Chapter 8

 

 

3:29 p.m.

The Guardian Newspaper Headquarters

Central London

 

 

Eva shuffled back to her desk and grabbed the phone. She waited until he picked up. “Alex. Could I come and talk to you?”

“What is it, Eva?”

“I want to follow a story.”

Alex Maxfield’s office was at the end of the maze of cubicles. He glimpsed up through the glass doors and caught her eye before gesturing for her to cross the ten meters toward his private office. “Get over here.”

Eva hung up the phone down and cut across the room, passing several cubicles to the dreaded glass door that read:

 

 

Chief Editor

Alexander Maxfield

 

 

Alex had given her exposure when most editors would’ve just thought she wasn’t worth the risk. This fact alone made Eva highly confident around him. She was smart, she’d been told by the papers that rejected her, just not the kind of expertise they needed.

She shut the door leaving the tumult of the busy paper behind her. Alex sat hovering over a document he was reading. “What is it now, Eva?”

The fan in his room revolved, filling the silence between them. Alex was an old-fashioned reporter accustomed to traditional ways. Why use a laptop when the typewriter still works? Good thing he no longer wrote columns. He only approved and marked copy with his unforgiving red pen. Still, he’d been coerced into investing in newer technologies for the office, including the iMacs on each desk.

Eva approached him. “I’d like to be assigned to the story in Berlin.”

Alex, a middle-aged, heavyset Asian man, with a balding head and just enough hairs to cover his crown kept reading, his eyes focused behind bifocal glasses. Without glancing up he grunted as he spoke. “What story?”

“The Deveron Manuscript. Priam’s Treasure?”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “That’s slightly complex for you. Why not stick to the gossip column or fashion? You’re a good celebrity reporter with your contacts in that industry.”

“No!” The volume of her voice surprised her. “I need this story!”

Alex stopped reading and put the piece of paper down. His thick, dark-rimmed glasses enlarged his eyes like a bug under a magnifying lens. “What’s this really about, Eva? You think that you’re going to get what you want? Has no one ever said no to you?”

“You don’t understand, Alex. I need to do this.”

“Not this time, Eva. Now, good day.”

Alex smacked his lips and continued reading his document. He marked the text with so much red ink it could rouge a woman’s lips. Eva guessed the poor journalist would have to rewrite the entire thing.

As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over. “This story needs an experienced journalist not a prom queen flashing daddy’s credit cards. My final answer is no. I’m sorry.”

The blood in her veins rose to her cheeks and she placed a firm hand on the back of her neck and steamed through her nostrils. “That’s not fair! You’ve not even heard me out.” Her voice quavered. “Don’t you know who you’re talking to?”

Alex tapped the desk with his pen, awaiting an on-firing verbal assault. “Ah! The Riche family card again! You can’t pull that one here anymore. I did your father a huge favor by hiring you. Now get out!”

Eva’s lips trembled. “You’ll regret this.”

He stared into her reddening eyes. “Is that a threat, Miss Riche?”

She leaned toward his unkempt desk, her speech self-assured as she stooped forward. “No, Mr. Maxfield. I quit and will write this story on my own. You’ll see!”

She flipped her auburn locks and stomped out of the office, knocking the glass out of the door as it slammed behind her.

 

 

 

 

4:37 p.m.

Allegra Driscoll’s Residence

West London

St. Giles Square was deserted. A quaint little garden square, tucked away a few minutes’ walk from Hammersmith Bridge. Calla relished walking through the square. She paced briskly along the sidewalk of the iconic common, laid out in the economic boom of the 1820s. Lined with paired, classical-style villas arranged around a central public garden Calla often came here to sit in the shade of its cherry blossom trees. In times of deep contemplation she sat in the center with the statue of the champion Greek Marathon runner Stylianos Kyriakides edging her on in her thoughts.

She often wondered what Sir William Blake Richmond, the sculptor, had purposed in his design. Was it to cheer on those who sat under his gaze? She could use that now.

Calla scampered to Allegra’s villa that faced the square and pushed open the front gate. Like the other mansions on this piece of land the residence showcased a stucco front, pediments and an iconic porch. Allegra lived alone except for Taiven, the butler and Pearl the housekeeper. Taiven had served her since Calla had known Allegra, and was often seen walking two chocolate Labradors.

Calla stepped to the front door and buzzed the doorbell. If Taiven wasn’t around she would use her key. She waited.

Never having asked much about Allegra’s family or relatives the thought whether Allegra had family, husbands or lovers crossed her mind. Allegra never discussed the topic, therefore it never made its way into any of their conversations.

As she slotted the key through the door, a light came on in the entryway. The arched door with ornate, beveled glass pulled open. Taiven, a square-faced, dark-haired butler, held his shoulders erect and cast her a generous smile. He was young, perhaps thirty-five at the most, imagined Calla. Striking in appearance he studied Calla with his ice blue eyes.

He was of Middle-Eastern origin. Where exactly Calla was not certain. Today, as every other day, he wore a black tailored suit, traditional white gloves and a white shirt topped with a light blue tie. She’d never known anyone under the age of fifty to be a butler, or were those her own preconceptions? Well respected by Allegra, Calla wasn’t sure when Taiven had started working for her.

“Good evening, Miss Cress.”

“Hi Taiven, is Allegra here?”

 Was this is a stupid question?

Still, she would be cautious.

He stepped aside to let her in. “I knew you’d come.”

She peered at the enigmatic butler, his nonchalant invitation puzzling her. Calla breezed into the breathtaking entrance as Taiven helped slide off her jacket. Allegra’s home was every inch an extravagant household. Calla was never at ease with the ways of the rich and how they were waited on. Her life had always embraced simplicity and modesty.

“How did you know I was coming?” she asked.

“Ms. Driscoll informed me to always let you in. Can I assist you with anything?”

“Maybe.” she replied.

She followed him through the main landing under a jeweled, eighteenth-century chandelier.

“Taiven, have you heard from Allegra?”

“With regards to?”

He would know soon enough. Right now she needed to learn all she could about Allegra’s investigation of the Deveron Manuscript.

“I’m looking for a language dictionary, perhaps in Allegra’s office. I need help with some translation work.”

Taiven nodded giving away none of his thoughts as he led her through to Allegra’s den, past the curved staircase. Allegra loved all things Victorian. They gave her the feeling of delicacy yet allowed modern feminine expression. The interior of her home was no different, every inch Victorian in appearance and the den was no exception.

Taiven proceeded to a bookcase-lined wall. “This way. You’ll find the dictionaries on the third row from the bottom. Here, help yourself.”

Calla swerved over past the leather sofa, covered with a red throw, obviously a special reading spot for Allegra.

“Also, try the shelves by the window,” he added.

Calla made her way and knelt down on the carpeted floor. She brushed her fingers along the edges of a few dictionaries and references. Would Taiven stay or leave her to investigate in seclusion?

Taiven progressed to the door. “If you prefer something more high tech you can also use Ms. Driscoll’s online files. Her laptop is on the desk there by the window. She created the programs herself.”

Calla tilted forward. “Would that be okay?”

“By all means.”

She failed to contain her curiosity. “Taiven, have you heard about Allegra?”

He slowly drifted back into the room without a word.

Calla pressed on. “Do you know that the German police and our government are looking for her in what seems to be a case of disappearance? I personally don’t believe it. She may have been a victim of Sanax.”

Taiven had crossed the length of the room and taken a seat on the edge of Allegra’s reading chair.

“So you know about Sanax?”

“Allegra told me about it.”

Taiven removed his gloves and placed them in his pocket. “Ms. Driscoll always warned me about this day.”

 “What day?” she asked.

Taiven ignored her question and stood to leave. “Do let me know if there’s anything you need. The computer requires an iris scan in the identification device. Yours have been authorized.”

He gravitated back to the entrance and left her speechless in the room. Why hadn’t he answered?

 

 

 

 

4:40 p.m.

ISTF – Intelligence Services

 

 

“I have Slate Mendes for you.”

Mason shifted in his seat and stared at the interphone. What’s he doing back so quickly?

He pushed down the interphone button. “Let him in.”

A robust man, just short of six-foot-two, coasted into the expansive office. Clothed from shoulder to foot in black he sported a brown-leather jacket and stocky army boots as he moved with adroitness. His comportment suggested he was a fighting man. With no step wasted, every motion was carefully drafted. Mason glimpsed up from his work not recognizing him. The man’s full head of hair ebbed from his face like frozen waves and fell in brown locks to his shoulders. With a narrow nose his menacing eyes pierced straight through Mason’s astonished gaze.

Mason reached under his desk and lightly rested his hand on the panic button. “Have we met?”

“Ich habe garnichts gefunden in Berlin,” said the man in German.

“So you found nothing in Berlin. Who are you?”

The man reached in his jacket pocket. Mason’s hand stirred, ready to activate the button as the man pulled out a sponge looking object and smeared his face clean. Mason leaned forward with a fixed gaze. Accustomed to many life threats the action put him on complete alert. He was never caught off guard, a vestige from his combat days. Make your first move?

The unsubtle man, now seated across from the desk, pulled a wig off his head. In calculated movements, he began to rip strips of foil from his face revealing a smooth, clean-shaven bald head. With a long neck jetting out of his long-sleeve muscle shirt, his narrow eyes became more recognizable as Slate drew into form, discarding his lifelike, facial disguise.

Mason’s chin dropped. Military cloaking!

Unaware that testing of disguise technologies had commenced Mason’s lips curled into a smirk. ISTF was experimenting with two core technologies. One made soldiers invisible, disguised to an enemy’s infrared and motion sensors. Slate had obviously gotten a hold of the facial adaptation technology, or the mask.

They’ve put in great efforts here?

Mason relaxed his shoulders. “Slate?”

With a focused gaze Mason lifted an eyebrow. “You’re impressive, Slate! You pulled off a disguise that had me fooled.”

Slate threw his shoulders back, a wide grin arresting his face.

“I see you had access to my underground labs and got a hold of the mask,” Mason said.

The ISTF technology labs were working on several prototypes that kept the identity of commandos and agents undisclosed as they carried out undercover missions. The mask, as it was fondly known around the labs, used technology that reduced a person’s facial signature. It allowed agents to be concealed in a variety of environments, temperatures and lighting conditions. Built into combat uniforms and body suits the mask could be independently used on flesh and equipment. The cloaking didn’t hamper the ability to breathe, see or hear.

Slate leaned in with one hand on his knee. “The German language training program also came in handy.”

 Mason raised an eyebrow. Slate was far from fluent in any language. Nevertheless, his ambitious mind took on any given challenge. Mason cast him a knowing grin. “I’m really proud of what they’re doing down there.”

Damn he was good! Mason recalled the day he’d decided to groom the scrawny boy, whose parents had served on his family estate for over twenty-five years. Malnourished, even though he could help himself to anything that fell off Mason’s table, Slate had showed much promise and loyalty. He was fearless.

Mason remembered the year well.

1987.

 

Before that day, no one would have believed that a storm so great could hit England. It occurred one night in mid-October. A storm its size hadn’t been seen in England for close to three hundred years. With winds gusting at up to 100 mph, massive devastation swept the country killing eighteen people. It was later declared a rare event in that part of the world.

Though only ten Slate had demonstrated much capability and courage when he rescued the woman Mason called mother.

Mother. Mason could barely bring himself to think of her. She’d been trapped in her smoldering bedroom. She was gone. The other estate residents had escaped and congregated on the front lawns. Slate whisked to the burning wing and ripped open a small gap through the blazing wood planks for the stronger men to pull her out. Once on safe ground the tiny boy had been hailed a hero, most of all by a grateful son, Mason.

Victory had been short-lived. That December Mason’s mother passed away. The memory of her passing angered him, like a fresh wound left open to flying vultures.

The following summer Mason ensured Slate received a well-rounded education, academic yet militaristic.

 

Mason withdrew his hand from the button. “What happened in Berlin?”

“I met Cress at the entrance of the Pergamon. I passed off as a local German journalist. She didn’t know anything about the disappearance.”

“Did you plant the device?”

“Not yet. I have a plan.”

Slate pulled out a remote, mobile listening device no bigger than a pen cap. “This’ll be planted today.”

Mason nodded in accord. “Is Cress still in Berlin?”

“She’s back in London. Arrived this afternoon.”

“What do we know about Allegra?”

“Completely vanished and with the goods it looks like.”

Mason rose slowly and advanced to the full-length glass window overlooking the Thames. He rubbed his gray, dusted goatee in deep strategic thought. “Did Cress meet Allegra?”

“No.”

The sun was setting, reflecting shades of lilac, tangerine and scarlet on the Thames below. Mason took in the view from his office before turning to face Slate. “I don’t think Cress has the manuscript. Allegra wouldn’t have risked it. Also, she would have been detected at the airport. I alerted the police the minute I learned of Allegra’s disappearance. Have you searched Cress’s residence?”

“I searched her hotel suite in Berlin.”

“Go to her London place.”

Slate grasped the armrest ready to move. “I think it’s a waste of time. She wouldn’t hide anything there.”

“We must be sure. I’ll have her emails and correspondence monitored. That’s easy enough. However, her outdoor activities are what concern me. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

Slate rose to leave. “What do we do if Allegra comes back?”

Mason returned to check the slim laptop on his desk. “Given the evidence they have the German police think she was a victim of biological warfare. A particularly interesting one the Russians have been testing called Sanax.”

Slate kept his focus on Mason without a twitch. “What’s Sanax?”

“Sanax was developed by Biopreparat, a vast network of secret laboratories in Russia. Each has been focusing on a different deadly agent. Our intelligence claims that when Sanax is used in a normal weapon radiation is sent through the body disintegrating body matter.”

Slate stroked his chin. “Is that what you think happened to Allegra? What about the manuscript?”

“Not for a second. Your job is to get me that manuscript.”

Mason’s interphone beeped, signaling his next appointment, and he clutched tightly at his collar. “If Sanax was used we should start to worry.”

“Should we?”

I need that manuscript. Mason shook the thought away with a wave of his hand. He’d once obtained a photograph of the Deveron Manuscript. That had been back in the sixties. The quality had been so poor he’d not attempted any real translation work. The manuscript then disappeared. With its discovery, just three nights ago by the Russian museum worker new hope had been ignited. Once the Deveron’s secrets were unleashed he’d finish what he had begun all those years ago.

Even with a seat on the Joint Intelligence Committee Mason had no authority to interfere with the German police investigation. He could intimidate Allegra and Cress, though. “It puzzles me that Allegra refused to use one of my other more qualified subordinates. Cress knows something,” Mason said.

He intended to find out what and eyed his attentive wunderkind. “She’s our last link to Allegra. Find Allegra, if she’s alive and follow Cress. Get that manuscript!”

Slate couldn’t move as he steadied himself against the chair for support.

“Get out!”