The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (8 page)

“Police are not confirming if this was a break in or if there has been any damage to the museum. It is still unclear how the culprit escaped with the artifacts.”

The rest of the program detailed the history of Priam’s Treasure and moved onto other news.

Calla rubbed her eyes.  Fully awake now, she called the front desk.  “Could you please order a taxi for me?”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Central London

Nash hastened towards his car over on Green Street, a few streets from the US Embassy.  He checked his watch.

He was running late. 

Gray clouds above showed no leniency.  They scattered across the London skyline creating a dreary, overcast blanket that sent a cold current through the darkening city.  Nash tightened his leather jacket.  He pulled open the door to his new BMW z4 and checked his cell phone for messages. 

None. 

Why did Calla leave the meeting early the other day?
 

It was not like her to leave without a word to him.  He knew that he sometimes came across as independent, but if truth were known, he was tired of being alone.  In all conscience, he’d not thought much about his future, until he met Calla. 

She mattered. He wanted to help her with whatever was bothering her.  He didn’t care for the peculiarities that surrounded the Deveron Manuscript.  He sensed a grave danger and Calla was at the heart of it. 
What was the hurry?  Didn’t she see me?

He would ask Calla later. Right now, his mind drifted to thoughts of an important phone call he had to make.

At thirty-three, Nash was one of the most promising intelligence analysts the National Security Agency had recently recruited.  He’d left the marines purely because he had the itch to travel again. 

He would always be a discontented global nomad.  Nash had been raised a son of a career diplomat and his experience abroad had afforded him a life of cultural exposure and awareness.  He understood languages quickly and therefore a professional path that married languages, travel and intelligence analysis was the track he’d taken. 

He trained in the US military, a feat he’d challenged himself with and succeeded favorably.  Even as an only child, his adolescent years had been an adventure many would envy, new exotic smells with each airport arrival, stimulating climates to exploit with every move, and fresh faces with every school he attended. 

Packing and unpacking was part of his makeup.  He had picked up his life every two to three years, undergoing awaited adventures on every new continent.  He’d seen the world, its finest treasures, and its surmounting problems.  The latter had affected him to the core, allowing him to develop a general sense of concern for the underprivileged. 

He came from money, but nothing in his manner would reveal that fact. He liked his life simple and uncluttered.

Nash checked the rear-view mirror only to catch a glimpse of the tiny scar on his chin hardly detectable to the naked eye.  That’s how he’d first met Calla, a charming, yet inhibited girl with piercing eyes, such a curious mélange of emerald and amber.

It had been at Denver International Airport, three years ago at check-in.  He was traveling back from a skiing holiday and she’d been on an anthropological trip.  She scuttled to the counter; certain she’d missed her flight.  In her haste, she knocked over his skis. 

He attempted to retrieve them, plummeted to the waxed floor and an awkward fall sliced his clean-shaven jaw. 

Horrified, Calla thought she’d caused severe damage to his teeth. 

She flipped her head horror-struck.  “I…I’m so sorry!”

Nash cupped his chin with both of his hands. 

Moments of gasps and concerned glares from the queue followed at the American Airlines counter.  Then, mimicking infantile play, Nash threw his head back in humor.  His laugh started as a chuckle, then a hiss and then ended in a roar.  Nothing was missing or broken.  Just a small cut.

Calla chuckled and begged for someone to produce a First-Aid kit.  In the end, she found a Band-Aid in her cosmetics bag and placed it over the wound.  “Phew.  I guess no damage.  By the way, why are you taking skis to London?”

The long flight back to London with adjacent seats had been one of mutual discovery.  With his background in political science, languages and intelligence analysis, their conversation and reciprocated interests for travel, history and cultures were well matched. 

They chatted the entire nine hours and forty minutes. By the time they stepped off the 747 flight at London Heathrow, he knew his life had changed, all thanks to crossing paths with the most arresting woman he’d ever met.  A striking girl who went about life completely oblivious to her exquisite appearance.

 Neither had disclosed their links with ISTF, until they found themselves a few months later working on a joint classified case in Jakarta. 

Beaming with the energy of a teenager, Calla had been brought into ISTF on specialized projects equally for her deep knowledge of modern and ancient communication methods as well as for her skill in multiple languages. Impressed with the graceful, twenty something, who understood phonetics, symbols, history and cultures, bundled with an ease of working with technology systems, he was hooked. He’d never known anyone extremely brilliant, straightforward and unpretentious, coupled with a no-nonsense panache.

He let out a quick laugh.
Man, she’ll impress any group of bureaucrats. 

One thing baffled him though.  Calla could pore over artifacts, codes, symbols and language structures with the natural ease of a gazelle in sprint, yet on occasion, she would deflate after moments of triumph and genius into quietness and allow a worrying distance between them.  Nash concluded it was sadness, or even loneliness.

He once asked what he thought was an innocent inquiry - a compliment.  “Where did you get your stunning dark hair?” 

Caught off guard, her eyes that normally sparked with clarity darkened; the amber in them overpowering the emerald glow.

The car ahead of him honked, bringing him back to present day.  He started his engine and reversed the car - letting the other vehicle out of the parking space. 

He turned off the engine. 
Am I really going to go ahead with this?

All that military training, the numerous deployments he had been on in Syria, Iraq, not to mention the difficult cases he’d worked on in Russia and North Africa,  yet this feat agitated him. 

He needed to face his father, a man whose approval he craved and whose rejection he dreaded.

What the heck!
He reached for the phone.  The touch screen lit up as he searched for his attorney’s number, a New York based lawyer, proficient in international legal matters.

With the phone engaged, he waited a few minutes and then tried again before leaving a message.

“Jonathan.  It’s Nash.  I need to speak with you today.”

He clicked it off. 

After ten years of service to his country and years of exposure to the dregs of human cruelty and suffering, he’d seen enough.  He loathed how as a man in service, it had left him feeling helpless.  He couldn’t lift the family he’d met years ago in Idlib out of the destitution  of war, or feed the children in South Kordofan beyond handing out food aid bags that would only last a mere week.

Money was no obstacle.  So why was he not pursuing his dream, liberating the destitute, the trafficked, and the homeless? Why not launch an unparalleled army of specialists. They would come from various fields in the name of justice, and step in where governments left off.  They would start at the root of the problem, equipping the helpless with education and survival skills.  Not just for a day or a week, but for a generation.  He could establish an underground organization.  After all, he didn’t need the pat on the back.  He’d experienced enough inequity in his line of work, witnessed criminals walking free and oppressors launching scandalous empires. 

He could do something. 

Someone has to.

The cell phone on the passenger seat rang twice. 

He answered it.  “Jonathan?  Do you have any news for me?  The stakeholders want an agreement soon.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jonathan on the other line.  “Your father refuses to release the funds for your enterprise.”

Nash’s face reddened as he pictured the actual words his father had probably used.  He clenched his fist and slammed it hard on the dashboard. 

Will the old man not give up?  

“After all this time. Jonathan, doesn’t he understand me?”

“You two haven’t always seen eye to eye.  This really bothers you.”

Nash tugged at the collar of his shirt.  “Why can’t he let go, Jonathan?”

“You’re his only child.  He only seeks the best.  George hasn’t always accepted your choices Nash, but he’s always been proud of your accomplishments.

Nash already knew the answer to his next question.  “Was there something wrong with the proposal?”

“No, Nash, it was impeccable!  I’ve been your family lawyer for a long time.  I think it is purely a conflict of interests.  He thinks the money could be put to better use.”

“It’s my money, Jonathan.”

“I know, but we need his signature.  Just give it a year or two.  When you reach thirty-five, he can’t affect your decisions.  You can do whatever you like with the inheritance from your grandparents.”

The silence, even with a typically gleeful Jonathan, was unbearable. 

Jonathan spoke first.  “I’m with you on this, Nash.  We can always try again.”

“Thanks, Jonathan.  I know you tried.”

He switched off the phone.
Where did it all go wrong in this family?

* * *

DAY 4

Berlin,
0:58 A.M.

The chill in the night air prompted Calla to zip up her thin jacket.  The streets were clear and the museum terrace was empty except for a few police officers strolling about
.
In the midnight stillness, Calla made her way up the stairs, through the inner court towards the entrance doors.  She advanced as far as the glass façade.  The police line stood guarded by a few officers casually chatting.  They spoke in hushed tones.  Two, fully-armed cops, in khaki green jackets and white headgear, obstructed the entrance, smoking strong cigarettes.  They observed Calla pacing towards them and lifted their heads. 

The older police officer held out a hand to stop her.  He swerved menacingly towards her, questioning her approach.  “
Was machen Sie hier
?” 

“I’m here to see someone,” replied Calla in German.

“The museum closed hours ago.”

Calla approached fearlessly and faced him.  “Can I speak to the inspector in charge?  I may have some information that may help you?”

The younger looking cop glanced at his partner to see if he would comply. 

“What information do you have?” retorted the older man. 

 “I’m sorry, but I can only share information with your superior,” she said.

He grimaced, eyeing her for several seconds as he stroked his frosted mustache.  “Who are you?”

Calla churned words round in her mind.  “I’m with the British Museum in London.  I work with Allegra Driscoll and  I believe she was here this morning.”

The police officer paused for a moment then raised his chin.  “Can I see some papers?”

“Some identification?” clarified the younger cop.

Calla glanced from one cop to another and searched in her pocket producing her museum identity badge.  She reached in her other pocket and fished out the pass Allegra had given her.  “Look, here are my credentials.  Is Allegra Driscoll here?  I need to see her.”

The armed men studied her documents with austerity.  They were obviously being cautious.  After what seemed like several impending seconds, the older man pulled out his police radio and turned his back to her. 

Calla heard him speak to an impatient voice. She peered past him, catching a glimpse of a tall, skinny man within the museum entrance.  He stood with two other officers and museum officials and spoke into a police radio.  Calla guessed he was the chief, although she failed to make out his face in the moderate light.

“Yes, she says she knows Frau Driscoll,” mumbled the cop.

 The man within the building made his way outward and crossed towards them. The cop who’d questioned Calla handed her credentials to the approaching man of authority. 

“I’ll take it from here,” he instructed. 

The two police officers let Calla past the police line and drew away from the entrance.

A lump rose to her throat. 
Stay calm.  You’re only looking for Allegra.

“I’m Raimund Eichel, the inspector in charge. 
Was kann ich für Sie tun?
  What’s your business here?” he said switching to English. 

His direct question came without any affability.  Calla supposed her German would be less problematic than his English, nevertheless she obliged.  She felt like turning back, abandoning the whole plan.  Even then, she stood with confidence and buoyantly extended a hand. 
“Calla Cress von London.”