The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (35 page)

She threw him a chilling look setting him off scampering to find her Marlboros. 

Margot turned her attention towards Nash.  “So now I’m a pawn for the British government and the NSA in return for their silence.”

“I’m afraid the presidential race has to be run impartially, ma’am.”

Her eyes fell on Mason’s original documents as Nash rolled them in his hands.

“What you gonna do with that?” she said.

“It’s classified.”

“What’s your next move?”

He glanced at the time. “Get on a plane back to Europe.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

1:02 P.M.

Hilton London Kensington Hotel

Eva’s ear caught more muffled jabber in the hallway. 

She clenched her jaw as treading footsteps neared the door’s edge, followed by the sound of a door unlocking.

She waited for an intrusion into her investigation.

None.

She waited some more.

Must be the occupant across the hall
.

Eva had snapped enough photos.  She carefully returned the papers into Eichel’s coat pocket, her eyes catching two names on the documents. 

Written casually across the top of one of the sheets, several scribbled notes lay under the startling name.

Calla Cress.

How do I know that name?

She would find out later.  Right now, she had to move. Eva quickly scanned the room one final time and without further lingering, she scrambled into the hallway, bustling towards the elevators. 

Halfway down the corridor, a man donning a serious expression, headed in the opposite direction.  He navigated past her, and for a brief moment, his eyes focused on a note in his hands. 

Eva recognized him from the news broadcast she’d seen on the Deveron.  Caught up in his reading, she shuffled her feet forward and slid on her sunglasses as she brushed past casually. Her face turned to the wall as she stole past him.

Eichel nodded politely, and then glared back at her. 

With her chin down, she set off bolting and within seconds, she’d made it to the elevators.  Her trembling hand reached for the call button as a bolt of adrenaline shot through her bloodstream.

She jabbed at the call button in panic. 

Fidgety hands refused to settle as she glanced back. 
What’s taking so long?

Behind her, Eichel had started a slow march in her direction.  “Hey, don’t I know you?” he said.

Eva attacked the control panel in frantic hysteria as Eichel’s pace quickened towards her.

The doors dragged open, and Eva threw herself into the safety of the busy compartment.  “Ground floor, please,” she called to the smartly dressed woman closest to the elevator buttons.

As she waited for the doors to shut, she caught Eichel’s eyes, who had gained considerable ground in her direction.

Shudders began to rock her gut.
If the doors don’t close within the next…

She caught the eager look in his eyes as the steel slammed shut. 

* * *

DAY 10

Fore Street

East London

Jack scooped up a spoon of steaming, Thai noodle soup.  Its piquant taste slithered down, lessening the hunger he had tried to ignore since returning from Rome a few hours ago.  The aromatic spices tickled his nostrils and reminded him of dishes his mother used to prepare in the Seychelles.  He finished his bowl rapidly and settled back in his work chair by the window of his converted studio apartment.

He lived alone, and in true bachelor fashion, the place could have benefited from a thorough cleaning.  It did not help that a cleaner came in once a fortnight.  A true mastermind, his weakness was sloppiness.  He alone could understand his mess. 

In the background, Ella Fitzgerald serenaded him with
Moonlight in Vermont
, a melodic tune that soothed his soul.  Jack’s creativeness worked best with his two best friends: music and food.

He stroked his neck, massaging the spot where he had received the blow in Rome.  The pain was lessening now. He only had a few hours before needing to re-join Calla and Nash, and in deep thought, he switched on the computer, illuminating his multiple desk monitors. 

He keyed in a series of passwords on the sleek console. 

A video program popped up.  He set in motion the fast-forward button for a few seconds until he came to the point in the video that he sought.

Footage, recorded earlier of Mason, played on his screen, as Jack took down a series of notes.  “Business in India now?  I can’t imagine it’s government related.”

He loaded another disk and viewed some more footage, most of which was not incriminating. 

He lips curled into a wide grin, proud that he’d obtained an earlier opportunity to plant his bug on Mason. The feat had been achieved by an admirer.

Lillian.

Mason’s personal assistant.

Mason could easily justify a trip to India, but Jack failed to recognize the man Mason kept calling Rupert Kumar. 

Though fatigued, his eyes remained on the screen, until he reached a certain frame.

Three things in the last few recordings had interested him.  Mason’s unprecedented trip to India to meet with Rupert Kumar was the first.  Jack had heard the name and he took note of the billionaire’s details.  The second was Mason’s trip to New York, to visit front lady and Republican presidential candidate, Margot Arlington. Finally, there was the meeting with Samuel Riche, the French billionaire. Wasn’t he that snooty journalist’s father? 
What’s her name, Eva Riche?
 

None of the meetings recorded in the footage fell within Mason’s jurisdiction or line of work.
What’s the connection?

The front doorbell interrupted his musings and his eyes turned to the clock on his computer.
Who could be calling at this time?

He debated whether to go to the door at all, and lowered the volume of Ella’s serenade, thinking his Jazz had been a notch too loud for the neighbors.

He moved towards the front door and glanced through the spy hole. “Who is it?”

Mrs. Hawke straightened her shoulders as she lifted her broad chin to the peep hole.  “Jack Kleve?  Hello.  We met at Mr. Laskfell’s residence.”

How did she find my place?

He placed his hand on the doorknob.  “Mrs. Hawke, do you realize it’s 2:00A.M.?  What’s so urgent?”

He pulled a torch-like pen from the cabinet near the door and peered with it by rotating the cap lens to one side.  Aided by its amplified night-vision feature, he scanned her for any metallic or antagonizing objects, satisfied with the little device he’d created himself.

Mrs. Hawke rose to her toes and projected her voice through the eye hole.  “Mr. Kleve, Mr. Laskfell sent me.”

She had no weapons. 

He set the gadget down.  “At this time of night?”

“Mr. Laskfell wants to know if you require any more information for his new project.”

“Can’t this wait until morning?”

“I was on my way home and thought I would do this last errand for him.  He tells me you are a night owl.”

True. But so what?

Jack cracked the door an inch.  “As you can see Mrs. Hawke, I’m getting ready to go to bed.  What is it that can’t wait?”

Even as she spoke, her scouting eyes explored the room over his shoulders. She handed Jack an envelope.  “This is from Mr. Laskfell.  He said I had to get it to you today.”

Jack took the envelope.  “Okay, you’ve delivered the envelope.  Is there anything else?”

Her attempt to spy over his shoulders was shameless, even with Jack’s stern look.

Jack held back unutterable profanity as he scowled at the preposterous woman sporting her scruffy, forties hat and coat.

He repositioned the door to close it.  “Good night, Mrs. Hawke, you’ve delivered your message.”

She shifted back into the hallway, and raised inquisitive eyes, before she zipped round and departed.

Jack stared after her for a few seconds and then latched the door.  Baffled by the meddlesome woman who possibly lived on the other side of town, he studied the envelope she’d delivered.

She could have easily sent a messenger first thing in the morning.

He traversed back to his computer and realized he’d left the program running on mute.

His body stiffened.

Had Mrs. Hawke seen his footage?  Had she caught glimpse of the bugged material?

With the large monitor still running, he studied the rolling video of Mason and Margot Arlington conversing deeply in the Waldorf Astoria lobby.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Kensington, London

Calla Cress. Why’s that name familiar?

What does Raimund Eichel want with her?

Eva failed to collate the pieces.  She recounted her escape from the Hilton. 

Eva had slipped out of the elevator and raced through the Hilton lobby. 

Back in her car, she paused to think, catching her breath for several minutes gazing at the mahogany dashboard. 

She scrambled through her bag for her cell phone, hidden under her day planner.  She seized it in haste and slid her fingers over the touch screen, locating the contacts folder.  Not one single person with the name Cress popped up.  Yet she knew she’d distinctively heard it before.
Cress is not a common name; it shouldn’t be hard to do a search.

She fired up ‘Cyter Link’, a professional social networking website to which she belonged. 

It too generated no search results.

“Damn it!  Why do I know that name?”

A silver Mercedes prowled ahead as it sidled out of a parking space. Its headlights beamed directly in her eyes and blinded her vision for a few seconds.

She turned the key in the ignition and coasted her car out of the parking lot.  With no destination in mind, her mind was plagued with the agony of a short memory. 

Deciding she could get more research done at home, she drove the three miles to her house in Chelsea and nosed the car into the narrow parking space. 

She strode through the Victorian doors of her upmarket house, and set her keys on the entryway table. Her trendy bag landed on the black and white floor tiling, and she raced up the stairs, coming to a brusque stop at the library shelves that lined the top of the steps. 

She slid her fingers along each of the four levels stacked mostly with travel and coffee table books.

Where is it?

Her eyes fell on two yearbooks from her former high school, Beacon Abbey Academy, a sought after, independent girls’ school that had stood for centuries at the top of Elstree hill overlooking the town and its quaint cottages.

There may be something in here.

Pulling the most recent yearbook off the shelf, she slipped off her heels and rubbed her sore feet before landing cross-legged on the carpeted floor.  She flipped through page after page, reminiscing more than she anticipated. She tossed the volume to the floor and reached for the other yearbook - the one marking her graduation year.  This time, she progressed straight to the graduating class pages.  The mug shots were unforgivably appalling, yet her jaw dropped at the picture on the bottom right corner of the graduating class page. 
It’s her!
 
Calla Iris Cress.

‘Most Likely to Succeed’, read the high school superlative.

How she’d despised the girl.

Sure enough, on page three, was Calla Cress delivering the senior class speech, the girl who had been named valedictorian of the graduating class. 

Eva glared at the leggy, dark-haired creature that had seemed quite awkward when she started at Beacon. 

Eva remembered meeting Calla for the first time. Everybody knew that she had moved to Elstree to live with her foster parents, or was it adoptive parents?  That part was not questioned as much as where her real parents were.  Her untold story started with a rumor Eva had heard in the school corridors, that Calla had refused to call her parents
mom
or
dad
but insisted on labeling them Mama and Papa Cress.  Calla had always maintained that her real parents would return one day.  It had been great fuel for victimization.  Everyone felt sorry for the poor daughter who’d been shipped off to Elstree.  At least that is what Eva remembered.

Eva questioned how an orphaned girl, whose adoptive parents used to be missionaries, could afford an exclusive private school like Beacon Abbey.  She’d never found out.

Calla had by far surpassed her counterparts, academically, in sports and most distinctly in languages and history.  The girl could always be found with her nose in books, or off representing the school in some sporting event or academic debate.