The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (6 page)

“
Nicht weit
.  Not far.  Not far.  Another ten minutes maybe.”

Calla opened her shoulder bag.  She dipped her hands deep to locate her electronic tablet.  She fished it out and turned it on.  The itinerary revealed that at 11:00 A.M., they were to meet Herr Brandt, the director of the museum for a private tour of the Pergamon accommodating three separate museums. 

Work began at 11:30 A.M. in a private museum room. The taxi nosed into a parking space on the busy street, several meters from the main doors. 

“We’re here.  The Pergamon Museum,
Fräulein
.”

Located on the museum island of Berlin, the triple-winged complex stood perched over the edge of the Spree.  Its neoclassical, architectural structure reflected in the water below against the blue sky and scattered clouds.  It seemed even more opulent than she had imagined.  Calla had read about this eminent landmark, which had sustained severe damage in the war, during the air raids of Berlin. 

The legitimacy of some of the collections remained controversial and within its vast walls, the Pergamon showcased antiquities, Islamic art and Babylonian architecture. 

She looked forward to hearing Allegra discuss the Market Gate of Miletus and the Ishtar Gate - including the Processional Way of Babylon and the Mshatta Façade.

“I think you’ll be waiting for a very long time,” said the taxi driver.  “I can't get any closer.  The police will not let me.  I'll let you out here,
Fräulein
.”

Crowds lined the entrance of the awe-inspiring building as the late morning sun fell on them.  Calla peered outside and nodded her thanks.  “
Danke Schön. 
I can walk from here.  Where’s the main entrance?”

He pointed ahead.  “Up the stairs.  I don't think you can go in today. So much trouble is going on.”

What does he mean trouble?

Calla reached in her pocket searching for the euros she’d withdrawn at the airport cash machine upon arrival.  She handed the taxi driver a fifty Euro note.  “Keep the change.”

The taxi driver drove off leaving Calla standing in front of the stairs leading to the entrance.  She advanced towards the growing queue. 
Ten minutes late!

She hated being late. 
Perhaps there’s another way in.  Allegra must be here by now.

A commotion of police and sirens fenced the entry grounds of the museum.  Calla stood on her toes glancing above the group of French students in front of her. 

Only a few yards ahead of her, the entrance was closed.  Calla scrutinized the glass facades.  The authorities appeared to have evacuated the museum and several evacuees had been quarantined.  They waited in a neat queue on the other side of the main doors. 

The cab driver was right.  The queue had not moved an inch in the five minutes she’d waited.

When the group in front of her made a move, she edged closer to the entryway.  Streams of others made their way off the island. 

Where’s the Pergamon pass that Allegra sent me last night by courier?

“
Das Museen ist geschlossen!
  The museum is closed. 
Le musée est fermé!
” belted a fog horn voice from within the crowd.  The police officer with the megaphone attempted a multi-language announcement down the queue. 

Calla found her laminated pass in a bundle of papers at the bottom of her bag. She stopped the officer when he got to her section of the queue.  “
Entschüldigen Sie, bitte
.”

Her German was confident.  “
Darf ich bitte rein
?”

She asked politely if she could go in.

The officer did not move a muscle.  “
Nein, es tut mir leid.
”

No?

Why?

He continued his parade down the queue.

She chased after him.  “Excuse me, sir.  My colleague Allegra Driscoll, is on the board of the museum.  Here’s my pass.  I’m meeting her here.”

The cop did not flinch.  His English was fluent.  “Listen, I’m sorry.  Nobody is going in today.  Now move aside!”

* * *

12:12 P.M.

Pergamon Museum, Am Kupfergraben 5,

Berlin

What now?
 

Calla patted her pockets for her cell phone.  The one Mason had given her must be in her carry-on.  She’d configured it completely the night before she left London.  A lavish device that came with a GPS application sophisticated enough to identify her pre-set numbers.  She could locate Allegra that way. 

Where is it? Must’ve left it charging at home.

Her private smart phone, though more primitive, was in her left jacket pocket.  With a full battery, a local service provider had already identified her device.  Her eager fingers moved fast as they typed a quick message to Allegra.

Held up at entrance.

Are you inside?

Calla

Exposed to the sun in the crowded plaza full of frustrated, international tourists, she glimpsed upward.  The noon rays hit her face, warming her cheeks making it seem more like a mid-summer afternoon.  Irritated with waiting, she video-dialed Allegra. 

No pick up.

The voice mail came on. She sent another text message.

Can’t get into museum.

I’m off to the hotel.

She placed the phone in her pocket.

“How interesting that we carry cell phones with us.  But we choose not to be reached when we’re most needed.”

Calla zipped her head round following the German accented, male voice that came from behind.  Prying eyes speared into her.  The intrusive voice originated from a dubious gentleman a few feet away.  He must’ve watched her interlude with the police.

Calla chose to ignore his remark.  Inquisitive in manner, he caught her gaze and maneuvered closer, extending a firm handshake.  “I’m Manfred Bierman.  Looks like you are not from Berlin.”

Calla shook his steady hand.  “What gave me away?”

“You seem a little lost.”

He appeared harmless.  “Could you tell me why the Pergamon is closed today?”

“I take it you’ve not been keeping up with German news.”

She shook her head.

“Please.  Allow me to explain.”

Bierman approached with a confident stride.  He wore a dark trench coat with a trilby hat pinched at the sides and could have come straight off the Casablanca film set.  As they ambled a few feet from the queue, Calla detected hints of tobacco.  Cigars maybe. 

He led her from the dispersing queue towards one of the concrete benches, situated within the museum grounds.  Calla glanced over at the glass entrance.  The police, efficient in manner, questioned every evacuee in turn.  One by one, the meticulous officers took down statements and checked identities.

 “The German press has been reporting about ancient artifacts that went missing from Berlin vaults during the war.”

“I see.”

“These are due to be returned and inaugurated at the Pergamon, today.”

 “What artifacts?”

“Do you know much about the Pergamon Museum?  Or Berlin’s cultural history?  This is a monumental inauguration for Berlin!”

Calla recalled the night she and Allegra had talked about Berlin.  Throughout the evening, they’d discussed the history of the museum.  The Pergamon had been a top priority on her list of places to visit, and not surprising, the conversation with Allegra had been stimulating.

Allegra presented a slide show at her villa, elaborating several details.  The museum closed in 1939 at the outbreak of war.  In 1943, it took just a few hours to destroy it.  Certainly one of the chief treasures in the capital’s proud cultural heritage, the Pergamon burnt as British bombs blasted holes in its structure late in November 1943.  The undamaged wing was later destroyed in February 1945.  In the last days of the war, battles on its grounds between the SS and the Russian Red Army forces left its walls blackened and its exhibition rooms destroyed.

Allegra explained that several precious items from the museum’s collection were removed and hidden in mine shafts. Most were preserved.  Nevertheless, many others were looted at the end of the war and the Russians had returned much of this so-called trophy art from 1955 to 1960, including the Pergamon Altar. 

Allegra had spurred on Calla’s interest.  “Let’s go visit the museum.  I can arrange a private tour.  We can go next spring.”  Her invitation had only been a few months ago, and now its doors were closed to Calla.

“You all right?”  Bierman said.

Calla nodded politely averting his gaze. She placed her dark sunglasses over her eyes.  “I know about the Pergamon.”

“Very good.  Now have you heard of Priam’s Treasure?”

Even though Calla was well informed, somehow, he took great pride in filling her in.

The open plaza had cleared of most of the hordes, except for the last evacuees being held by the police.  Sirens blared across the concrete bridge as several new police cars arrived.  The pair stopped to gape at the commotion.

A moment later, Bierman moved between her and the museum, blocking off the distraction.  “Priam’s Treasure is one of those collections we’ve been waiting for since it was stolen from us during the war.  In 1945, it was taken from a protective bunker underneath the Berlin Zoo, only a couple of kilometers from here.”

“Didn’t German archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann discover the artifacts, mostly gold, copper shields and weapons, in Anatolia in 1837. If I’m correct, he named them after Priam, King of Troy.  As far as I know, Schliemann illegally smuggled the loot to Berlin convinced he’d found proof of the Iliad’s ancient city.”

 “That’s right.  It’s a treasure of gold and other artifacts from ancient Troy.  Schliemann discovered it when he excavated a hill in the Ottoman Empire around 1873.”

“Yes. You seem to know your history,” Calla said. “But that’s a debatable fact, Herr Bierman.”

“Indeed, nevertheless, the treasure is priceless.”

He leaned forward, catching  Calla off guard.  She edged back as he attempted a whisper in her ear. 

“There’s more,” he said.

“More?”

“The other little secret is that five governments know there’s another treasure within the cache,” added Bierman.  “One that was planted, or hidden should I say?  The Deveron Manuscript.”

How does he know about the Deveron?  That’s classified information.

 Though she’d been brought late into the talks about Taskforce Carbonado, nothing about the Deveron document had been publicized.  She’d not read the full brief, but knew the manuscript was sought after. 

She did not flinch.

Bierman smirked, sensing her full attention.  “The Deveron Manuscript has repeatedly disappeared throughout history.  Many are now trying to appraise its real value.  It’s priceless.”

“How so?”

“It’s written in the same script as the Voynich document they say.” He bit his lip.  “Until yesterday, many believed the Voynich language was a made up, medieval farce.  Thanks to the Deveron, today they’re probably eating their words.”

Calla debated whether to entertain his story or politely move on about her business.  She failed to understand what this had to do with the evacuation of the museum. “How do you know this?” she asked.

“I get around.”

“I guess so.”

“Are you still with me?” Bierman said. 

Her nod edged him further into his story.

“Last night, a museum worker was inspecting the items to go on display and he found the manuscript within Priam's Treasure.  My guess is whoever stashed it there hoped it wouldn’t be found.”

“How do you know that?”

Bierman reached inside his trench coat and pulled out a business card.  “I work for RTL, the German media station.”

She inspected it, but made no move to take it.  Calla suspected he’d paid for the information.  The museum worker must’ve sold him this story.  She shuffled her feet on the concrete as a warm breeze caressed her inscrutable face.  “I can see the pride the museum would have in returned artifacts, but not enough reason to cause a tourist standstill.”

Not bothered, he replaced his card.  “Interestingly, there’s no verified record of the documents’ existence.  Yet five western governments are bidding for it.  It was last seen in the sixties.  From what I hear, photographs were circulated secretly.”

Calla probed him further, purely interested in his version of the rumors.  “What’s so fascinating about the Deveron Manuscript?”

Bierman pulled out a cigarette from his jacket pocket.  He tapped it on an overused cigarette case and lit it with a costly Ligne 2 Diamond lighter.  He let out a little laugh. “It’s written in a language and symbols no one has ever been able to understand.  Comparisons with the Voynich were made in the sixties before the Deveron disappeared.  The manuscript’s age is not determined and carbon dating tests have left many debates as to its real age.”