The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (48 page)

“What you did you tell her?”

“Only what we agreed.”

Mila sat down on the wooden window ledge, relieved by Rosetta’s words.

“Hello?”

“Yes, Rosetta, I’m still here.”

Rosetta’s unsteady voice reverberated with unease.  “She did not look well at all.  I believe she’d been wounded in some way.  I can’t be sure.  But most importantly, I was worried about her state of mind.”

“What do you mean?” Mila asked.

“She looked like she was on the verge of giving up.  So I told her about the birthmark. Only what we agreed.  You see, she shoved a picture of it in my face.”

“Rosetta—”

“I know what you are going to say, but I cared for this girl until she was five.  We always knew she was special.  When you’ve raised as many girls as I have, you can tell the ones who are particularly gifted.”

Mila set her hand on her forehead, hoping to mop away the anxiety she felt.  “You may have put her life in danger.  The less she knew about that birthmark and her past, the better.”

“I didn’t tell her anything more about it,” cried Rosetta.

Mila’s forehead creased, tense lines coating her face. “I believe you.”

Mila thought back to the time she had personally helped select the right parents for Calla.  They believed a retired missionary couple would be best.  Fewer complications.  In addition, being barren for so long, they were more likely to cherish a small baby girl.  Mila remembered the interview well.  They appeared to know how to keep to their own affairs and were simply unpretentious.  She’d wired funds each month for all of Calla’s expenses as a child. 

Calla was to be educated privately, an attempt at steering her accelerating appetite for knowledge.  Mila recalled the day she had visited Mama and Papa Cress when Calla turned eight.  Calla had not been there as Mila glowed in the stories and photographs they showed off. 

Calla was happy, academic and rather athletic - everything Mila would have expected.  The couple had done a phenomenal job in raising her and never once questioned any of the demands they were given regarding Calla’s upbringing.  They truly loved Calla more than most natural parents. 

Rosetta’s probing voice brought Mila back to their conversation.  “Mila, we need to do something.  Calla is really not well.”

“I can’t reappear in Calla’s life after all these years.  It could ruin everything.”  She lifted her tired body off the ledge.  “No, Rosetta.  I can’t.”

“Please, Mila.  Please.”

“I’m sorry. My hands are tied.  I can’t help Calla.”

* * *

9:17 P.M.

A12 Highway

Taiven stood over Calla’s limp body. 

He carried her off the wet road and reclined her on the back seat of a parked, black van.

A woman waited inside.  “Is she hurt?”

“Yes,” replied Taiven.

“We better move her car off the road.  I doubt anyone saw anything.”

Taiven steered the damaged Maserati off onto the hard shoulder and hurried back to the van.  He would take care of the damaged car later.

The woman glanced at Taiven and started the car. “Good thing you drove the van straight at her.  I knew she would not ram you.  She wanted to avoid collision.”

“It’s a risk we had to take.  It’s not in her nature to take life.”

They rode for close to half an hour.  Calla remained unconscious, elongated on the dark seats in the back of van.

They arrived at the estate at St. Giles Square, close to an hour and a half later. 

Taiven settled Calla in her room and positioned a hand over her left arm, rubbing an unscented balm over her wounds.  A warm luminosity left his hand, filling her body with vitality and heat. 

Calla stirred.

He slipped out quietly.

Downstairs, Pearl heard the door shut.  “Miss Cress?  Is that you?”

There was no answer.

Calla drifted in and out of consciousness. 

She slowly rose off the bed and felt her forehead.  Her parched throat begged for water. She swung her legs to the floor and made her way to the bathroom for a drink. 

Drifting back to the bedroom, she balanced the filled glass and noticed her bags had been packed for her flight.

She recalled every detail of her ordeal; the meeting with the elderly woman, leaving the house - right up to the advancing car. But nothing after the impact. Neither did she know how she had gotten home - alive and unharmed. 

Her condition was possibly worsening, with a tinge of amnesia.  Perchance, someone or something had seen fit to give her a second chance at life, at least what would be left of it.

The question menaced her mind.  Would she take this second chance? 

Death had lost its bite. Maybe that in itself was a sign.

Calla showered and dragged on some slacks and a light jumper before locating her overnight bag.  She glanced at the time.

10:00P.M.

Jack and Nash would be on their way to the airport.

She made a move for the door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

DAY 13

11:12 A.M.

Rabat, Morocco

“You look like you could use this.” Nash held out a chilled, water bottle to Calla. 

Thankful for her second chance at life, however it came; she beamed at him with a new energy.  “Thanks, Nash.”

He cast her a heartfelt smile. “No problem.”

The trio headed down to the marketplace, better known locally as the
Souk,
with the heat of the African sun beating on the back of their necks.
 

The metropolitan city of Rabat, at the mouth of the Bou Regreg River, had a clear-cut European presence.  Like Casablanca to the south, Rabat boasted much French influence as they proceeded down the tree-lined, Mohammed V Avenue to the center of the city, and traversed into the renowned marketplace.

Jack ran his hands through a number of hanging, silk veils, teasing an eager, toothless merchant who tried to barter with him.  “Sorry, sir.  I have no ladies to entertain with this garment and this one’s taken.”

With a silk veil, donned in local style, shielding her head, Calla turned to Nash and they curved into convulsions of hysterics as they watched Jack try to avoid a second merchant who’d shoved a handful of jeweled bracelets towards him.

Nash pulled Jack away from the fervent sellers.  “Jack, it will take more than a veil to get the girl.”

“You should know.”

Shaking with laughter, Nash pulled him to the sidewalk. “All right, we’ll talk about that later. I double checked with my intelligence contacts.  Aran Masud should be at the café at the end of the market.  According to CIA, he’s legit.”

They forged ahead through the narrow alleys of the bustling market, admiring the spread of exotic fruits and vegetables.

Calla took a swig of her water bottle and breathed in the spicy scents of the marketplace. She slung an arm through Jack’s. “The most famous resources ever to hit the African continent were those that belonged to King Solomon.”

“King Solomon?” Jack asked.  “He wasn’t African, nor did he live on the continent.”

“Finally, Jack. You did pay attention at some of my curator talks.”

“You give great talks and believe me, it’s great to hear about history when the view is worth watching.”

She nudged him in the arm with a smirk. “Pay attention, computer man. You’re right about Solomon. The man didn’t live here, but his treasures were here.  One legend says that the Queen of Sheba, a queen consort whose reign stretched from Ethiopia to Yemen, came with hard questions for King Solomon.  She wanted to test him, and lugged with her a hoard of camels, spices, gold and precious stones. All for her new man.”

“Stones?” Jack said.

“Yes, stones.  You know, like rubies, emeralds, and diamonds.  She came, questioned Solomon, and liked his responses.  For some reason, Solomon gave her all she desired and to quote a famous historian, ‘some of his royal bounty’.”

Nash stepped ahead of them.  “Solomon was the wealthiest man ever to walk the Earth.  He’s also remembered as the
wisest
, but wisdom wasn’t his only resource.  His gold reserves alone would be worth nearly a trillion US dollars, in today’s currency.” He threw a teasing fist into Jack’s shoulder. “Now that’s bounty for booty.”

“She must’ve been a knockout,” responded Jack.

Crackling in amusement, they turned the corner into a section of the
Souk
, congested with merchants trading food, vintage clothes, and local souvenirs at bargain prices.

“Sheba returned to the continent with much bounty to her own country,” Calla said.

Jack was not convinced.  “But where is this bounty? Surely we’re not trailing through Allan Quatermain’s footsteps?”

Nash grasped Jack’s neck in a tease.  “Friend, open your mind to the possibilities of history, far beyond a novel character from the eighteen hundreds.”

Calla shook her veiled head and chuckled. She locked arms with each of the heat-distressed men.  As the colorful, chiffon veil shielded her from the sweltering sun, she exchanged looks with a twinkle of mischief in her eye.  “I think Queen Sheba was the keeper of the third stone.  Hopefully Aran Masud can take us to the exact spot she hid it.”

“I think I like this queen,” Jack said.

They stopped in front of a café in the French-style quarter along a narrow pedestrian street.

“We’re on time,” Jack said.  “Masud will meet us out here.”

They waited outside, gazing over the estuary to Salé from the chilled open-air café, spread over several terraces in the Andalusian Gardens.  A local man in his fifties, dressed in
a
djellaba
, a flowing, hooded garment with full sleeves, approached them.  “Jack Kleve?”

Jack stepped forward.  “Yeah.”

Jack had called in a favor with ISTF intelligence services and confirmed Masud’s credentials together with Nash.  It had taken a while to find the right contact, but Masud had been assigned to assist them with anything they required in Rabat.

“So Aran,” Jack said.  “You come highly recommended.  Your name surfaced during a search for a knowledgeable guide on the African continent.”

“I’m flattered.  I’ve been involved in British intelligence, on and off, since 1972.”

“What can you tell us about Queen Sheba’s treasures?  Have you ever found any of them?” Jack joked.

Masud shook his head clearly not amused by Jack’s humor.  “I’ve been on many excursions in search of Sheba’s treasure, once in the 1970s and once in 1985.  Those who have sought it have also abandoned their quests mid-way.”

The trio watched Masud curiously as his speech breathed with eloquence, contradicted by his chewing-tobacco, stained teeth.  How much he knew was a mystery to all of them.

Nash spoke in fluent Arabic.  “Mr. Masud, what’s your price for a walk down Sheba’s trail?  I’m not sure how much you know about us, but we’re are conducting an archaeological study.”

Masud grinned, a wide-tooth smile, now revealing a set of scattered, gold teeth.  “For you, the price will be £5000.  We leave now.  We’ve a long journey ahead on this dark continent.”

“Okay,” Nash said.

“Cash first.  Mr.—”

Nash detested carrying much cash with him, but he had anticipated this sort of thing.  He reached in his backpack pulling out an envelope of Sterling notes.  “Fifty percent now and fifty percent upon our safe return.”

Masud took the money and nodded in agreement.  He bowed his head courteously.  “This way.  We need to collect some gear and discuss the details.”

They moseyed into the busy café.

Slate watched from across the street as the three Londoners, led by a local guide, made their way into the popular café.  Three plainly dressed men stood with him.  “We need to blend in,” had been Slate’s instructions.

Slate spat out his gum on the dusty ground.  He cursed. 

Cress was still alive. 

Slate had been positive the girl had not survived that Shard fall.  He’d left the scene at London Bridge, armed with that knowledge.  He’d scuttled to the bottom of the building to grab the manuscript from her shattered body, only to find her gone along with her car.

He was now on the hunt for Cress.

A third time.

“Hey,” he yelled at his goons.  “Stay out of sight.  They’re on the move.”

Slate and his trailers remained concealed.  He drew out a retractable, mini telescope with an integrated listening device.  The image was hazy, requiring a couple of adjustments.  When it finally functioned properly, he peered through the eye hole. 

Through the minuscule opening, he caught sight of a local man leading his targets to a table.  Within minutes, a bearded gentleman joined them.  Probably a local historian or professor. Slate tuned the listening device and heard clear voices even though he had to mentally tune out the hubbub of the boisterous café.