their German branch in Stuttgart.  Not thinking twice about surrendering the information, he entertained her inquiry.

“Herr Eichel is in London until tomorrow.  But I’ll give you his cell phone number.”

That was easy.

She jotted the number down.  “Where’s he staying in London?”

“I believe he’s at the Hilton in Kensington.”

“Thank you, Peter. You were most helpful.”

He smiled to himself, realizing that he hadn’t followed protocol. The woman had charmed him.

Eva dialed the cell number. 

Eichel was still asleep in his Hilton hotel room. His half-groggy eyes focused on the buzzing noise on his bedside table.

He extended his hand and grasped the phone.  

“Hello, Mr. Eichel.  You might recall we met some years ago in Berlin?”

“Who am I speaking to?  How did you get this number?”

“My name is Eva Riche.  I need your help with something.  I’m currently doing some investigative research on the disappearance of the artifacts from the Pergamon Museum, can you help me?”

“Are you a journalist?”

Eva ignored the question at the risk of a hang up.  “Could I meet you today?  I understand you’re in London and in charge of the investigation.”

“
Frauline,
please call my office.  They’ll give you the official statement.  I’m not taking any interviews.”

Eichel hung up and struggled out of bed.  Rubbing his eyes, he rose fully awake, accustomed to early wake-up calls. 

 He swore. “Nosy journalists! They’ve always distracted me from doing my job.  Morons! They just get in the way.”

Eva had covered more ground than she’d expected for the first day.  The clock in her office read 12:40P.M.  She’d spent the good part of the morning researching anything she could find on the Deveron Manuscript. 
Surely Eichel will not be in his room for ever.

Could she take a chance?  She knew the hotel well.  Perhaps she could bribe a few willing money-makers.

She dialed Mark’s extension.  “I’m going out now.  Cancel all my meetings for the day, especially the one with Raphael!”

Mark nodded trying to keep up with who Raphael was.

On her way out, Eva grabbed her stylish coat from the hook by the door and darted out of the building with determined haste.

Kensington Hilton stood proudly in the leafy district of Holland Park.  Eva parked her white Bentley in the hotel underground garage and made her way to the elevators that led onto the hotel lobby. 

As Eva approached the front desk, a silver-haired, hotel receptionist leaned his ear over a phone receiver, calming an annoyed customer.  With an impatient air, she placed her hands on her hips tapping her stiletto until he concluded his conversation. 

He set the receiver down and beamed a courteous smile at her.  “Good afternoon.”

“Hello,” she said with a confident drawl, exaggerating her French accent.  “I was supposed to meet my husband here.  He’s in town from Berlin, on business.  Could you tell me what room he is in?

The man deliberately lowered his head and studied her. “What’s your husband’s name?” he asked.

“Raimund Eichel.”

“Let me see.”  He typed on his machine.  “Ah, here he is. I’m afraid he’s not in at the moment.  His key is here.  Perhaps you can wait for him in one of our waiting areas.”

“Couldn’t I just wait in the room?  You see,” she leaned closer, the fragrance of her perfume whiffing past his nostrils, causing him to twitch his nose as she tossed a flirtatious wink.  “I want to surprise him.”

A gasp escaped the receptionist’s throat. “Technically, we’re not allowed—”

Eva did not want to waste time.  She drew out a wad of twenty-pound notes, and made sure he saw them as she slipped them under some papers on the desk.

“Listen.”  She read his name badge.  “Gustav?  I’m a busy woman.  I’m sure this will help any trouble I’ve put you through.”

Insulted by her gesture, Gustav slid the money back at her.  “Madam. I’m sorry.”

Eva smirked.  “Don’t expect any business from me or Riche Enterprises in the future.”

She spun on her heels and inched towards the elevators, glancing back once to see if Gustav was watching.  Her Stuart Weitzman stilettos clicked with each step on the marbled floor.  She’d managed to see Eichel’s room number on Gustav’s screen.