Chapter 24

 

 

9:06 a.m.

London Hilton Hotel, Kensington

 

“If the Deveron document was in our possession how did we lose it?” cried the first angry debater of the five-member panel.

“How did it get all the way to Russia? And now it’s under German jurisdiction,” echoed the woman next to him.

The BBC 1 television station loomed audibly through the single-deluxe hotel room.

“That’s exactly my point. That manuscript rightly belongs to Great Britain,” blurted the journalist hosting the television broadcast.

“Ridiculous,” Eichel said.

Eichel had returned to his room half-wondering why the woman had bolted from him. He was almost certain he’d seen her somewhere before, with her buoyant bounce and her chestnut, shoulder length tresses. Could it have been in Berlin? He wasn’t sure and glimpsed back at the blaring TV set. It was merely background noise. Somehow he concentrated better with some sort of clamor around him. It must be all his years working around boisterous crime scenes and loud police stations.

He lowered the racket, trying to shut the world out for a moment. This hunt had turned into a drifting, disorganized case. Now that he’d left his badge on the floor of a high-powered, crime-control organization would he be able to escape ISTF’s watch undetected? What he thought would be a quick case, and the chance to oversee one of the grandest cultural inaugurations in Berlin, had turned into complete mayhem.

The news broadcast concluded and the channel proceeded with more speculation about the missing artifacts. How had the press acquired the details of the Deveron case? He swore. This was supposed to be a top secret affair among five governments. He was running out of clues. Eichel marched to the closet in the cramped space beside the main entrance, found his trench coat and dug deep inside the breast pocket.

With great caution, he drew out the photocopies and wandered back to the main room. He spread them on the bed until the stolen information lined the entire surface area of his double bed. He glanced over each page before making his way to the mini bar. Without any thought he grabbed a small Jack Daniels bottle. He found some ice in the icebox and poured himself a drink. He took a sip, guzzling the soothing liqueur. The chilled concoction rolled down his eager throat, calming his anxiety. He emptied the glass and stared at the stacked ice cubes.

“I can’t do this!”

Eichel slammed the glass down on the table, his mind reeling back to his suspension. The excessive drinking had started the whole mess. He scowled at the half-empty whiskey bottle and took it to the bathroom. He emptied the remaining contents in the sink and shoved the bottle in the waste basket. He glanced in the mirror, focusing on his frosted hair. He’d aged more than he had wanted. This isn’t where he was supposed to be at this point in life.

If he was going to secure the permanent chief spot he needed to solve the Priam and Deveron disappearances. The last thing he needed was a relapse into drinking. His title would be stripped if he didn’t deliver the desired results. Or worse, possibly lose his job. He frowned, perching over the porcelain sink. His reflection interrogated him. What has gone wrong? What clue have you not examined? Why have you resolved to stealing evidence from ISTF? You’ll be caught! Well, maybe they deserve it!

He had come in good faith. They’d not been willing to cooperate. They, meaning Mason Laskfell, a man he had once admired greatly. Mason represented everything he aspired to be: brilliant, canny and efficient.

Eichel threw some cold water in his face and wiped the dampness with the towel provided. He strolled back to the bedroom. With the TV racket beginning to annoy him, he switched off the clamor and sat on the edge of the bed. Scattered papers stared at him and heavy eyelids shut out light as he reclined, lowering against the pliable pillows.

A thought drew his attention.

“Why did I not think of this before?” He sprang to an upright position. “What was in those damn notes?”

He found the page in question. There in the file report, he read it again.

 

 

AGENTS COPPER J21 and SILVER X3

KV2/9681

Agent Silver X3 and Copper J21 are in possession of the Deveron Manuscript. Its origin hasn’t been determined.

 

According to SILVER X3, the Deveron details the whereabouts of distinct carbonados. Carbonado diamonds are relatively porous masses of fine-grained diamond, mixed with graphite and other rare minerals. They were first found in 1843 in Bahia, Brazil. Some have been found in Central Africa.

 

The origin of carbonados remains debatable; one clue is the presence of odd minerals such as silicon carbide, pure titanium metal and pure silicon metal and iron-chromium alloy. Recent research suggests that carbonados are not necessarily formed by a meteorite impact, but may possibly be fragments of a meteorite from beyond our galaxy.

 

MI6 – OPERATION STAR

The agents working with NASA and Vladimir Merkov, a scientist and Russian defector, are to verify if fragments of a cooled star could survive, traveling across billions of miles to Earth. They’ll determine whether carbonados possess nuclear compositions unknown to man.

 

OPERATION MEADOW:

Silver X3 reports having established the whereabouts of one carbonado, whose composition he verified as “unnatural.”

 

NOTES:

X3 and J21 have periodically been paired on other difficult cases.

 

 

Eichel stretched his arms and reached for a section of the report that contained a photo. The caption read:

 

 

Copper J21 – Missing in Action.

 

 

The long-haired woman in the black and white headshot impressed him with her determined expression. She resembled an inquiring child. Her stare pierced his mind, distracting him from what he thought was an intelligent brain behind her charade. He’d seen several, female secret agent mug shots in his line of work, but none appeared so unwavering. Her round face and rather oversized eyes gleamed with passion and empathy.

He searched for a photo of SILVER X3, but none was evident in the spread of papers on the bed. He studied the paper with the woman’s information:

 

 

COPPER J21

Legal name: Not Registered/NA

Special skills: Knowledge of twenty-four languages and twelve ancient dialects;

 

Experience: Modern military communications techniques; procedures for processing and distributing intelligence data; methods for handling, distributing and safeguarding military information. Deciphering clues and translation.

Other: Possibly deceased. Missing in action during a routine procedure in Russia. Body not found.

 

File closed: 10 June, 1964

 

 

The report stopped there.

Pity, she must have been an exceptional agent. He crosschecked with SILVER X3’s details.

 

 

SILVER X3

Legal name: Unknown

Special skills: Knowledge of eighteen languages and six ancient dialects. Field agent.

 

Experience/Skills: Involved in the work of code breakers and collecting vital enemy information. Carrying out and reporting on covert intelligence gathering operations overseas. Gathering secret intelligence the government needs to promote and defend UK national interests.

 

Other: Resigned. Whereabouts unknown.

File closed September 29, 1968

 

 

Too many secrets. He found his phone and dialed his office in Berlin.

A man picked up the call. “Ja, Peter hier.”

“Gruess dich, Peter. I need you to scan a British agent’s name for me. It goes back to 1964.”

He paused, knowing he was venturing into unchartered territory. “Could you use your contact in British intelligence? You know…the one in ISTF?’

“Are you sure you want to go down this route?” Peter hesitated. “What is the name?

“It’s a code name. SILVER X3. Call me when you have something. Thanks, Peter.”

An agitated gaze arrested his face as Eichel hung up. Was he breaking the rules again? It needs to be done. He thought for a moment. This may come to haunt him one day.

 

 

 

 

DAY 11

 

8:39 a.m.

 

“I’ll be back tonight.”

Jack shot Calla a concerned look. “Sure? Why now? You know we’re on a tight schedule. Nash has also disappeared.”

Calla bit her lip. “I know, Jack.”

She battled whether to tell him about her conversation with Dr. Olivier. She decided against it as she gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you later tonight.”

 

Forty minutes later Calla glanced out the window of the Eurostar as it set off from St. Pancras International station. The train zipped past green fields and small villages along its high-speed route to the French capital. About twenty-five minutes into the journey the intercom on the train blurted out a garbled message about submerging under the Channel.

With her hand cradling her cell phone Calla’s fingers slid across the surface and she tapped in Nash’s number. She stopped at the last digit and stared at the phone. One last chance before leaving English soil. With the image of him and Eva still fresh in her mind she fought back the thought. The signal disappeared and slouched into her seat. It’s my fault. She’d dissuaded Nash for months. Every part of her screamed with regret and with heavy arms and shoulders pulled low, her drowsy eyes fell shut.

 

“Mademoiselle?”

Calla stirred.

“Mademoiselle, we’ve arrived in Paris. Didn’t you hear the announcement?” the on-board ticket conductor asked.

“Merci.”

Calla sprang out of her seat. How long had she slept? She reached for her belongings and ambled for the exit. She marched up the frantic Gare du Nord platform, toward the exit of the imposing, nineteenth-century structure, hoping to grab a quick cab. Stepping onto the sidewalk she took in the impressionable and culturally diverse ambiance of the bustling 18th district of Paris. Calla inhaled. Spring in the French capital had never disappointed her. She waited patiently in the monstrous cab line and eventually settled in a cigarette-smoke infested Volkswagen.

“14 rue de Jean-Richepin.”

The taxi driver nodded. The street was in Paris’ sixteenth district and worked his way into traffic. The ride took approximately fifteen minutes.

“We’re here, mademoiselle.”

She paid him and paced toward the address Dr. Olivier had given her. She hesitated a moment outside the six story Art Nouveau building. Calla breathed heavily, fighting the feeling of turning back. Do I really want to know more?

Willing every muscle to relax she rang the doorbell.

“Oui?” came a blasé female voice.

“Calla Cress de Londres pour Dr. Bertrand,” she said, asking to see the doctor.

A buzzer blared and she pushed open the iron gates. She advanced through a cobblestone courtyard toward the main building. At the end of the inner court the intercom by a second entrance indicated that Dr. Bertrand was on the sixth floor of the limestone building. It took her all of two minutes to ascend the ornate, sandstone staircases.

When she set foot on the top of the stairs an elegant receptionist sat in the lobby working behind her sleek monitor. Calla crossed the few meters from the top of the staircase toward the door and continued to the reception desk. A pine wood scent enveloped the room, giving it a fine, calm luster.

She dragged her feet along the lavender carpet and made a stop at the receptionist’s desk. “Bonjour. Dr. Bertrand is expecting me.”

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle. What’s your name?”

“Calla. Calla Cress.”

“Un instant, s’il vous plait. Please, take a seat for a moment.”

The woman left her station and disappeared through the handcrafted French doors. Calla sank into a snug armchair against the wall. Above her hung a colossal impressionist painting. She turned her head to consider its fine brush stroke and scanned the rest of the room. Feeling more like a hotel lobby than a doctor’s waiting room she fought the urge to explore the rest of the artwork in the lobby. The sound of approaching pumps signaled that the receptionist had returned in the company of an energetic French-Caribbean man who donned a white coat over a smart suit.

“Hello, Calla. Enchanté,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Dr. Bertrand. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please come this way.”

Dr. Bertrand’s voice rang with joy and a trace of an Antillean island drawl. Calla rose and received his warm, firm handshake.

“I hope you had a good journey from London.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Calla tailed behind him. How could an accomplished academic like Dr. Bertrand be so calm when he faced perplexing cases almost every day and, according to Dr. Olivier, most remained inexplicable? He led her through the establishment. Unlike most doctors she knew, who impatiently clocked the next patient through while trying to make the day’s quota, Dr. Bertrand was more conversational, considerate and witty.

Her shoulders unloosened and she marched down the hall with him. He turned to her as she walked a couple of paces behind. “I know you’re on a tight schedule. Dr. Olivier filled me in and sent me your file,” he said.

“Is there anything you can tell me based on the information?” Calla said.

“Not until we have done some tests. I appreciate your coming in at short notice. Sometimes it’s better to catch the symptoms of a condition while it persists.”

“Thanks, doctor.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Today I’ll only perform some routine scans and tests. I’ll have to administer a general anesthetic though. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes, by all means, doctor.”

They stopped outside a closed door. “You can change in here. The nurse will assist you with anything you need. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Calla undressed in the changing room. She slid on a clinic robe and noticed that the veins in her arms and legs were raised more than normal. She’d not eaten or had a drink in the last several hours as Dr. Bertrand had instructed over the phone.

A knock sounded at the door. “Ready, Calla?”

She placed her belongings in the provided locker and clanked it shut. “Yes.”

Dr. Bertrand led her to an examination room a few doors down from the changing room. The room boasted the latest medical equipment, most of which she’d never seen in her life, a few reading monitors and a large scanning recliner bed. Calla’s hand trembled. Will they find that I’m not normal?

Am I dying?

“Try to relax,” said Bertrand sensing her paranoia. “Please lie down here on the examination table. We’ll put you under for an hour or so.”

As two nurses performed the general anesthetic Calla’s body responded and her eyes drifted out of focus as the drugs took effect, sending her into a profound, thoughtless sleep. The last thing she remembered before drifting was Dr. Bertrand’s instructions to his assistants.

 

Calla floated and floated, a weightless flight above the ecosphere. The clouds brushed her cheeks, some gently, some with a moist, steamy punch. She navigated above mountains, over fields, through distant cities, across calm lakes, over rough oceans and past wild savannahs, with her omniscient mind controlling her direction and speed toward her desired destination. She soared above planet Earth. Even in her wandering she knew there was a purpose, a task she had to fulfill. Her mind told her that she was on a journey to visit three places and her flight scooped her to the northern hemisphere of the Earth, hovering above England.

Nothing about the architecture, the roads and the fields she saw acknowledged this century. It had to be several centuries back. She landed outside an unassuming cottage, perhaps a shack. Night had fallen and she traversed the walls floating into a candlelit room. Though crammed with men and women talking, and some laughing, jovial children scribbling on the dusty dirt floors, including a delicious stew in a boiling pot, no one acknowledged her presence. As she listened to two men talking by the fire she saw Watcher. Unable to hear the dialog there by the fire Watcher received a box from a white hooded man in long, flowing robes. The minute Watcher had the box he held it close to his heart and bowed to the hooded man. He then turned to leave and glided right through Calla.

His sudden exit through her core caused her to stumble backward and she drifted through space. Her next destination took her through the Tuscan hills of Italy. She flew above the resplendent fields and advanced over a zigzagging, cypress tree-lined road that edged toward a picturesque Tuscan villa. Roman women gathered lavender and poppies in the meadows. Their elated and gleeful giggles filled the late summer’s day. Like her last destination these women didn’t see her. She glided around them freely smelling the robust bouquets they collected. In the distance she saw two men walking in the meadows. Their voices were deep in conversation. One strutted adroit in elegant pace, a gladiator it would seem. His white-hooded companion traipsed alongside, his face shielded from the world. The hooded man placed a small black box in the gladiator’s enormous palms. The box resembled the former one.

As she hovered by the men they didn’t see her curious gaze at the container. She could almost reach it. She stretched her hand to touch it. A drop of rain landed on her cold cheek and dark clouds covered the sky.

The droplets pelted first in faint streams, and then in showers of hail. Call sought to fly above the raging storm. Even with the thunder and lightning she flew through the clouds unharmed to a third destination. It was unknown to her. All she saw were rows of huts, mud houses, banana plantations and palm trees. Soaring above the most beautiful beach she’d ever seen, with its sandy white terrain, she descended and landed on the soft sand. With each step she took the warm sand massaged her feet. This time the hooded man in white clutched a third box, walking a few feet in front of her. Where was he going? She followed him as he left the beach and entered the rain forest land. Heat scorched the island. Without warning a strong wind pulled her with a mighty force. She ascended further and further away from the hooded man and into the heavens. Her vision was blurred.

 

“Calla,” said a French-accented, male voice. “Calla, wake up!”

Calla came to and focused first on Dr. Bertrand’s perched face, then the nurse’s. She slowly turned her head, facing the window across from the examination bed.

She regained consciousness.

A doctor’s torch gleamed into her eyes. “How do you feel, Calla?” Dr. Bertrand asked.

Her voice stammered as she spoke. “Fine, mostly drugged.”

All she could think about was the hooded man and what she’d seen.

Dr. Bertrand set a hand behind her head. “You’ve been under for about an hour but you should be fine soon.”

Calla’s eye twitched and she trembled.

“It’s a normal reaction to the anesthetic,” the doctor said.

Her feet were heavy, as if they no longer belonged to her and she struggled upright. “Am I all right?”

Dr. Bertrand helped her stand. “We won’t have the results for another twenty-four hours but I'll be in touch as soon as I have them.”

Calla nodded slowly. “Merci. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

The clock on the wall read 3:45 p.m. Her Eurostar train with a direct service to London, would be leaving Gare du Nord train station just before 6:00 p.m. that evening. One and a half hours later, her body recovered from the drugs.

Moments later, Bertrand escorted her to the reception. “Try not to worry. I’ll be in touch very soon.”

Calla forced a smile and turned to the receptionist. “Could you please call a cab for me?”

 

The rain pelted on the windshield as the taxi made its way to the station. A tinted Range Rover tailed at a safe pace behind her Parisian cab. Several minutes later Calla’s taxi pulled in at Gare du Nord station. After it shuddered to a halt Calla descended and shuffled toward the platforms.

 

 

The Range Rover continued past her cab and parked across the street. A figure emerged and made a phone call. “She’ll be on the train soon.”

 

 

 

 

5:19 p.m.

Wallace Collection Museum

London

 

“Are you a lover of the fine arts, Miss Riche?”

Eva flipped round. Mason made his way toward her tall frame. Her attention had been captured by a terracotta piece by celebrated, Italian sculptor Antonio Canova in the Porphyry Court of the notable Wallace Collection Museum. There it stood, headless and armless, the ancient goddess of youth, Hebe. Eva wished she embodied the same amount of freedom and courage.

Mason had agreed to meet her at the national museum situated in a historic, London town house and home to one of Europe’s finest collections of paintings, furniture, arms, armor and porcelain.

“Mr. Laskfell?” she stammered. “Good afternoon.”

“What can I do for you?”

 

 

Mason had heard of Miss Riche but never once made her acquaintance. He acknowledged she was Samuel Riche’s preposterous daughter and, for a journalist, the media articles she landed in far outnumbered those she’d written. Samuel had called in a favor before meeting with Mason. “Just talk to her. She’s hard to stop when her mind is set on something.”

Mason agreed with reservation. She was a bargaining chip. This meeting would work in his favor.

Eva beamed a euphoric smile. “Thank you for taking time in your schedule to see me, Mr. Laskfell. I know you’re a busy man so I’ll keep this short.”

Mason edged closer to the sculpture. “You still have not told me if you’re a lover of the fine arts?”

She glanced at the sculpture. “Today I am.”

Mason grimaced. “Then why choose to meet here?”

She’d done her homework. “I know you are.”

Mason was no time waster and he could see she wasn’t either. All she needed were a few minutes to get his attention. Might as well do that here where he felt at ease, no phones, no distractions, just exquisite art. Eva took a shaky step toward him, her stilettos scuffing on the polished marble. “I need some information on an old school friend. My father said you work for the government and could help me out with information on any soul in this country, living or dead.” She veered closer and whispered. “The name is Calla Cress.”

 

 

Mason drew his eyebrows together, entertained by her movement around him like a slithery serpent. Why would she be interested in Calla Cress?

“What do you need to know about Calla Cress?” he said.

Eva’s eyes lit up as they moved to the next piece on display. “So you know her?”

“Are you guessing? She works for me…some of the time.”

He lengthened his stride and fixed her with a contemplating look. “Miss Riche, if she’s a friend of yours, why are you not in contact? Why would you need a favor from a governmental organization?”

They stopped by a Rembrandt self-portrait, a canvas coated with heavy application of paint by the Dutch painter. Eva bit her lip as she eyed Rembrandt’s thick, tone-dead coloring on the monochrome portrait, especially where the light fell boldest. She twitched before she diverted her eyes from the image.

“Mr. Laskfell, I know you need something desperately from my father and I can help you get it. That’s why I’m cutting to the chase. I need to know Calla’s involvement with the Deveron document.”

Mason jolted his head back, raising a wriggling eyebrow. He glared into her purposeful eyes, analyzing her dark motives before treading further along the gallery, partly studying Fragonard’s eighteenth-century depiction of a swinging damsel and partly musing over her request. She certainly was a meddlesome journalist and not one about to share the details of her exclusive.

“Before I entertain your query what is it you intend to do with the information about Cress? She’s one of the best contributors to ISTF in linguistics and affairs related to history,” he said.

Eva’s smile wore into a frown. “That’s my business but I could make it yours. I could share whatever I find about the Deveron Manuscript.”

“What makes that valuable to me?”

“I’ve heard of the government’s interest, particularly ISTF’s, in the Deveron.”

“And?”

“Whereas they may not be willing to get their hands dirty in the sullied work of investigative reporting, I am.”

His thoughts exactly. The two were treading on mutual ground.

Mason’s eyes narrowed. He noted the squirm on her face. “I can give you something to start with. In return I’ll need to approve any copy before publication or I pull the plug on you.”

She shot him a triumphant look. “Agreed.”

“Eva. Can I call you Eva? I’ll also help you out, on condition you keep me informed of your progress.”

“So you do need my information.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Let’s say I just like to know what I’m getting with this bargain.”

She extended her hand to seal the deal. “All right.”

Mason glanced down at her elegant hand. “I have one more stipulation. Your father must sign the documents I sent him. Their contents are of no consequence to you. He’ll understand my drift. I’ll expect them on my desk within twenty-four hours.”

“I can’t guarantee that, Mr. Laskfell. That’s papa’s affair.”

“Make it yours, Eva. You came for my help. If you want it then you’ll give me something in return. That’s how this little proposition of ours will work.”

Mason was driving a stringent agreement but this was his last offer, or there would be no deal.

She shook on it. “Okay.”

Mason fished out his phone and made a couple of calls while strolling through the gallery.

Eva turned her back, pretending not to eavesdrop.

He toyed with his phone. “I’m sending you a file now.”

Her eyes lit up as she swerved round. “Oh. Here’s my number.”

“I already have it.”

Eva’s shifted back a step. “How do you—?”

“It’s my business to know my enemies and—” He eyed her reaction. “My friends.”

The files flooded in, one by one keeping her cell phone beeping several times. She opened one file and eager eyes scanned the information. Though miniature in font size on the screen Calla’s employment file stared back at her.