The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (4 page)

Her instincts told her she should restart her family search by visiting the orphanage in Essex, a location the investigator had provided. 
Somebody there must have some recollection of my parents. 

She could also trace Mila Rembrandt, a relative, or so she’d been told, using an ancestry search company. 

Her adoptive parents Mama and Papa Cress had told her many years ago that Mila came looking for her when she was eight years old.  Calla was at boarding school and never learned of the visit until her high school graduation day.  She did not speak to Mama Cress for days after that event. 

How could they have kept such crucial information from her?  The question still lingered in her mind. 

Why had Mila come looking?

“Would you like another kiwi juice?” asked a jovial waitress.

Calla escaped her daydream and peeked at her watch.  “Thank you.”

A Suburban Dream, chill-out track crooned in the background of the tiny yet popular café.  More morning commuters scurried in and out with their orders.  The guys were late for the breakfast appointment and the next ISTF session started in forty-five minutes. 

Calla twiddled her diamond ear stud between her fingers, a pensive habit from her adolescent years, and picked up her glass of kiwi juice.  She took a sip before emptying the glass. 

A thought dawned on her. 

Allegra could help. 

As a former diplomat and Political Director in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, she may have access to knowledge and files relating to past civil servants like Bonnie Tyleman.  Calla was drawn to Allegra’s sophisticated zest for life and adventure.  They often enjoyed stimulating conversations over a glass of Californian Chardonnay. 

Allegra had served in British missions in Iraq, Belgium, the UAE, and Yemen.  Inspired by world affairs, her lack of family ties allowed her to reap the rewards of an adventurous and at times dangerous occupation.  Her vast Foreign Service experience, including a role once in Brussels, working on the embryonic attempts at European Union foreign policy, made her particularly resourceful. 

She’d been seen as a leading voice among European politicians in the Darfur peace talks. Once, she’d also supervised a newly opened border crossing with Egypt at the Rafah crossing in the southern Gaza Strip and even negotiated with local leaders in Kinshasa to accept blue helmeted, UN peacekeepers in the Democratic Republic of Congo. 

If anyone can help, Allegra can.

* * *

10:00 A.M.

“Looks like you’re a million miles from here?”

The voice came from behind her.  She turned to see Jack approach with an espresso in his hand.

“Jack.”

Even in a setting as formal as ISTF, Jack Kleve, at thirty-one was the most carefree person that she knew.  Worn Converse shoes, Levis jeans and an Adidas sports jacket were his uniform - not to mention the shoulder length dreadlocks.  He commanded attention when he was in a room with his sturdy frame, long arms and wide shoulders.  Hyperactive and always on the go, he was one of the most creative entrepreneurs listed on the TED website, a series of global conferences properly known as Technology, Entertainment, Design. 

Jack was one of two technology inventors who recently participated in the developing of responsive aerial robots.  The flying, aluminum rotors were small and could swarm sensing one another in flight.  Their build allowed them to form random teams capable of surveying disasters zones.  They possessed the precise ability to tighten themselves into perfect multitudes when necessary.  Such technology was crucial for swift response where humans were not able to act fast enough - such as in earthquake disaster relief or a biological leak. 

Calla remembered a confidential conversation that she’d engaged in with Jack where he informed her that the technology was under bid by the US, Russian and French governments. 

As a well-honed technology specialist, Jack could command any fee and any place of employment.  With an impressive client list of government agencies, private corporations and security firms, he had made quite a name for himself.  He certainly possessed charisma, wit and brains, qualities Calla admired.

Calla recalled first meeting him at the TED conference in Edinburgh.  She wondered where such talent could hail from.  Born in the Seychelles on Mahé, one of the 115 islands of the Indian Ocean nation, his beginnings had been relatively humble.  He had paid for his own education while working as an errand boat boy.  After finishing high school, a move to Canada with a scholarship allowed him to attend McGill University where he showcased several skills including inventing a key sensor for eye recognition in robotics. 

Jack’s childlike eyes smiled at Calla as he dropped his bags on the chair next to her.  He plopped into a chair, leaned over, and turned her laptop to face him.  “Now, what’re you up to?” He smirked.  “You need to give this a rest.  Ancestry.com is not going to get you any closer to solving the riddle of your past.”

Calla couldn’t help but giggle.  She wondered if she had acted wisely by informing him of her family quest.  How could she resist?  Jack never lied and, she needed a sanity check every once in a while.

Jack gave Calla a peck on the cheek.  “You’re an alien and you know it.”

Calla smiled at Jack’s sense of humor. She admired his genius and adored their friendship, especially his outgoing charm.  “I suppose you’d know.  Tell me Jack, when was the last time you dialed home to your base ship?”

A smirk flashed on Jack’s face.

She edged closer.  “Listen, do you think I’m crazy to be obsessed with hunting for clues to my background?  I mean, wouldn't you want to know where you come from?”

Jack shifted with a nervous grin.  “I suppose so, Calla.  Your parents were crazy to let you go, if they’re still alive.”

He took her delicate hand in his large palms.  “I just don’t want you to get hurt.  They may not be all that.  A happy family is a dream.  No one has one.  Look at my dysfunctional family.  Don’t let the past dictate who you are or who you will become.  Write your own story.  From where I’m looking, you’re doing great.”

He patted her hand and withdrew it to take a sip of his espresso.

She could depend on Jack’s support.  Was he right?  Calla never really pictured what she might find.

He cast a glance at the main entrance.  “Ah!  Here comes Nash, the man himself.  He’s finally decided to join us.”

Nash Shields pushed through the doors.  His tousled, sandy-brown hair was still wet from his shower earlier that morning.  He liked to run first thing at dawn.  It cleared his mind, he’d once told Calla.

He shot them a warm nod, maneuvered towards their table and lowered into the extra seat next to Calla.  Nash’s navy-blue blazer hung above his faded jeans.  Though grippingly built behind the loose clothes that he wore, he liked to stay comfortable.  At six-foot-three, his lean build and posture spoke of years of military discipline, though that did not rob him of the sparkle in his engaging and deep-gray eyes.

As a former US Embassy marine currently employed by the National Security Agency within human intelligence, he mainly specialized in matters relating to the Middle East.  He had served the US embassies of Kuwait and Syria as a marine.  Before that, his first post marine training assignment was at the US Army Rhein-Main Air Base near Frankfurt.  Here he learned first-hand the tactics of military intelligence. 

The army also introduced Nash to humanitarian work and he once took part in delivering several hundred tons of emergency food, tents and medical supplies to North Korea. 

Occasionally, although he only told those close to him, he acted as a security adviser to the government.  Fluent in Arabic, he’d been in London on and off in the last three years helping with classified ISTF’s intelligence analysis. 

He gave Calla a peck on the cheek.  “Hey, beautiful, any new archaeological finds I should know about. I find your work fascinating. Did you catch the BBC program last night on the remains of King Richard III?”

His standard American vernacular charmed Calla.  Nash never failed to astound her.  Here he was, trendy, intelligent, captivating and just enough athletic physique to make her self-conscious by looking at him.  With a quiet confidence that dazzled from the intent look of his stimulating eyes and sharp sense of humor, she found him extremely attractive.  And in true earnestness, she hoped he did not know that fact.  Calla was awkward around men she found stunning and as a general rule, she kept them at arm’s length.  But recently, with Nash, that guard would fall almost involuntarily.

She snapped close her laptop.  “You forget, I don’t watch TV. By the way, I’m going to Berlin tonight.  Allegra Driscoll is leading Taskforce Carbonado.  She’s asked me to document her work at the Pergamon Museum.”

“I know,’ said Nash.  “The memo came through last night.  Jack and I are also on board.”

“Are you going to Berlin too?”

“No.  We’ll be stationed here.”

Calla ran a finger on the rim of her empty glass studying Nash.  He took a napkin and wiped away a drip of kiwi juice from the corner of her fidgeting mouth.  She removed it from his strong hand with an embarrassed grin.  “This is a real opportunity for me and challenging work. The Deveron is no ordinary manuscript.”

He smiled fondly at Calla extending her a curious glance. “ISTF has now agreed with Germany for a group of specialists like you to look at it in Berlin,” said Nash.

 In the last three years, they had worked together on a few ISTF projects and many of them were nerve-wracking assignments. 

Two winters ago, they labored over an international kidnapping case where a ransom note was left in KIPPA - a special code language ISTF had developed in secret.  The project had been stopped for lack of funding.  Frustrated, the kidnapper, who was also the main developer of KIPPA walked off with the language code.  Two days later, he planted a cryptic, ransom note in the Daily Telegraph.  It mesmerized the media, the public and caused problems for ISTF. 

That had been the kidnapper’s intention.  Using KIPPA would bring public attention to ISTF.  Everyone failed to decipher it, given the kidnapper’s reprogramming of the system, using perplexing hieroglyphics. 

After three arduous nights poring over the symbols and the possibilities, Nash and Calla discovered that though a modern system, it was based on classic cryptography, a Mesopotamian system to be exact.  It had been a genuine team effort.

“Allegra is right for this,” said Jack.

“You mean
the
Allegra Driscoll.  Winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature, and the Prime Minister’s special representative on cyber security?  I don’t think she was there yesterday,” Nash said.

Calla’s emerald eyes sparked with excitement.  “That’s right!  Some of her many titles and no, she was not there.”

Nash raised an eyebrow.  “You seem intrigued.”

You have no idea.

Calla was amused by Nash’s inquisitive nature.  Even as close friends and colleagues, and the proximity in which they often worked, she pondered why nothing had ever developed between them.  She studied his face. He was remarkable on many levels; intellectually, in physique and world experience, yet they kept their relationship platonic.

She gave him a long nod.  “I’ll certainly be working with the best.  This is an immense opportunity.  It’s fascinating watching the woman work.” 
Away from the distractions of the ISTF offices, she’ll help me find Bonnie Tyleman.

“Ever been to Berlin?” Nash said.

A sense of anticipation filled Calla.  “Once,” she said.  “I’m sure I can still manage German.”

Jack sidled back to their table.  They’d barely noticed his departure.  “Time to go.” 

While the two had conversed, Jack had left to take a call.  “Mason Laskfell is on his way.  They’ll now disclose detailed assignments relating to the Deveron.”

Jack turned to Calla.  He tilted his head, his eyebrows knitting as if he’d come by peculiar information.  “He asked me if I’d seen you, Calla.”

Calla had never spoken a word to Mason.  Like all organization heads, everyone knew who he was.  He hardly took one-on-one meetings.  Except for the few times she’d seen his name on memorandums, he might as well have been a ghost. 

What does he want with me?

* * *

11:00 A.M.

ISTF Offices, Basement Level

Technology Museum

Why the heck did we create all this stuff?

Modern times dictated technological advancement.  Mason smiled to himself, amused at how much the human race depended on technology.  They had come a long way, even though he hated to admit the fact.  The ISTF basement, technology museum, with its displays of gadgets and technologies used in wars and secret missions, was a testament to that, rivaling only those found at the London Imperial War Museum, MI6 and within the CIA, places he’d had the privilege of examining.

Mason leaned his six-foot frame against the safety glass.  He felt fatigued - more emotionally than physically.  If his dark hair had not been littered with tiny streaks of gray, one would have guessed his age at round about forty-five, give or take a year.  He really did not care.  Age was rarely a judge of character or wisdom.