Chapter 7

 

 

DAY 5

 

3:02 p.m.

Heathrow Airport, London

 

Calla clutched her carry-on as she stood in line at the immigration counter.

“Next!”

Advancing, she handed the female officer her passport and waited.

Since opening the door to the porter outside her hotel suite in Berlin nervous energy had flooded her veins.

 

He’d seemed credible enough. Yet, she’d concealed the goblet behind her back and opened the door with discretion. Instinctively the porter handed her the package through the door crack. “I’m sorry to deliver it now. Please sign here.”

He held out an electronic device for a signature. Calla gazed at the parcel. No information about the sender was evident. She signed for it.

The porter observed her with a curious gaze. “Sorry to come at such an hour. I saw you come in at the reception and wanted to get this to you. It was delivered urgently.”

“Who delivered it?”

“I don’t know.”

He left and she took the envelope back through to the dining room.

Who’d send me a package at this hour?

She shook it.

No odd jingles.

She placed it under her nose.

No odor.

She took a deep breath and tore it open, peeling the thick tape around the edges with heightened caution. After one final tug she thrust her hand in the bubble-wrapped interior and waited for whatever her hands would discover. The contents slid out without effort and Calla’s eyes fell on the words:

 

 

DIPLOMATIC BAG

 

 

A document carrier, royal blue in color with the white government seal in the middle and a footnote at the bottom, was concealed inside the envelope.

 

 

Property of Her Majesty’s Government.

Only to be opened by authorized personnel.

 

 

No other message or notes were present. Calla thought for a few seconds. According to international convention packages carrying official papers or other materials were above the law. These documents can’t be opened, detained or violated. This is my ticket out of Berlin.

With no alternative, she placed the decanter and the manuscript within the diplomatic bag.

Calla kept the items close at hand on the flight home that lingered like the dawn. There was no turning back. It wasn’t until the plane landed that she realized something, the diplomatic bag was safe from interference but was she?

 

 

“Miss?”

Calla disengaged from her thoughts, her shoulders tightening. The immigration officer sat behind a booth. Her gray hair, held in a neat bun, reminded Calla of a ballet teacher she once knew. With good posture and an uncompromising face the woman’s eyes gave nothing away. She studied Calla’s passport, flipping from page to page with a cautious finger. Numerous stamps adorned several pages of the European document. They’d been collected in the last several years traveling globally for work, study and anthropological projects.

Calla gripped her carry-on with her right hand as the officer flipped through her passport and stopped at a page. She peered over the counter at the woman’s hands.

“Looks like you’ve done quite a bit of travel?” the woman said.

Calla attempted a relaxed smile as the officer continued investigating the travel document, not once glimpsing up. “What sort of work are you curators doing these days?”

Calla smirked at the officer’s ignorance of her profession. “A lot of our work is behind the scenes. We work with artifacts planning, organizing, interpreting and presenting exhibitions and for museum collections.”

“Interesting. Where are you flying in from today?”

There was no way round this one. “Berlin.”

The woman raised her head and studied her face for the first time. She flicked through two more pages and scanned the travel document under a laser light. “I’ve never been to Berlin. I hear it’s a great place.” She held out the passport to Calla. “Welcome home.”

Calla took a deep breath as the woman stamped her passport and held it out to her. “Next, please!”

 

Without any checked bags, Calla hastened to the arrival hall toward customs with the exit in her sight. Two uniformed men stood between her and the door to her freedom and she marched briskly toward the exit without acknowledging them.

“May I check your bags?” insisted one of customs officers. “It’s just a random check.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes, we sample passengers throughout the day.”

Adrenaline fired through Calla’s vein as she handed him her carry-on. He handled the brown-leather, hold-all bag and threw it open.

“I’ve only been out of the country for forty-eight hours. I’m afraid I didn’t do much shopping,” she said.

The officer dug deep into the various compartments, pulling out item after item, mostly her clothes and toiletries. She glanced at his hands as he fished out the diplomatic carrier. “Hey, Clive. Come over here.”

Calla’s lips trembled.

“Hey, mate, I’ve actually never seen one of these.” He held out the pouch to his colleague. “I’ve always wondered what they look like. Now, I know.”

He stashed the item within her bag. “It’s my first week on the job.”

After he replaced all the contents he zipped up the bag. “Thank you.”

Calla stepped out of Terminal 5 into the warm sunshine her heart racing. What the heck am I doing? She scurried down the escalator toward the London Underground station, glad she’d left her car and wouldn’t need to wrestle with traffic from Heathrow. When she made it down to the Underground, she bustled toward the eastbound, Piccadilly Line platform, heading for Central London. When the train approached Calla proceeded toward the last carriage. The doors slid open and she veered toward the seats at the back of the compartment, scrambling past disembarking passengers.

Except for a couple with a bubbly toddler seated across from her the carriage remained empty when the train clanged its doors shut. She plunged into the upholstered seats and for the first time since leaving Berlin, her shoulders loosened.

Her mind mused over her accomplishment and the risk she’d taken. She’d done as requested and carried the items out of Berlin. Something about the note made her do it, the fact that it mentioned her parents and was in Ayapaneco. It was meant only for her, seeing that only two people knew that she understood Ayapaneco, Allegra and Izek Vargas.

It had started as a hobby.

The two living souls who could properly communicate in the language were both in their seventies. Izek was one of them. Calla’s fascination with lost languages had prompted her to dedicate one summer to learning the grammar basics with Izek. He’d not been easy to sway, but Allegra used her influence yet again to have him instruct Calla. Izek agreed after much persuasion on condition that the government would aim to teach the language to a new generation. Calla decided not to publicize her new skill to anyone, at least not until she felt she could teach it to willing students.

Calla clutched the bag to her chest. What about the German police? Perhaps it had been a kind suggestion. She’d find out soon enough.

 

 

 

 

3:06 p.m.

Guardian Newspaper Headquarters

North London

 

 

“How many pink carnations will that be?”

Eva Lily Riche admired the pink carnations the florist held in her hands. “Please add some white lilies. That’s how she liked them,” she said in a British twang, though her tone hinted at French pronunciation.

A tear welled in Eva’s eye. How ironic the significance of the bouquet. I’ll never forget you. The florist placed a gentle hand over Eva’s manicured fingers. “Are you okay?”

The flowers’ perfumed scent brought back pleasant memories of perpetual summer days in the south of France, the family villa in Eze overlooking the cliffs of the French Rivera where Eva had spent most summer vacations away from the tumultuous life of boarding schools. Those had been the best times with Maman.

School had seemed more like banishment, a place for juvenile girls to be seen and not heard and to be churned into perfection for an unforgiving society. How I miss you, Maman.

“Yes, thank you. I'll take a dozen carnations and a dozen, white lilies in one large bouquet.”

The florist disappeared through the beaded curtains. Eva had to survive the next twenty-four hours, the anniversary of the day her mother lost all sense of her world. Every year Eva purchased the same bouquet. It was how she remembered her mother, Madeleine Riche, a true socialite in her time, and the woman her father had fallen for. When Madeline slowly lost her memory her father Samuel Riche confined her to a care unit in Lausanne, Switzerland. Eva couldn’t bear to go there. It only made her weep, and ever since, her father had looked at her differently. She’d been his little girl, yet somehow, all that had gradually changed. Papa, why don’t you love me the same way?

The florist returned with a fully bound bouquet. “Will that be all?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The florist hesitated and grasped Eva’s cold hands. “Miss, sometimes it’s in grief and misfortune that we champion our fears. Rise to yours.”

Was she right? Would Eva ever champion the fear of never having her father’s affection? Eva managed a smile. “You’re kind and wise.”

She paid the florist and received the spread, inhaling the aromas as she strolled out into the afternoon sun. The fragrance filled her nostrils as she headed back to the Guardian newspaper office. Her coffee break was almost over. She paced the few blocks over the moat and into York Way. The office was on the third floor of the Guardian tower. She took the stairs, a firm believer in keeping active and steered to her desk in time to hear the last ring of a missed call.

She slumped into her seat and answered several emails. No stimulating assignments stood out for the week. More galas to attend and celebrity interviews to conduct. She browsed through her diary. Is it always going to be like this?

Was the florist’s advice sound? Papa will never be proud of a gossip columnist. Confidence had been her new friend, ever since she was hired. It hadn’t always been this way, certainly not at school. Though born and bred from money and prestige, respect and accomplishment had eluded her. So far fame had sidestepped her too. Proving to her over-accomplished father, Samuel Riche, that she was a worthy daughter remained a momentous feat. He demonstrated greater regard for the boys in the family, especially her elder brothers Léon and Anton.

Léon was a senior executive at Bourgeois Wines, the largest exporter of French wines, while Anton, a Stanford Law School graduate, was a highly sought corporate lawyer. Anton also practiced human rights law, pro bono. Samuel and Anton were the only father and son act to be listed on Forbes’ list of wealthiest entrepreneurs with a considerable empire comprised of legal firms, luxury brand wines and global security systems.

“Eva, I need that copy by five,” the deputy editor said.

His was the glamorous task of taking credit for other’s work, including Eva’s. “It’s done and in your inbox, Simon,” she said.

Eva snapped a pencil in half, shot up and walked past several cubicles to fetch some water. When she glanced up above the water cooler the plasma screen transmitted breaking news on mute. Eva usually ignored the repetitive broadcasts. This time however she stopped as a RTL emission from Berlin presented a special program on the main BBC channel. She edged closer to the screen and turned up the volume.

 

“Sir, what do you know about the disappearance this morning of the Deveron Manuscript?” demanded the female reporter.

The older man held out a hand to shield himself from the glaring camera lights. A caption flashed at the bottom of the screen:

 

 

Raimund Eichel, Berlin Police.

 

 

“As we’ve already stated, we’ve only confirmed that the missing items from the Pergamon Museum are objects from Priam’s Treasure. We're still carrying out a full investigation,” said Eichel as his English danced with hints of Americanisms.

“Can you tell us about the circumstances surrounding the theft?” the reporter asked.

“Whoever is responsible knew what they were after. It’s still too early to tell".”

Eichel glared directly into the camera lens. “No artifact has gone missing or been damaged on my watch and this isn’t going to be a first.”

“What’s so significant about this particular manuscript? There’s very little information on it. Why would anyone want to take it?”

“I've not mentioned any manuscript!”

“But we’ve been told that an ancient document is missing. Can you confirm these accounts?”

Eichel’s face turned ruby red. “What I believe is immaterial. We work with facts. Thank you!”

 

Eichel set a hand in front of the camera lens turning the screen black as Eva’s eyes remained glued to the screen. She’d hardly noticed the three colleagues who’d stopped to follow the emission. “This is it,” she said.

Wide-eyed gazes fell of her three observers. She’d already left.

 

 

 

 

3:25 p.m.

London Underground, Central London

 

The train submerged under a tunnel. Its speed squealed on the tracks, howling throughout the carriage. Calla brought to mind information she’d kept concealed for years. On her right ankle, just above the bone lay a coin-sized birthmark. It resembled a tattoo, so much so that, at Beacon Abbey Academy, an exclusive boarding school, the head teacher reprimanded her presuming Calla had paid to have a tattoo. That alone constituted grounds for expulsion.

It had taken a trip to the local hospital to verify the legitimacy of the birthmark. The border was calligraphic, with rows of petals designed in sync. In the middle lay a depiction of a three-petal flower and two unreadable symbols. She’d always imagined they looked like Egyptian hieroglyphics but now, having seen the manuscript, she thought otherwise. Calla recognized the two inscriptions. This alone had convinced her to follow the instructions of the note in Berlin.

At the age of five, when Calla left the orphanage, a few documents were sent home with her adoptive parents, detailing the nature of the birthmark, given its unusual form. It was easy to think the birthmark had been intentional with its unreadable characters carefully etched in microscopic letters.

There had to be more to the Deveron Manuscript. The markings on her ankle were too similar to those of the Deveron. Loftier questions loomed in her mind. How did the manuscript and goblet find their way into her pocket in the first place? Why must it not get into anyone’s hands but mine?

Who were these wrong hands? Governments, politicians, mercenaries or simply anyone who wished to pay the highest price? Calla peered out the window, her reflection enhanced by the dark tunnel.

 The train navigated into West Kensington Station and she disembarked walking the seven minutes from the station to her apartment. After a short hike she stood at her gated entrance and found her apartment keys. She could think a little clearer in the safety of her environment and would begin systematically by heading to Allegra’s house.

Calla stopped short of opening the door. I don’t know that much about Allegra. Even after all the time we’ve spent together.

She fumbled with her keys, her mind trying to recall where she kept Allegra’s set.

 

It had been a warm afternoon when she’d met Allegra at the local supermarket. She recalled her amusement. In her own charming way, Allegra tried to explain to the cashier how pomegranates were grown and where they originated. Allegra had bought about five kilos worth, which naturally sparked off a conversation with the cashier. Overhearing the discussion while standing behind her in the queue Calla had filled in the missing elements. “Pomegranates are from modern day Iran and have been cultivated in Caucasia since ancient times.”

Allegra glimpsed back and both burst out laughing. It was invigorating to meet someone with an interest in foreign cultures. The two naturally bonded despite their age difference and a friendship began. A few weeks later, when Calla explained she was looking for a new challenge, Allegra told her she knew of an interesting opening. Little did Calla know it was to work as a curator for the British Museum. That was seven years ago.

 

Calla slotted the key through the keyhole. She inhaled, then paused before pushing the door open and dropping her travel bag on the floor.

She scanned the room. Her studio apartment was enviable by many standards. With a mezzanine floor, large enough to fit a bed and a closet just above her kitchen and bathroom, the apartment suited her. She kept it neat and minimalist, a habit she’d acquired in anticipation of a nomadic life. From the day she’d set foot in the home of her retired missionary parents she’d expected not to stay there for the rest of her life. Life would be one of pursuit for identity and purpose.

Calla tore off her jacket as she studied the quiet environs. Was it just a feeling, or had the Archeology Today magazine she’d been reading slipped off the kitchen table. Striding to the kitchen counter, she picked up the publication and paged through it slowly. She’d searched for a reference, an item on the Pergamom Museum shortly before leaving for Berlin. Even so. Why was it on the floor?

She reached for a glass in the cupboard and gulped down a cold glass of water before returning to the front door to fetch her carry-on. She removed the diplomatic bag, hurtled upstairs to the mezzanine floor and drifted into a generous landing comprising of a bedroom and the bathroom. Above her neat double bed, a double-glazed window looked out onto a shared and fashionably groomed garden. She unlatched the window and glimpsed into the garden. Looked like Arthur had been taking care of her mint. Sluggish as he was at gardening Calla was grateful for her neighbor Arthur, a retired journalist who took pride in giving the garden the attention it deserved.

Calla marched to her bed and knelt down beside it. She located a hidden button underneath her mattress. Painted in the same color as the bed frame, it was undetectable, almost invisible. A small trap door on the floor beneath her bed slid open. It was no bigger than a serving tray. A foot deep and thirty inches wide, it treasured few contents. Those had been her instructions when Jack had helped her fit it.

“I don’t want a key. Can’t we get my thumbprint for identification?” she’d asked Jack.

“Piece of cake,” he’d replied and set about fitting one.

 She placed her thumb on the smooth surface and the metallic flap slid open. Calla reached down the hole and found Allegra’s house keys. Allegra had wanted her to have them. “Just in case. Who knows? I may lock myself out.”

She jingled the chained keys. “Looks like Allegra was right. I need you now.”

Calla carefully placed the manuscript and the goblet inside the trap door and slid her thumb across the edge of the trap door. It shut effortlessly, covering the hole and leaving no evidence of its existence.

Calla shot upward and hurtled back down the stairs. She gathered a few items from her carry-on and placed them in a shoulder bag before bolting the front door and hunting for her Audi on the quietening street.