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 n 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.”