The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (49 page)

Calla studied the two local men as they exchanged a few words in Arabic.  Masud turned to his clients.  “You must understand, I’ve asked my father who has done more excavations than I have.  He’ll be able to tell you more.  Many have sought Queen Sheba’s treasure and not found it.”

The older man glanced at each of the visitors and spoke in his mother tongue.  “What makes you think you will?”

“We don’t seek a treasure, just information,” replied Nash in Arabic. 

“Then you had better be prepared,” said the man.

A bothersome grin spread on Masud’s face.  “We leave in an hour.”

Masud left the table followed by his swaggering father. The trio huddled to discuss matters privately as a waiter offered them mint tea, accompanied by minuscule almond biscuits, delivered on silver trays.

“Do you trust them?” Jack asked.

“We have no choice,” Nash said.

Calla lowered her voice.  “We’ll just have to take a chance and hope we get to that lost treasure, or where it was held.  I believe someone in King Solomon’s circle was the original keeper of this third stone?”

“Why Solomon?” asked Jack.

Calla giggled with her next thought.  “Solomon started great, so to speak.  A man full of wisdom and wealth, but he did not end great.  I think he gave the carbonado to the Queen of Sheba as ‘bounty’.  It must have been stashed amongst his vast resources.”

“But it’s millenniums later. Why would these resources be lying around somewhere? Are we seriously looking for a gold mine here?” asked Jack.

“The Deveron alludes to a crafty keeper of the third carbonado, one of great resources.  Solomon is the only man ever to have owned resources anywhere near that in history.  This must have happened at the time when Solomon had seven hundred concubines and three hundred wives.  The stone must be here in Africa,” she added.

“Well, it better be, because according to this translation, the stones need to be united within eight days of the first one being found,” added Jack.  “We don’t have much time to jump to another continent.  I like this man Solomon” He whistled. “Whoa! I need his skills. A thousand women? He would need three years to spend a single day with each.”

“Hence the thousand and one nights,” Nash said.

The comment drew laughter until Calla’s face darkened with worry. “Jack, Nash. I’ll owe you big time when all of this is over.”

Jack leaned in, empathy growing in his face. “Calla, don’t even think about it.”

She breathed out a grateful smile.

Nash scanned the café, his gaze narrowing into a grimace.  “I personally wanna keep an eye on this Aran guy.”

“According to ISTF files, he’s legit and has been very instrumental in this part of the world for us,” said Jack.

“Exactly,” Nash said. “According to ISTF.”

They left within the hour boarding a chartered flight to Pakuba Airstrip in North-Western Uganda.  Masud had not really told them much about the destination except that they would land in the fields where the animals roam free and waterfalls descend over lofty cliffs.
Whatever that means.

Calla peered out the window of the Gulfstream G650 jet.  Gazing outside gave her the feeling of gliding, welcoming the enthralling descent towards the valley.  They hovered over the northern part of Uganda, surveying diverse vegetation - everything from forests to scattered woodlands disappearing into the savannah grasslands. 

She glanced down only to catch her breath as she took in the sight beneath them of the roaring Murchison Falls.  The thunderous falls on the Nile River spanned between jagged cliffs, forcing their way through a seven-meter gap and dropped a spectacular forty-meters into the placid river below.

The plane landed at a bare and dusty airstrip.  Moments later, a local driver met them and guided them to a white safari van.  When Masud greeted the driver, he introduced him as Makumbe. Dark as midnight, Makumbe put to mind the thought of a bolt of lightning. His attentive, brown eyes were like two discs of wood as they turned to view the curious travelers. Glancing down at them, he stood close to the height of an attentive ostrich.

“Makumbe will take us to Paraa Lodge where we can drop off our things and use it as a base.  He’ll also lead our trek to the trail by the falls, where I’m sure you’ll find what you seek.  We leave in thirty minutes,” Masud said.

Nash shook the driver’s hand.  “I hear the animals in these parts are unforgiving.”

“Only if you interfere with them,” Makumbe answered, as he displayed a large set of porcelain teeth.

He packed them into the safari van and settled into the driver’s seat.

The four-wheel drive steered off the lodge promptly at 6:00P.M. local time.  Forty-five minutes later, they tore around a sharp corner, skidding to a stop at the top of the turbulent waterfalls.  They stepped out of the van, admiring the view of the boisterous, foaming waters.  Masud gathered the group and spoke with an authority, unsuited to his minuscule height.  “We’ll hike from here.  Are we ready?”

Masud and Makumbe directed the pack of hikers on the dirt path.  How they would traverse the treacherous rocks and tumultuous waters, was anyone’s guess.  Calla’s other concern was the unpredictable beasts of Africa that roamed the area.  She’d read that perilous cheetahs roved free and uninhibited, not to mention the water buffaloes that charged opponents, weighing in at 1200 kilograms -each. 

Meters from the summit of the falls, Calla addressed the
déjà vu
impression that played on her mind.  She recognized the view but was not entirely sure why. 

She’d seen the falls before. 

Her dream from Paris hung vividly in her mind as she replayed the picture of the hooded man.  Was this the path he’d taken?  Could that dream have been a sign that she was on the right track?

Nash trekked with sure-footed steps ahead of the group, walking alongside Makumbe.

“We’re almost there,” Makumbe said.  “Just a few more meters.”

A crimson sunset had formed over the falls, and from their height, they gawked at the wide valley from which they had come.

“Halt!” Makumbe roared.

A deafening shot exploded in the trees behind them, turning their attention towards screeching, black-headed, Gonolek birds that shot out of the
Ensali
trees and littered the evening sky.

Nash withdrew his pistol.  “Get down!” he ordered the company around him.

One by one, they dove face down on the cleft path. 

Five shots fired above them, followed by a tear gas can, landing inches from Jack’s feet. 

He reached for the irritant and cast it several meters from the group. 

Calla covered her eyes as the oozing can spread a cloud of mist around them, instigating inflammation in their eyes, noses and mouths.

Nash kept a firm grasp on his 45-caliber, semiautomatic pistol. Glancing upward, he caught a glimpse of an oncoming ambush through the smog. 

Four camouflaged men enclosed them armed with automatic firearms and meshes of fibers, woven in grid-like structures that could only have been fishing nets. 

As one of the hoodlums took a menacing step forward, he was caught off guard by Nash’s aim.  With a savage heave, the man drove at him with the butt of an army shotgun.

 Calculating a defensive strike, Nash surged forward and forcefully slammed the man’s arms, stalling his vertical attack and sending him staggering backward as the goon dropped his gun.

Nash kicked it to the side and struck him in the chest with a tight-gripped knuckle fist that drove him to the floor unconscious.

A second attacker swung at Calla with a heavy net, lunging violently behind her. Despising his heated breath on the back of her neck, she twisted round and crashed a fist into his lungs that jarred her hand tight. She froze for several seconds as the blood returned, before contending with teargas smoke, eye irritation and the menaces of the surrounding onslaught.

The man’s legs buckled under him and he dropped the net gasping for air. Assured looks from Jack and Nash gave her confidence. To restrain him further, she gripped his bulky arm and with fisted knuckles, pressured hard above his elbow joint.

The pain immobilized him and he dropped to his knees in surrender.

The tread of approaching footsteps signaled the appearance of the chieftain.

Calla glimpsed upward and caught a face through the mist. Brown eyes, the color of acorns and a poisonous look in his face that made her think of a deadly eel, it was the thug who’d charged at her on the train, sent her plummeting off the Shard and knocked her to the pavement in Berlin.

He was not half as menacing up front as she’d first perceived and sported a clean-shaven head. The hoodlum was exquisitely put together, with a musky scent that swooned women and a strong jaw, completely contradicting the peril that stemmed from him.

Her eyes narrowed into his stare as Slate emerged through fogged air, armed with an army pistol and queerly, a street knife. 

He quickened his pace and charged his knife at Jack, who heaved backward gripping Slate’s wrist into an arm wrestle.

Overpowered by the six-foot-two hulk, Jack rocketed to the ground with a solid kick from Slate’s army boot.  Jack’s head slammed onto a mud-spattered, tree stump that opened a fingernail-deep gush on his forehead. 

Nash’s jaw tightened. He lengthened his stride to Jack’s aid, eying Slate carefully, who then plunged forward slicing air with his blade.

Nash stretched a violent arm for Slate’s knife hand, his wrist scuffing the knife’s sharp edge as he shelled a dynamic jolt into Slate’s right knee. He stood over Slate’s recoiling frame for all of two seconds.

Slate crooked backward, grabbing his kneecap with his free hand.

He backed away from Nash until the rough stones of a giant boulder scuffed his back.

Shuddering with revulsion, Slate tightened his grip on his firearm and settled it in the direction of Calla’s forehead. He moved forward.

Calla’s predicament caused Nash to stop in his tracks as a spurt of anger spiraled in his glare and focused on Slate’s accurately, aimed handgun. 

The tip of the frigid, gun barrel chilled Calla’s crown and a tense shiver thrilled through her senses as Slate lurched closer, his face inching towards hers. In one precipitate effort, he slit a lock of hair that had cascaded to her face and wrapped it round the blade, initiating a riled look from Nash, who stole a step in his direction.

“Not so fast, marine,” Slate said, angling the gun perpendicularly into Calla’s flesh, without a single glimpse at Nash.

Her eyes fell to the bag around her upper body as she evaded Slate’s piercing stare.

“Had enough, Cress? We should stop these body wrestles that I may begin to enjoy.”

“Get away from me!” she said.

“Not yet. Maybe you don’t want me to. Otherwise, why keep me pursuing you. This may turn out to be more than a man hunt.”

Calla lifted her chin. “You’ve been warned.”

Slate let out a shady smirk and turned to Masud.  “Get outta here.”

Masud bowed his head and hurtled down the dirt path pursued by a frightened Makumbe. 

With the gun still menacing her crown, she shot a glance at her companions.

The last thing Calla saw of Masud was the unnerving, smile on his perspiring face.

As the commotion came to a stilled pause, the teargas mist faded. Faces and forms became distinctly visible. 

Nash stood defenseless a few meters from Calla with a tightened fist to his side.  Inches from him, Jack stooped on the ground, resting a hand on his bruised chest as blood from the head wound seeped to his shirt.

Calla glimpsed round her, an inner surge of intolerance growing to explosive proportions. The two carbonados had tumbled out of her waist pack. 

Slate’s gaze followed her anxious gape as his knife inched to her throat.  “Cress. It would have been lovely.” He dug the gun deeper into her skin.  “Hand over the manuscript and this time, make sure you place it in my hands.”

She gaped at him with eyes that made her fury rise theatrically. 

Her reply was calm and confident.  “No.”

The knife mined a little deeper. “Sure? Now, let’s try again. Start with the stones.” 

“
No.

* * *

7:29 P.M.

Chartered Flight to Pakuba Airport

Northern, Uganda

The bubbly flight attendant returned with a can of Coke and handed it to Eichel.  “Would you like anything else, sir?”

Eichel took the fizzy drink and gulped it down.  It gave him the sugar high he craved.  They would be landing at Pakuba airstrip in the next thirty minutes. 

The plane cruised over the expanse of the Sub-Saharan African skies.  Eichel could not stop the sense of anticipation he felt.  The stories from his great grandmother who’d lived to a hundred-and-eight occupied his mind.  She had worked as a nurse in Tanzania at the time of the German occupation, early in the twentieth century.  He was only saddened by the fact that he could not visit one of the oldest known, inhabited areas on Earth and experience her adventures.  His trip was to the neighboring land-locked country, where he hoped to find Jack Kleve, having left all the necessary meeting arrangements to Peter.