Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series Box Set: Secret of the Lost Manuscript & The Mind Hacker

ROSE SANDY

CALLA CRESS TECHNO THRILLER SERIES

2 FULL LENGTH NOVELS

Book 1:

THE DECRYPTER: SECRET OF THE LOST MANUSCRIPT

Book 2:

THE DECRYPTER AND THE MIND HACKER

THE CALLA CRESS THRILLERS (The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript and The Decrypter and the Mind Hacker) are works of fiction. Names, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations are entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

CALLA CRESS THRILLERS BOX SET

THE DECRYPTER: SECRET OF THE LOST MANUSCRIPT

THE DECRYPTER AND THE MIND HACKER

Copyright © 2014 Rose Sandy

All rights reserved.

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ISBN: 9781311766991

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,

or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

ROSE SANDY

THE DECRYPTER:

SECRET OF THE LOST MANUSCRIPT

Calla Cress Techno Thrillers

9:40 p.m.

The Present

London, United Kingdom

When Calla Cress stepped off the train at St. Pancras International she glanced over her shoulder.

He was following her.

She increased her pace and hurried through immigration. Calla’s flight took her through the station’s main concourse as she searched for the nearest exit. Within seconds she found the bustling arrival lounge, congested with tired night travelers.

She scurried onto the busy boulevard and glanced back. St. Pancras, labeled the cathedral of railways, and one of the most eminent Victorian structures in Britain, towered above her with its wrought-iron framework and arched glass covering evoking a feeling of paranoia. She pressed on with labored breaths and her muscles tensed, as she shook off the numbness in her hands and the tingling in her feet. Calla felt like an animal in chase, only she was the target.

Her legs weakened and she proceeded with resolved steps, crossing Euston Road toward Camden Town Hall, which stood adjacent to a barely visible underground parking. Tightness formed in her abdomen, shooting discomfort through her fatigued body, reducing her concentration. She shook her head to snap free of the trance and dragged her heavy feet across the floor. Her tongue tasted the vinegary sting of blood on her bottom lip.

You’ve got to move!

Calla found her Maserati on the lower-third, parking level, undisturbed where she’d left it that morning. She slotted the key in the keyhole, sank into the leather seat and wove the car out into the dark street. Aware of her fervent pursuant, she stopped at a red light, her moist palms drumming on the sticky leather of the steering wheel. Every so often, she peered into her rearview mirror. Then her eyes caught his blinding headlights.

Brute!

Her foot hit the accelerator.

The chasing Range Rover hastened toward the rear bumper of her vehicle. Oh no you don’t!

She swerved round a white Toyota and her gray Maserati picked up speed, starting a sixty mile-per-hour chase through London’s tight streets. Calla maneuvered from lane to lane nearly ramming a Hyundai as her pursuant nosed their vehicle toward her tailpipe. She switched to fifth gear and curved the sports car through medieval streets in the eastern part of the city and past several fragments of the defensive, third-century Roman City Wall. She pressed down the accelerator. Her tires smoked and she fed more gas to the engine and peeled off into a quiet one-way street.

Calla checked her rearview mirror again and entered Bishopsgate’s banking district, toward Monument. The Range Rover clung to her tail and with eyes firmly ahead, she caught sight of London Bridge, the flyover that spanned the River Thames.

What does he want? Calla raced across the box girder structure, high above the river, reflecting the city lights below. She twisted the wheel, roared on to South Bank and turned into a deserted street behind a line of dated warehouses along the Thames. Calla winced certain she’d broken the speed limit and half a dozen traffic laws. She wouldn’t think about that now as the Range Rover surged toward her Maserati and cornered her further into a one-way street, lined with empty office buildings.

She locked eyes with a startled young family stepping out of a parked Vauxhall station wagon meters in front of her vehicle. Calla’s car zipped forward, still at focused rapidity and she slammed a fist on the horn.

Wide-eyed, the family stood motionless as Calla hit the brakes. The abrupt decision sent her car spinning several times. The stench of burning rubber stole past her nostrils as her tires squealed a shrill of terror until the car came to a prompt halt in front of the towering Shard skyscraper.

She lifted her head and turned off her engine as the stunned family scurried toward London Bridge Station. Behind her the Shard stood above the streets of London, like an ominous, glowing glass pyramid whose peak disappeared into the thick London fog. With little movement about, she waited. Where are you?

The drone of a hungry vehicle caught her ears as the Range Rover revved its engine. Then the headlights of the steel beast dimmed.

Calla frowned. Hmm…are you waiting for me?

She jumped out of the car as a firm confidence sent her marching in the direction of the waiting Rover. Get off my tail!

A figure in dark military attire sprang out of the Rover and onto the dimly lit street. She watched closely. His build was hefty and his face was concealed behind what looked like a visor ski mask. She wiped beads of sweat from her brow as he advanced and lunged swinging a punch in a wide arc. Calla sidestepped the blow as it zipped past her nose.

He struck again. She couldn’t move fast enough and the brusque strike slammed into her shoulder making her lose her balance and she fell backward. Massaging the knockback, she sprang to her feet and tore at him with an uppercut punch. Her fist caught him in the jaw and he landed on the rough gravel, opening a one-centimeter gash.

She watched him quiver for several seconds before jumping to his feet. Calla stepped back and forced down a sick feeling. Her shoulder continued to burn from his blow, a strike that had produced an acidic taste in her mouth. She wiped trickling blood off her jawline. Though the wound stung like fire she eyed him without blinking. What the heck do you want?

Silence.

I don’t have it! she said.

No response.

She reached for the side of his neck. He caught her hands mid-air and gripped them in a lock as his other hand stretched round for the bag she’d strapped around her waist before leaving Paris. Her eyes followed his extended hand. So, that’s it!

The Deveron Manuscript was secured within and she read his intent.

Too late.

Give that back!

He bolted toward the Shard’s entrance, and scuttled inside Europe’s tallest building. Calla chased after him. She had no choice. She wanted it back.

Part One

Chapter 1

DAY 1

4:50 P.M

Ten Days Ago,

International Security Task Force (ISTF) Offices

Watergate House, London

Please settle down. We’ve only got an hour for this brief, said the meeting chairman. Several of you will get a turn to articulate your thoughts on the Deveron Manuscript.

Calla Cress observed as the chairman tugged at his collar and scanned the conference room. One by one the participants took their seats and settled in to hear new revelations about the Deveron Manuscript, a document that like many had plagued her mind. Was it real? Could ISTF really find it? Who among them could decipher it?

After several seconds, the lights dimmed signaling the commencement of the clandestine discussion at Watergate House in Central London. Thirty people crammed in the twenty-seat room. Those standing turned to compare notes and views; those seated examined the pictures projected on the presentation slides. Voices began to murmur in disagreement. The commotion rose over the validity of a top secret, ancient manuscript, yet renowned among the gathering, a two-toned scripted, seven-page document. Written in tainted burgundy and black ink, the neat, calligraphic symbols filled the entire surface area of the tattered square pages.

The integrated group of international scholars, historians, anthropologists, government and policing officials, analysts and independent consultants from five nations watched the chairman as he turned to the next slide. Calla guessed most of the on-looking faces coveted a seat within Taskforce Carbonado.

After this brief, we’ll select ten of you for special operation, Taskforce Carbonado. We’ll build a team from within this gathering to investigate its authenticity and lead some of its retrieval efforts.

A blond woman with a southern American twang interrupted him. Why now? We normally explore issues of a criminal nature. Hardly cultural heritages.

The Deveron has resurfaced in Berlin after it disappeared more than fifty years ago. Here at ISTF we aim to prevent crime of any sort, even though our most recent endeavors have been linked to cybercrimes. The Deveron’s black market worth alone makes it a highly sought artifact. And therefore a potential criminal target.

Excuse me, but surely the German government can tackle this on its own, said a French researcher.

The chairman’s eyes dimmed as he pursed his lips. The Deveron is a historic, cryptic manuscript. Some think it’s an ancient letter, others an instruction manual of some sort. We’ve learned otherwise. The Deveron family, whose ancestry traces back to Cheshire in northern England, first discovered it in 1879, just off Britain’s shores. Research that we have commissioned to experts in this very room suggests that it details the whereabouts of potential resources that will make crude oil seem like dinner leftovers. Believe me, ISTF needs to get to this first. Our efforts will reap significant economic value for our five governments…and the globe.

How’s that? interrupted the Parisian. There’s even skepticism here as to whether it really is authentic and we can’t even read it.

The chairman sighed, pinching his lips together. There’re an estimated 1.3 trillion barrels of oil reserves remaining in the world’s major fields, which at present rates of consumption will only last another forty years. Our resources, Miss—?

Pascale.

Ms. Pascale, we believe the document was carefully encrypted to hide certain resources. The light at the end of the Deveron enigma could add several hundred years to that figure. As you know the rising cost of oil has now forced global governments and oil companies to look at exploiting other resources. But we’ll delve into that in a minute.

 He searched the room. Was he looking for more cynics? The gathering quieted altogether. None attempted to challenge his perspective and they waited with silent nods for more revelation. Heavily funded by five governments—the UK, France, Germany, Russia and the USA—the highly secretive group was known to those privileged to know of its existence as the International Security Task Force, the ISTF.

It had formed shortly before the year 2000 in anticipation of Y2K disruptions that threatened to encourage amateur and professional criminals. Integrating the full range of investigative, intelligence, audit and prosecutorial resources, ISTF intervened in global criminal investigations. It acted swiftly and expediently. Though only comprised of about five hundred permanent staff, ISTF stepped in where Interpol, the CIA and MI6 left off. They answered to no directive or jurisdiction. A lawless unit fighting to uphold international law. This called for the utmost secrecy.

The five-member governments signed off its funding yet didn’t flinch if, at times, its illicit policing and investigative schemes were unconventional. The wider public remained ignorant of its existence although knowledge about the group had leaked in online blogs and on unauthorized websites. Media groups that chose to give it column space speculated and dubbed the ISTF a waste of time and resources.

The Guardian newspaper had downplayed its efficacy. According to the publication’s article that appeared three years ago the group had officially ceased operation. The government denied its existence and that was the last mention or coverage on ISTF in the media.

Calla squinted her eyes as the chairman drummed the podium and waited for the bustle to settle. Nominations will be made at the conclusion of this gathering. Over to you, Chester.

Chester Hitchens, an animated, Museum of London archivist marched to the presentation stand. A screeching noise fed through the sound system as he adjusted the microphone, lowering it for his short frame. With unsteady fingers, he straightened his thick glasses. Though he spoke with eloquence, after only a few words he paused short of a stammer. The Deveron Manuscript, printed on vellum, first came on our radar in 1962. Back then we anonymously received images of the first two pages at the museum for validation. To this day we fail to know who sent them. Although we couldn’t establish the nature of the writing, nor its contents, our archivists declared it a manuscript defying all decipherment.

Chester’s eyes narrowed and spots of red darkened his cheeks. He slammed his fist on the desk. Even so, I believe it isn’t a fake.

Murmurs erupted within the conference room and Professor Chiyoko Hosokawa, a Princeton University linguist and anthropologist, added, In my opinion, the closest script to the Deveron Manuscript’s strokes is the Voynich manuscript.

But even so, has any one actually seen it? Touched it? asked a bearded Russian professor.

The chairman approached Chester, laid a hand on his shoulder and readdressed the gathering. The taskforce team will have plenty of opportunity to do so. With the heightened threat of fundamentalist groups relying on looted antiquities as a major funding source for all sorts of crime, it is essential that ISTF eliminate any peril posed by the re-emergence of this manuscript, including the risk of the transfer of artifacts across borders. ISTF must possess and analyze it even if the German government disapproves.

The debate continued.

Seated close to the back row Calla’s throat closed up. The rising disagreements would continue for a while. She searched her notes. Like Chester, her credentials had earned her a seat in this congregation. ISTF was looking for the best from the best. She passed a hand through her waist long, dark mane and faded into a daze. Bored? Not exactly. The clock above the projector read 5:50 p.m. She had to make a move within ten minutes seeing the indecisive gathering had failed to reach a conclusion.

Does it really matter? Why are they comparing it to the Voynich manuscript, a medieval merchant’s, science scheme? The Yale University owned Voynich document had baffled many linguists, anthropologists, politicians and cryptographers for decades.

Calla half listened not certain why Mason Laskfell, chief of ISTF, had recommended her for this meeting. At twenty-nine, she was one of the youngest curators at the British Museum in London, in charge of the late Roman and Byzantine collections.

She thought back to the phone conversation that had taken place last week with her friend Allegra Driscoll.

Calla, you’re knowledgeable about anthropology and more technically savvy than most. You should consider attending. ISTF work is top secret and never mandatory. Evidently, Mason Laskfell thinks highly of you, Allegra said.

But up to now, even I, the least of skeptics, thought the Deveron was a myth? Calla replied.

Go to the meeting at Watergate, then make up your mind.

Calla had reluctantly agreed. That conversation had only been a few days ago.

Recently, Calla had been promoted to curator having worked her way up from cataloger, to restorer and then to curatorial assistant. Holding Masters Degrees in two fields of specialization, Linguistics from Cambridge and History from the University of Chicago, her ability to see historical data and information as the lifeblood of human advancement allowed her to perceive the world in more accurate detail than the average person.

 Her skills and proficiency at paying special attention to specifics were needed at the British Museum. She evaluated the best way to preserve waterlogged, wooden artifacts, conducted x-ray analysis, tracked inventory and submitted items for radioactive dating. Volunteering as a teenager at various museums in the UK, Greece and Italy had stimulated her interest in history and languages.

She glanced round the room. Where was Allegra? Why would she encourage me to come and not turn up? She brushed the thought away.

It wasn’t uncommon for Calla to take part in such an assembly. As a linguist and historian, periodically, various organizations like ISTF and even the government called on her for her special knack in restoration science and her knowledge of the role languages play in social and cultural situations.

Learning and academia came effortlessly to Calla. She’d often tackled sensitive intelligence, sometimes relating to the methods of cipher communications used by domestic and foreign powers. Unlike today’s briefing her linguistic projects usually involved foreign code deciphering, all accomplished in the late, candle burning hours after her work with the museum.

 The noise level in the dim room rose. A second presenter from Munich left the podium, not having offered any new insights on neither Voynich’s cryptic document nor the legendary Deveron Manuscript.

To Calla’s knowledge, none had laid eyes on the Deveron since the sixties and none of those who had could actually describe it. Even the projection photos showed only three questionable, low resolution images.

The room overpowered the next presenter—a British Intelligence, research analyst. Order! I’m not finished yet. We must consider the implications the Voynich script will have on the Deveron decryption. The two scripts seem identical, she said.

We don’t know that. They look similar but there’s no concrete proof. The comment came from an Art History professor from the University of Paris Sorbonne, seated in the front row. The man on Calla’s right leaned over and whispered, I don’t know about you but I could use a break.

Calla’s nostrils took in the putrid smell of coffee breath. She moved her head back with a grimace of nausea and nodded in response. I’ve heard enough.

Seven more minutes passed. She could make it on time to the National Archives. The drive would take her close to an hour down Chelsea Embankment, then toward the A4 highway.

The meeting went over by ten minutes. She bit her lip and tapped her frayed notebook with a nervous glance at the clock on the wall. Calla shuffled her feet, ready to head to the back of the room. She rose to her feet, grabbed her colonial shoulder bag and straightened her khaki trousers and slid on her trench coat. A tomboy by nature, and not concerned about appearances, she kept each item she wore neat and flawless: from her short nails and flat ballet pumps, to her trim blazer.

Almost on cue the presenter concluded her presentation and the meeting chairman stepped onto the podium. Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll announce shortly who’ll work on the Deveron Manuscript in Berlin. Some of you will get a call soon.

Calla barely heard the words.

***

6:50 p.m.

Calla checked the speedometer of her worn Audi A3 hatchback. The grim clouds above the London skyline echoed her very thoughts. Somber.

After several minutes the automobile came to a traffic light. Philler despised tardiness but he owed her a favor. Last January, she’d translated a lengthy manual for him, all to impress the brunette who worked at his local library. She shook her head, remembering the hours she’d poured into the document. Calla checked the traffic light again. It turned green. The car ahead of her failed to move. She slammed the car horn. Come on!

An aggressive remark for her upper-class, English accent.

Thirty minutes later the car pulled up in front of the National Archives building in the London suburb of Kew. Calla hurried through the main entrance. Tuesday meant the offices stayed open until 7:00 p.m. She checked her watch.

We’re closing in ten minutes.

The voice came from a tired female face behind the reception desk. Calla thanked the middle-aged, Caribbean woman and scanned the lobby hoping not let this opportunity pass her by. She pulled out her cell phone from her purse.

There you are.

Thank God!

The receptionist relaxed her face as Philler, the business systems manager trotted toward them. His black-rimmed glasses didn’t hide the fact that he was aging. He seemed older than she remembered. Has it been three years?

Philler gestured for her to sidle through the glass barriers. She’s with me. Sign her in as Miss Cress.

Philler, we’re closing. No more visitors.

She’s my niece, he lied. I’ll be responsible for her.

The receptionist shook her head. I’m gonna look the other way.

Calla followed Philler and they took the elevator to level two. Once there, they wormed down the hallway lit on one side by the early moonlight peering through the glass façade. April had promised an early spring this year and Calla’s tension eased at the thought. It was her favorite time of year. Her thirtieth birthday would be here before the end of the summer. This year will be different. I’ll find them!

They stopped at a secured door missing a label. Philler produced a chained pass from his pocket and swiped the card reader pushing the door open for Calla. This is a staff research room prohibited to the public. The computers in here have unrestricted access to all known civil servant records. Click on the blue book icon and select civil records. The rest should be straightforward.

He handed her a green Post-it note. This is the password you’ll need. Use it when prompted. I can only give you ten minutes maximum. He straightened his glasses. That gives me plenty of time to sign out without raising any suspicions. They’ll assume I was checking the systems. Okay, I'll leave you to it.

Philler switched on the fluorescent overhead lights and turned to depart. Ten minutes, tops, he called as he shut the door.

Her tone was courteous. Thank you.

The door closed behind him. Hundreds of brown boxes, neatly piled together, stood on gray steel shelves. They rested in an endless row of archives on the far side of the room. Calla felt a chill through her spine. It must be close to five degrees in here. She shook it off and moved toward the multi-screen computer on a silver, metallic desk.

She switched on the computer. Exactly what she’d imagined. It used secure socket layer encryption to ensure privacy of information. She entered the authorization from Philler’s Post-it.

Philler and Calla had met five years ago in an IT training course on SMART technologies. His easy-going manner had made it easy for her to befriend him. Even at his ripe old age of sixty-three she’d never met anyone more knowledgeable about computer systems and software besides Jack Kleve, her dependable colleague. Jack’s knowledge of modern technologies astounded her and she smiled at the thought of their odd friendship.

The computer authorized her entry and lit up to a screen with four boxes. Calla chose the civil records icon as she’d been instructed. It was a huge risk for Philler to let her use the restricted room to investigate a name she’d received concerning her birth and adoption.

Marla Cox.

If only I knew. Are my parents dead or alive?

She muttered under her breath, All right. Just be ready for whatever you find.

As the computer churned she pulled out the only form she’d ever seen on her adoption. It came through a court in England. After several years of research she’d made the decision to contact the General Registrar Office and request the rights to obtain all records about her birth and adoption. Just a month ago, it had taken every inch of her willpower to apply for a certificate of her original birth entry, as well as her adoption certificate. Even then they were incomplete records, lacking information on her biological parents. In fact, they raised more questions.

She scanned the adoption document briefly.

…Date of adoption order: 27 June, 1987

All it confirmed was that she’d been adopted at the age of five. She fumbled through her bag for what she believed was her original birth certificate.

…Date of Birth: 29 May, 1982

…Place of Birth: County of Essex

…Father’s forename and surname: Unknown

…Mother’s forename and surname: Bonnie Tyleman

Many certainties, or better yet, lies, had become apparent to her shortly after receiving these documents. She wished to separate the lies from the truths and so began an intensive investigation into her past.

Calla followed all avenues open to her, sometimes on ancestry websites, sometimes by grilling her evasive adoptive parents who had christened her Calla Iris Cress. The name Bonnie Tyleman had yielded no concrete results. She’d taken the information to a private investigator two years ago, paying the greater portion of her savings to locate Bonnie dead or alive. His investigation yielded two Bonnie Tylemans.

The first had changed her name legally, several years prior to Calla’s date of birth, to Marla Cox. The investigator found the second registered as a civil servant in a public record. Armed with that vital information Calla pursued further without his services.

The touchscreen monitors took every ounce of technical knowledge she possessed to navigate through the complex software system. Thankfully, she was technologically savvy in these new government encryption programs. You are a lifesaver, Jack.

Jack had given Calla a quick lesson in working the new capacitive, touchscreen tools such as the ones in front of her. The screens were capable of registering physical contact through most types of electrically insulated materials.

You can even use them with gloves, Jack had said. He’d also given her a quick course in Oracle and SQLite database software. His brilliance as a software and technology developer, recently sought out for ISTF special operations, fascinated her.

She slid her finger across the screen working fast with one eye on the time.

Seven minutes to go.

Resolve filling her she scrolled through windows of texts and flashing images. Finally she landed on the catalog database screen.

She stopped.

A bold headline stared back at her:

Civil Servant Commission 1800-1990.

Could this be it?

The cursor blinked and she entered the name Marla Cox and waited a few seconds.

Twenty entries found! Damn, who do I pick? She glimpsed to the right of each entry, hoping for a period or date.

None!

What the heck? I have nothing to lose. She hit the back icon and returned to the previous screen. Calla typed a name that had badgered her mind since the day she’d discovered it.

Bonnie Tyleman.

Okay, she muttered.

The cursor blinked uncontrollably, searching the machine for information. Come on.

Five minutes left!

She waited, tapping the fingers of her right hand on the desk. The machine failed to respond. Philler knocked on the door from the outside, giving her a two-minute warning. Nervous energy flowed through Calla’s veins. She’d waited a long time. The machine churned on, like the unending wait for a London bus. She knew enough about genealogy, DNA tests that determined a person’s ethnicity but wouldn’t go to these extremes. For now she gave the dawdling computer a chance. Why’s it taking so long?

Who had brought her to the orphanage? Why? Were her parents still alive? Perhaps they lived right here in London or maybe on mainland Europe. Where had she inherited her olive skin, emerald-amber eyes, dark hair and athletic physique? No one had ever told her.

Could it be that her parents were of Caucasian, Asian, perhaps Latin American, French Gypsy or even Indian descent? For all she knew, she could also be the product of mixed race. For her thirtieth birthday, Calla wanted answers.

Search result…

Finally.

More than 200 entries found

Now what? She rose and hit the enter button several times. A drop of sweat fell onto the silver surface of the desk. Without warning a continuous beep shrilled from the machine’s speakers.

No, not now! Don’t lock me out! Come on!

The screen flashed a warning.

You are not authorized to access this information!

She slid her trembling fingers across the screen. Her efforts seemed futile as the computer continued with its loud warning.

No!

A hand stretched across her shoulder and hit two function buttons simultaneously.

What’d you do?

Philler’s knitted eyebrows told her he wasn’t amused. He shut off the machine. You practically raised the alarm. We’ve gotta move. A systems security person could be here any minute. I’m afraid you have to leave now. God knows I’m in enough trouble already.

Please, Philler, this is my only chance.

Philler sighed. I can’t, Calla. I’m sorry.

The door flung open with a thud. A female data security manager with a tight grip on the doorknob blocked their only means of escape. She marched into the room followed by a seething male security guard.

What’s going on here? My computer has registered irregular activity coming from this room, hollered the man.

Just a routine checkup, Philler said.

The woman’s eyes fell on Calla. And she?

Just a trainee.

Let’s go! commanded the guard.

Calla picked up her belongings and rose, followed by Philler. God, I hope he doesn’t get into trouble.

The security guard jostled her out of the building. It didn’t surprise her.

Hey, it’s public property, she called back.

She wiped her brow.

So close.

Chapter 2

Day 2

9:12 a.m.

Thames Embankment, London

Calla glanced up from her laptop as cars zipped by on Victoria Embankment. Sir, could you please close the window?

The morning sun cast its rays on the cool, aluminum café table. It peered in through the glistening square windows that overlooked the river walk along the north bank of the River Thames.

Yes, of course, said the waiter. Sometimes the blue skies can be deceptive in April.

The cell phone beside her laptop had been silent all morning. She scrolled through her inbox, landing on a text message sent by Allegra Driscoll the night before. Allegra was Calla’s life mentor, or so she hoped.

Calla,

As you may know by now, I’ve been selected to lead Taskforce Carbonado.

I’ve also chosen you as part of the team. See you in Berlin tomorrow.

Allegra

Calla slid the phone in the back pocket of her denims. Jack and Nash were running late. She scanned a number of summary notes that had been emailed overnight. Calla didn’t know how long she would be on the Deveron project.

I need to get cover at the museum before the end of the day. Her mind reeled back to the events of the day before. It had taken her all of seven months to persuade Philler to give her access to the restricted computers and now, her efforts had generated nothing.

Nothing!

The embankment café was already a buzz of activity even at 9:00 a.m., mostly coffee and breakfast takeaways. Calla liked the drone of a busy place. Even with the ear-splitting tumult of clinking glasses and plates she stayed focused on her thoughts, her fruitless research. She possessed a rare ability to tune out intrusions and people’s voices. Right now, bridging the gaps in her past ranked high on her exhaustive to-do list.

She missed the remoteness of her less prominent offices on the other side of the city. These Watergate offices were overbearing. At the museum her colleagues were sharp. The work stimulated her and the pace remained exhilarating. There was nothing more gratifying than conducting original research on Roman artifacts or developing a study program on endangered languages.

The British Museum allowed her to delve into the wealth of books, pamphlets and journals in one of the world’s specialist anthropological collections. Some of her best work with ISTF had come after hours spent in the anthropology library. This would be the third time ISTF had called on her expertise in the last eighteen months.

I’ll do it. I’ll go to Berlin. Could she decipher the Deveron Manuscript? Probably. Contrary to some of the thoughts shared at yesterday’s briefing, as far as she was concerned, the Voynich was a fabricated document. However, she would need to see the Deveron text herself.

She’d sat for several minutes without typing, her screen diverging into energy saving mode. The reflection in the black screen stared back at her, reminding her of the futility of yesterday’s efforts. Her instincts told her she should restart her family search by visiting the orphanage in Essex, a location the investigator had provided. Somebody there must have some recollection of my parents.

She could also trace Mila Rembrandt, a relative or so she’d been told, using an ancestry search company. Her adoptive parents Mama and Papa Cress had told her many years ago that Mila came looking for her when she was eight years old. Calla was at boarding school and never learned of the visit until her high school graduation day. She didn’t speak to Mama Cress for days after that event.

How could they have kept such crucial information from her? The question still lingered in her mind. Why had Mila come looking?

Would you like another kiwi juice? asked a waitress.

Calla escaped her daydream and peeked at her watch. Thank you.

We Still Do It, a Suburban Dream, chill-out track crooned in the background of the tiny yet popular café as morning commuters scurried in and out with their orders. The guys were late for the breakfast appointment and the next ISTF session started in twenty minutes. Calla twiddled her diamond ear stud between her fingers, a pensive habit from her adolescent years, and picked up her glass of kiwi juice. She took a sip before emptying the glass.

A thought dawned on her. Allegra could help. As a former diplomat and Political Director in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office she had access to knowledge and files relating to past civil servants like Bonnie Tyleman. Calla was drawn to Allegra’s zest for life and adventure and they often enjoyed conversations over a glass of Californian Chardonnay.

Allegra had served in British missions in Iraq, Belgium, the UAE and Yemen. Inspired by world affairs her lack of family ties allowed her to reap the rewards of an adventurous and at times dangerous occupation. Her vast Foreign Service experience, including a role once in Brussels, working on the embryonic attempts at European Union foreign policy, made her particularly resourceful.

Allegra had been seen as a leading voice among European politicians in the Darfur peace talks. She’d also supervised a newly opened border crossing with Egypt at the Rafah crossing in the southern Gaza Strip and even negotiated with local leaders in Kinshasa to accept blue helmeted, UN peacekeepers in the Democratic Republic of Congo.

If anyone can help, Allegra can.

***

10:00 a.m.

Looks like you’re a million miles from here?

The voice came from behind her. She turned to see Jack approach with an espresso in his hand.

Jack.

Even in a setting as formal as ISTF, Jack Kleve, at thirty-one, was the most carefree person she knew. Worn Converse shoes, Levis jeans and an Adidas sports jacket were his uniform, not to mention the shoulder length dreadlocks. He commanded attention when he was in a room with his sturdy frame, long arms and wide shoulders. Hyperactive, and always on the go, he was one of the most creative entrepreneurs listed on the TED website, a series of global conferences properly known as Technology, Entertainment, Design.

Jack was one of two technology inventors who recently participated in the development of responsive aerial robots. The flying, aluminum rotors were small and could swarm sensing one another in flight. Their build allowed them to form random teams capable of surveying disasters zones. They possessed the precise ability to tighten themselves into perfect multitudes when necessary. Such technology was crucial for swift response where humans weren’t able to act fast enough, such as in earthquake disaster relief or a biological leak.

Jack had once confided in her, explaining that the technology was under bid by the US, Russian and French governments. As a well-honed technology specialist, Jack could command any fee and any place of employment. With an impressive client list of government agencies, private corporations and security firms, he’d made quite a name for himself using wit and brains, qualities Calla admired.

Calla recalled first meeting him at the TED conference in Edinburgh. Where did such talent hail from? Born in the Seychelles on Mahé, one of the 115 islands of the Indian Ocean nation, his beginnings had been relatively humble. He’d paid for his own education while working as an errand boat boy. After finishing high school, a move to Canada with a scholarship allowed him to attend McGill University where he showcased several skills including inventing a key sensor for eye recognition in robotics.

Jack’s childlike eyes smiled at Calla as he dropped his bags on the chair next to her and plopped into a chair. He leaned over and turned her laptop to face him. Now, what’re you up to? He smirked. You need to give this a rest. Ancestry.com isn’t going to get you any closer to solving the riddle of your past.

Calla couldn’t help but giggle. Had she acted wisely by informing him of her family quest? How could she resist? Jack never lied and she needed a sanity check every once in a while.

Jack gave Calla a peck on the cheek. You’re an alien and you know it.

Calla smiled at Jack. I suppose you’d know. Tell me Jack, when was the last time you dialed home to your base ship?

A smirk flashed on Jack’s face and she edged closer. Listen, do you think I’m crazy to be obsessed with hunting for clues to my background? I mean, wouldn't you want to know where you come from?

Jack shifted with a nervous grin. I suppose so, Calla. Your parents were crazy to let you go, if they’re still alive. He took her hand in his large palms. I just don’t want you to get hurt. They may not be all that. A happy family is a dream. No one has one. Look at my dysfunctional family. Don’t let the past dictate who you are or who you will become. Write your own story. From where I’m looking you’re doing great.

He patted her hand and withdrew it to take a sip of his espresso.

Was Jack right? Calla never really pictured what she might find.

He cast a glance at the main entrance. Ah! Here comes Nash, the man himself. He’s finally decided to join us.

Nash Shields pushed through the doors. His tousled, sandy-brown hair was still wet from his shower earlier that morning. He liked to run first thing at dawn. It cleared his mind, he’d once told Calla. He shot them a warm nod. After making his way toward their table he lowered into the extra seat next to Calla. Nash’s navy-blue blazer hung above his faded jeans. Well-built behind the loose clothes that he wore, he liked to stay comfortable. At six-foot-three his lean build and posture spoke of years of military discipline, though that didn’t rob him of the sparkle in his engaging and deep gray eyes.

As a former US Embassy Marine currently employed by the National Security Agency within human intelligence, he mainly specialized in matters relating to the Middle East. He had served the US embassies of Kuwait and Syria as a Marine. Before that, his first post Marine training assignment was at the US Army Rhein-Main Air Base near Frankfurt. Here he learned first-hand the tactics of military intelligence.

The army also introduced Nash to humanitarian work and he once took part in delivering several hundred tons of emergency food, tents and medical supplies to North Korea.

Occasionally, although he only told those close to him, he acted as a security adviser to the government. Fluent in Arabic he’d been in London on and off in the last three years helping with classified ISTF’s intelligence analysis.

He gave Calla a peck on the cheek. Hey, beautiful, any new archeological finds I should know about. I find your work fascinating. Did you catch the BBC program last night on the remains of King Richard III?

His standard American vernacular charmed Calla. Nash never failed to astound her. Here he was, trendy, intelligent, captivating and just athletic enough to make her self-conscious by looking at him. With a quiet confidence that dazzled from the intent look of his stimulating eyes and sharp sense of humor she found him extremely attractive. And in true earnestness she hoped he didn’t know that fact. Calla was awkward around men she found handsome and, as a general rule, she kept them at arm’s length. But recently, with Nash, that guard would fall almost involuntarily.

She snapped close her laptop. You forget, I don’t watch TV. By the way, I’m going to Berlin. Allegra Driscoll is leading Taskforce Carbonado. She’s asked me to document her work at the Pergamon Museum.

I know,’ Nash said. The memo came through last night. Jack and I are also on board."

Are you going to Berlin too?

No, we’ll be stationed here.

Calla ran a finger on the rim of her empty glass studying Nash. He took a napkin and wiped away a drip of kiwi juice from the corner of her fidgeting mouth. She removed it from his hand with a grin. This is a real opportunity for me and challenging work. The Deveron is no ordinary manuscript.

He smiled at Calla, extending her a curious glance. ISTF has now agreed with Germany for a group of specialists like you to look at it in Berlin, Nash said.

 In the last three years they’d worked together on a few ISTF projects and many of them were nerve-wracking assignments. Two winters ago they labored over an international kidnapping case where a ransom note was left in KIPPA, a special code language ISTF had developed in secret. The project had been stopped for lack of funding. Frustrated, the kidnapper, who was also the main developer of KIPPA, walked off with the language code. Two days later he planted a cryptic ransom note in the Daily Telegraph. It mesmerized the media, the public and caused problems for ISTF.

That had been the kidnapper’s intention. Using KIPPA would bring public attention to ISTF. Everyone failed to decipher it, given the kidnapper’s reprogramming of the system, using perplexing hieroglyphics.

After three arduous nights poring over the symbols and the possibilities Nash and Calla discovered that, though a modern system, it was based on classic cryptography, a Mesopotamian system to be exact. It had been a genuine team effort.

Allegra is right for this, Jack said.

"You mean the Allegra Driscoll. Winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature and the Prime Minister’s special representative on cyber security? I don’t think she was there yesterday," Nash said.

Calla’s emerald eyes sparked with excitement. That’s right. Some of her many titles and no, she wasn’t there.

Nash raised an eyebrow. You seem intrigued.

You have no idea. Calla smiled at Nash’s inquisitive nature. Even as close friends and colleagues, and the proximity in which they often worked, why had nothing ever developed between them? She studied his face. He was remarkable on many levels: intellectually, in physique and world experience, yet they kept their relationship platonic.

She gave him a long nod. I’ll certainly be working with the best. This is an immense opportunity. It’s fascinating watching the woman work.

Away from the distractions of the ISTF offices she’ll help me find Bonnie Tyleman.

Ever been to Berlin? Nash said.

A sense of anticipation filled Calla. Once, she said. I’m sure I can still manage German.

Jack sidled back to their table. They’d barely noticed his departure. Time to go.

While the two had conversed Jack had left to take a call. Mason Laskfell is on his way. They’ll now disclose detailed assignments relating to the Deveron. Jack turned to Calla. He tilted his head, his eyebrows knitting as if he’d come by peculiar information. He asked me if I’d seen you, Calla.

Calla had never spoken a word to Mason. Like all organization heads everyone knew who he was. He hardly took one-on-one meetings. Except for the few times she’d seen his name on memorandums he might as well have been a ghost.

What does he want with me?

***

11:00 a.m.

ISTF Offices, Basement Level

Technology Museum

Why the heck did we create all this stuff? Modern times dictated technological advancement. Mason smiled to himself. How much did the human race depend on technology? They’d come a long way even though he hated to admit the fact. The ISTF basement, technology museum, with its displays of gadgets and technologies used in wars and secret missions, was a testament to that, rivaling only those found at the London Imperial War Museum, MI6 and within the CIA, places he’d had the privilege of examining.

Mason leaned his six-foot frame against the safety glass. Fatigue gripped him, more emotionally than physically. If his dark hair hadn’t been littered with tiny streaks of gray one would have guessed his age at round about forty-five, give or take a year. He really didn’t care. Age was rarely a judge of character or wisdom. A closer look depicted a striking warrior, resembling a lieutenant in Napoleon’s army rather than the expert cryptographer and highly capable intelligence analyst he’d become.

He’d risen to the ranks of chief of ISTF’s research, signals intelligence and linguistics divisions. Mason had also served in the military as commander in the British army, although that was several years ago. Mason developed a passion for cryptology. It must’ve started as a boy, when he was introduced to the subject in a short story that he read The Golden Bug by Edgar Allan Poe. His other obsession was researching ancient documents such as the secret messages supposedly hidden in various texts during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I and James I, and those of William Shakespeare.

The minuscule spotlights above his head illuminated the museum pieces piercing his dark eyes. Dressed in a new chocolate suit and a magenta Armani shirt, Mason cared about his appearance. He judged people by what they wore.

In his boutonniere he sported a jeweled, dragonfly charm, sparkling in the overhead lights with priceless rubies, amber, sapphires and mini diamonds. He never left the house without it. His hand slid judiciously over its bumpy edge, caressing every inch of it, almost to remind himself of its existence.

He mused over the enviable position he had with the government. A fanatical workaholic he thrived at deciphering puzzling codes, languages, accents and handwriting. He had once taken on the challenge of decrypting the coded Voynich manuscript, and like others before him, to no avail.

Upon joining ISTF several years ago he designed and maintained government systems that kept sensitive data safe from outside threats including imposters, identity thieves and those willing to cause cyber havoc. With ISTF’s current focus on cyber criminals, a year ago, he investigated the Stuxvet virus that targeted Iranian computer systems in an attempt to disrupt the country’s uranium enrichment program. It was still a case he intended to wrap up.

Rumor had it he could read minds, a reason many chose to avoid him. This was his main investigative procedure. He’d once scrutinized a criminal who had beaten the lie detector machine. The criminal was no match for Mason’s telepathic mind. Mason had managed to draw a confession from him. Many still wondered how he’d known the criminal’s thoughts. He meticulously predicted and second-guessed his every move.

Today will be a difficult day. I need more time! The Prime Minister’s office needed his service for a brief that afternoon but his mind drifted elsewhere. He tapped the glass window in front of him displaying an ancient cryptography system. Why has the Deveron Manuscript resurfaced now? Is this the manuscript? Is my search over?

He wasn’t ready.

The cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he twitched. It was his assistant. Calla Cress is here.

 Send her down to the museum section, he said, his refined English pronunciation echoing off the walls.

Five minutes later Calla peered through the door into the small gallery. As she inched into the room, sensors lit up above and flooded the stone-tiled floors with artificial light. Her step wavered yet she strode with a fixed gaze straight up to Mason, her sweaty palms clutching her electronic tablet. I’m Calla Cress. You asked to see me?

Mason drew away from the glass and watched the athletic, yet awkward individual walk into the room. She may just be the bait I need to follow Allegra. He would even overlook the fact that she was untried for the task he required her to perform. Youth and ignorance were what he desired. She was close to Allegra he’d been told. He motioned toward Calla. I understand you’ll be joining Allegra in Berlin.

Her eyes squinted. Is that what you want to see me about?

Mason ignored her question. He slotted the cell phone in his pocket, not once shifting his eyes from her. Are you going to Berlin then?

She nodded.

He let out a light laugh. It’ll expose you first-hand to some crucial intelligence work. Allegra is one of the best. Her diplomatic approach will be vital in Germany. She has named you as her right hand person on Taskforce Carbonado.

Calla kept her eyes on him. I’m honored, naturally.

Mason stroked his chin. She must despise that I know more than she’s shared. He watched her take a step back, shifting her quiet feet and distancing herself from his probing manner. Perhaps she believed the rumors about his alleged telepathic abilities.

Good! He could use fear. Intimidation always produced the results he desired. Mason examined her posture, straight and no nonsense. Your work in Berlin is confidential, even to those within ISTF.

He stared right into her being.

She tore her eyes away from his, shifting them toward the glass display case and hesitated. Why’s that?

Has Allegra not told you?

The lights overhead dimmed again as neither had moved in the last several minutes. Her lips quavered. She left yesterday for Berlin. I haven’t spoken to her but I’ll join her shortly.

Mason studied her and moved an inch closer shortening the comfortable distance between them. The motion switched the sensor lights back on. Good. Allegra is a great resource for ISTF.

Calla glanced at the dragonfly on his suit as he rubbed the jewels with his fingers. Was there something else you wanted to see me about?

Mason turned his back to her and quietly strolled to the other side of the small room. His shadow followed behind like an obedient mutt. After a few steps he gazed at the glass display on the opposite side showcasing communication systems that went back as far as the First World War. He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out an electronic device. In the dim light Calla caught sight of a mobile communications instrument. The model number wasn’t visible.

Mason searched for clues in her expression as he handed her the sleek gadget. Do you know what this is?

It looks like a cell phone.

It’s a prototype from our research labs. I’ve been looking for an opportunity to test this device. My chance has come. You’ll test it for me.

Calla delayed a few seconds, then took the phone. Similar to most smartphones it was the size of two credit cards fused together, thin and transparent with dual-side, touchscreen capabilities. Its laser lights lit up in blue when stroked, exhibiting an elaborate keypad and various functions. She slid her finger across its smooth surface and it recognized her in an instant as the screen produced the words.

Morning, Calla Cress.

Your device will now be configured.

Mason’s phone buzzed again. This time, he ignored its nudging. He cast Calla an authoritative glance. I want to be informed of anything Allegra discovers in Berlin. Keep a diary. This phone will help you collect information and analyze situations. It’s different from most smartphones being water, light and motion resistant. It’s got a high definition screen, layered menus, touch events, offline caching and best of all it’s embedded with video and location awareness.

I see.

I’m sure you’ll discover more as you use it. I hear you’re quite techy.

I get by, Calla said, investigating the impressive phone. I’ve heard of the ISTF technology labs developing communication devices. This is an incredible milestone.

I knew the high tech angle would get her.

Calla ceased her examination and switched the phone off. Is this really necessary? Surely, Allegra will share the Berlin report. What sort of information do you need me to document?

Not easily fooled.

He persisted with care. Just note your observations. We’ll determine later whether the information is useful or not. This could be momentous for your career.

Calla pocketed the phone. I’ll do my best. I need to go now. Was that all?

Mason gave her an abrupt nod. Have a good trip.

She tipped her head and stole out of the room without turning back. He waited a few seconds after her exit and then reached for his secure cell phone. He pressed speed dial. Slate? Is it working?

A husky, Italian-accented voice spoke in low tones. No. She needs to have it turned on. Did you activate the function?

Damn right, I did.

Chapter 3

Day 3

10:03 a.m.

Berlin, Germany

Calla gazed out her window as Air Berlin started its descent over the overcast city. The vibrant metropolis, built over centuries on the banks of the Spree River, was home to more bridges than Venice. Strewn with cultural paradoxes and markers of science, the arts, politics and media, Calla had known she would return to Berlin when she visited ten years ago. Berlin seemed different then, perhaps not as fast paced and tourist infested.

The plane landed smoothly after the ninety-minute flight from Gatwick. She reached for her overnight carry-on and stepped off the aircraft. Outside the main arrival terminal Calla waited her turn in the long queue for one of the yellow Mercedes cabs. Several minutes later one rolled toward her and a Turkish cab driver sprang out, hopping to the curb with a buoyant spring. "Wohin, Fräulein? Where to?"

Calla grabbed her carry-on that rested on the ground. The sun peered through the scattered clouds, lightening her anguish. To the Pergamon Museum.

He smiled, revealing a grin littered with gold teeth. His head was covered with a woolen winter cap despite the warm temperature. Any suitcases, Fräulein?

His English was thickly accented but understandable. Calla stepped into the car. No, I travel light.

They drove through the center of the city. By the time they navigated past Adenauer Platz, in the heart of former West Berlin, Calla was running late. Traffic crawled by blissfully, a stark contrast to Central London. She settled in the leather seat and glanced over her shoulder. Was it the constant smirks she received from the driver? They seemed to come every five minutes as he beamed gold teeth looking back in the rearview mirror. Though good humored enough he didn’t converse much of the journey. Calla glimpsed back every time the car turned into a new street. The nagging sensation crept in and out the entire trip. It had started at Gatwick Airport, then through customs. She peeked once more in the rear window. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

She shrugged and settled into thoughts of raising the topic of her parent search with Allegra. At sixty-seven, Allegra enjoyed contact and interaction with just about everyone. Age didn’t deter Allegra. Her insight and wisdom poured out of her lips each time she spoke. From the moment she met her all those years ago, Calla understood theirs was a special bond. Perhaps it had been the shared love of history.

They’d been neighborhood friends for over seven years. How much could she share with Allegra? She’d never raised the subject of her adoption and Calla wished she knew more about her. They’d spent several evenings together over the years challenging each other over code deciphering board games. They debated global events and sought out thought-provoking documentaries.

Allegra possessed remarkable insight into world affairs, culture and history. The intrinsic details she used to describe certain opinions made one think she’d lived them. No wonder she’d won that Nobel Literature prize for her treatment of lost languages, focusing on those at the risk of extinction. Her appetite for life and travel was infectious. Allegra had visited just about every country in existence. Not surprising since she’d also served as a diplomat for over forty years. She’d witnessed most of modern day history first-hand given her diplomatic seats at international negotiating tables. History and artifacts also fascinated Allegra evident from her abundant collection in her West London villa.

Several decades ago Allegra inherited a vast fortune. Calla never once questioned the origins of this wealth as the media speculated about family links to mining. Did it really matter? Allegra was no snob.

Calla glanced at her watch. It was 10:55 a.m. Her appointment began in five minutes. How much further, driver?

"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’d imagined. Calla had read about this eminent landmark, which had sustained severe damage in the war, during the air raids of Berlin. Though the legitimacy of some of the collections remained controversial 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, the taxi driver said. "I can't get any closer. The police won’t let me. I'll let you out here, Fräulein."

Crowds lined the entrance of the building as the late morning sun peeked through the clouds. Calla glanced 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 toward 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 the entrance was closed. Calla scrutinized the glass façades. 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 hadn’t moved an inch in the five minutes she’d