The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (7 page)

The fumes he puffed stung Calla’s nostrils, confirming her decision never to take up smoking when offered in high school.  She fanned them from her face.  “Where does the Deveron come from?”

He took another puff and this time blew the smoke away.  “This is something many are questioning.”

Calla hunted for more clues.  “What do you think the manuscript says?”

Bierman finished his cigarette and tossed it onto the ground.  It rolled along the concrete tiles to the rude sneer of a nearby group of Scandinavian women.  He shrugged his shoulders.  “Some believe its contents infer to military tactics.  Others say that it contains insights into the creation of the world.  The more adventurous ones think it’s a treasure map of some sort.”  He grinned.  “Whether you believe any of these myths, or just value the manuscript for its own historical interest, it still makes it very valuable.  Take a look at this.”

He fished for a document from his black leather briefcase and shoved it in her hands. 

Calla recognized the memo; a scan of various classified documents identical to those shared a couple of days ago in London. 

With a rise in afternoon temperature, she shifted her feet, pulling back her hair into a makeshift chignon.  A tourist bus from Hamburg sidled nearby, only to be warded off by the police. Calla decided she’d heard enough.  Her thoughts transferred back to Allegra.

Bierman shoved the paper in his case.  “Apparently, a specialist has arrived today who can translate it.”

Calla’s eyes lit up.  It all made sense now.  Allegra’s historical and linguistic expertise with ancient manuscripts would be invaluable in such an endeavor.  She’d marked her territory, and must’ve known about this all those months ago when she invited Calla to Berlin. “Thank you for the history lesson, Herr Bierman, but I must go.  I’m meeting someone and I’m terribly late.”

“Don’t you want to know why the museum has been evacuated?”

Calla had almost forgotten.

“A couple of hours ago, I heard that Priam’s Treasure was stolen from the museum vaults.”

Calla paused. “That’s impossible.”

“Oh yes.”

She surveyed the admission doors.  Evidently, she would not be going in the museum today, but Allegra had to be inside the museum. 
I wonder if that’s the hold up.

She rose.  “
Bis später,
Herr Bierman. Bye for now”

Only too aware she would not get any closer to the entrance, she sent a text message.

Can’t get in museum.

Meet me at the hotel.

 She proceeded the same way that she’d come, down the concrete stairs and over the small bridge.  Clomping resolute steps on the concrete, she turned to see if Bierman had gone. 
How did he obtain such highly classified information -in less than forty-eight hours?

She zipped her head forward in the direction of the busy street, only to be jolted by a hurrying pedestrian.  The blow to her chest threw her off balance in one aggressive shove. 

Calla lost her footing and plummeted to the ground.  “Watch where you are going!”

Falling forward, she landed on the concrete with her hands under her chest. She raised her head as a bulky figure hurried through the crowds of tourists.  Calla only caught sight of the back of his head.  He wore denim trousers with a dark jacket. 

A conversing tourist whisked by and with one blink, her aggressor was gone.

Calla took hold of her carry-on that had landed a few steps from her feet and rose.  Her hand slid to her throbbing face. A substantial cut and bruised chin left a trickle of blood staining the ground around her.

* * *

1:52 P.M.

Hotel Adlon, Berlin

Calla held a tissue over her bruised chin.  The throbbing pain somewhat subsided as she slumped into the waiting cab and dumped her carry-on on the adjacent seat.

“How far to the Hotel Adlon?”

“Not very long. Twenty minutes?”

She checked her phone. 
No messages.
 

If truth be known, she just wanted to rest in the car and wait outside the museum. 
What the heck? I’ll stay close by for an hour or so.

 “Can you show me some of Berlin before we go to the hotel?” she asked in German.

The female cab driver dipped her head obliging. “
Gerne
,” she agreed. She started the engine and swerved the Mercedes into lunchtime traffic. 

With no messages, Calla rested her tired frame on the comfortable leather seats.  She caught a glimpse of the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche, the eminent memorial church, where they stopped for a few minutes in front of the neo-Romanesque structure.  Calla captured some images on her smart phone to further her research on Berlin’s history.  Situated at Breitscheidplatz, a vibrant plaza and one of Berlin’s most prominent landmarks, the damaged tower stretched against the blue sky, a permanent reminder of the destruction of war. 

Savoring the warm breeze that blew through the yellow taxi, Calla laid her head back forgetting the pain from her chin.  Her excursion continued past Checkpoint Charlie, the former Berlin Wall crossing point between East and West.  The cab driver, possibly looking to make her journey count, insisted they whiz past
Strasse des 17 Juni,
the main boulevard through Tiergarten central park.  By the time they had flashed back towards the former eastern part of the city, it was almost 3:00P.M. local time. 

The Mercedes pulled up in front of Hotel Adlon - a lavish, historical establishment on Unter den Linden Boulevard.  The hotel faced the renowned Pariser Platz that, even with extensive refurbishment, hinted at the grandeur of the Prussian capital. 

 “We’re here.”

Calla collected her belongings and paid the driver.  “Danke Schön.”

She stepped out onto the pavement under the cherry-colored canopy, above the grand entrance.  The Brandenburg Gate stood proudly to the left.  Across the street, the sidewalk was lined with official buildings including a few embassies. 

Cafés served late lunches mostly baked goods and hot drinks.  Calla could almost smell the
Butter Kuchen
, or sweetened cakes, the famous
Eierkuchen
pancakes served with lemons and powdered sugar, as well as sugary, dough dumplings, better known as the
Berliner Ballen
. 

Seated café customers basked in the sun, sipping sweet aroma coffee, reminding Calla of her hunger.  She placed a hand over her rumbling stomach as she moseyed through the double doors, clutching her bag as she strode towards the reception desk.

“
Guten Tag
,” smiled the receptionist.

“I have a reservation under Calla Cress.”

The woman checked her computer.  “Aha, Frau Cress.  You’re in the Linden Suite.”

“Suite?”

“Yes.  One suite for Calla Cress reserved by Allegra Driscoll.”

“Has Frau Driscoll already checked in?”

The woman hit several keys, clicking her sleek nails over the keyboard.  “Let me see.  Yes, she arrived yesterday.”

Calla thanked the woman for her keys and steered towards the elevators. 

The baroque styled Linden Suite spared no luxury for its exclusive guests.  The April sun peered through the vast windows of the corner suite with an astounding view onto Unter den Linden.  Garden-fresh, white lilies and sunny-yellow roses arranged in a magnificent bouquet on the coffee table, and a chilling champagne bottle awaited her arrival.  Sweet scented aromas from a bouquet of lively flowers filled her nostrils, giving her pleasant memories of earlier trips to Berlin.  Calla believed that Allegra had handpicked this particular suite that featured eighteenth-century, French antiques and Chinese lacquer work, reflecting the appetite of Prussian kings for Chinoiserie.

The porter gave her a quick tour of the room with its ornate fittings.  She inspected the separate marble bathroom and adjacent living space, as he waited at the door ready to leave.  “If you need Internet connection, the fittings in here are wired for most international plugs.  Will that be all?”

Calla ran a finger on her clotting wound.  “Do you have a First-Aid kit?”

The porter went to the bathroom and produced one.  He set it on the table in the living room.

“Thank you.  I think I have everything now.”

She tipped him a handful of euro bills and closed the door behind him.

The pain from her accident resurfaced. 
Doesn’t that guy realize he slammed me to the ground?

She grabbed a ripe plum from the fruit basket and bit into its, smooth skin before checking her phone. 

No new messages.

 
It’s been more than three hours.
Was Allegra okay? She threw the pit in the wastebasket and picked up the First-Aid kit.  Right now, she would attend to her wound.  She located the antiseptic and a small Band-Aid.  Calla gulped down an Aspirin with the water supplied in the fridge and started to unpack her few belongings.  She settled in the upholstered couch facing the window, kicked off her shoes and turned on her electronic tablet. 

Tell me Allegra, what did I miss?

She checked her diary.  Allegra had left London a week ago via St. Petersburg and then onto Berlin. 

What should she do now? Calla waited helplessly on the sofa staring at the unresponsive phone as she dressed her wound with a thin plaster.  Her eyes moved towards the window taking in the luxuriant details of the suite.  She was grateful for the first class treatment. But even after spending much time with Allegra over the months, how much did she really know about her government working friend? 

No one superseded Allegra, even at sixty-seven when it came to elegance.  Born into an aristocratic family, she’d been raised every inch the lady.  Her charm and ageless good looks were to be envied. 

Allegra usually kept her hair in long, black and gray, woven braids, usually four. Neatly groomed on her head, they flowed like tails behind her.  Large, olive green eyes radiated and twinkled when she smiled, distracting one from the sophisticated wrinkles on her face, the only features that gave her age away.

What would it be like to have Allegra’s credentials; intelligence, wits and a compassionate heart?  One minute rescuing refugees, walking the sands of the desert to feed the hungry, and another negotiating peace reform alongside governmental leaders.  Not to mention poring over historical and sense-defying manuscripts. 

Allegra’s brain worked like a machine, computing information from just a few clues.  No wonder the government consulted her expertise on many levels.  Most recently, she’d acted as a special adviser to the Secret Intelligence Service on linguistic and historical discussions.  The exact details? Those she kept to herself.

Calla mused over her conversation with Bierman.  Was he right? 
If the Deveron really exists and is a legitimate artifact, what is it? What does the British government want with it?  Let alone the other four
. 

If anyone could decipher the historical riddles around this manuscript, it would be Allegra. 

Calla stroked her forehead and guzzled down some more cold water.  This was the most attention she’d ever given the Deveron.

Her eyes shut as the Aspirin worked its drowsiness through her blood stream and she rested her head against the cushions.

Sharp ringing from the hotel phone startled her. 

Her groggy eyes slowly pulled open, as she staggered to the table and grabbed the telephone.  “Hello?”

Unintelligible sounds filtered through the line.  Then silence.

The line went dead.

Calla held the phone against her ear for several seconds.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

She set down the receiver and gazed out the window.  Dazzling lights from the Brandenburg Gate fell onto the expensive carpets. 
How long did I sleep? 

She checked her watch and realized that her aches had disappeared. 
Is it really midnight?

She sauntered to the bathroom to check the wound on her chin.  As she removed the adhesive, her jaw dropped under her touch.  Her chin was spotless.  Any sign of an injury had faded.  Had she imagined the whole thing?

Allegra!

Perhaps she’d called.  Calla plodded back to the couch and located her cell phone. 

No messages. 
What now? 

Going to the museum at this hour was not an option.  She found the remote control and turned on the wall mounted Plasma TV.  As she scrolled through several channels, she landed on RTL reporting in German.  The newscaster stood at the steps of the Pergamon.

“Even though museum officials and police will not confirm, we believe that a secret document or manuscript was amongst the stolen treasure of Priam—”

Images of the earlier closure of the museum flashed across the screen, including a snappy interview with a police investigator.  Brightness from the TV screen blazoned into Calla’s eyes as she navigated the dark room.  In one purposeful reach, she turned on the side lamp.