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-seven, 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.