Chapter 3

 

 

Day 3

 

10:03 a.m.

Berlin, Germany

 

Calla gazed out her window as Air Berlin started its descent over the overcast city. The vibrant metropolis, built over centuries on the banks of the Spree River, was home to more bridges than Venice. Strewn with cultural paradoxes and markers of science, the arts, politics and media, Calla had known she would return to Berlin when she visited ten years ago. Berlin seemed different then, perhaps not as fast paced and tourist infested.

The plane landed smoothly after the ninety-minute flight from Gatwick. She reached for her overnight carry-on and stepped off the aircraft. Outside the main arrival terminal Calla waited her turn in the long queue for one of the yellow Mercedes cabs. Several minutes later one rolled toward her and a Turkish cab driver sprang out, hopping to the curb with a buoyant spring. “Wohin, Fräulein? Where to?”

Calla grabbed her carry-on that rested on the ground. The sun peered through the scattered clouds, lightening her anguish. “To the Pergamon Museum.”

He smiled, revealing a grin littered with gold teeth. His head was covered with a woolen winter cap despite the warm temperature. “Any suitcases, Fräulein?”

His English was thickly accented but understandable. Calla stepped into the car. “No, I travel light.”

They drove through the center of the city. By the time they navigated past Adenauer Platz, in the heart of former West Berlin, Calla was running late. Traffic crawled by blissfully, a stark contrast to Central London. She settled in the leather seat and glanced over her shoulder. Was it the constant smirks she received from the driver? They seemed to come every five minutes as he beamed gold teeth looking back in the rearview mirror. Though good humored enough he didn’t converse much of the journey. Calla glimpsed back every time the car turned into a new street. The nagging sensation crept in and out the entire trip. It had started at Gatwick Airport, then through customs. She peeked once more in the rear window. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

She shrugged and settled into thoughts of raising the topic of her parent search with Allegra. At sixty-seven, Allegra enjoyed contact and interaction with just about everyone. Age didn’t deter Allegra. Her insight and wisdom poured out of her lips each time she spoke. From the moment she met her all those years ago, Calla understood theirs was a special bond. Perhaps it had been the shared love of history.

They’d been neighborhood friends for over seven years. How much could she share with Allegra? She’d never raised the subject of her adoption and Calla wished she knew more about her. They’d spent several evenings together over the years challenging each other over code deciphering board games. They debated global events and sought out thought-provoking documentaries.

Allegra possessed remarkable insight into world affairs, culture and history. The intrinsic details she used to describe certain opinions made one think she’d lived them. No wonder she’d won that Nobel Literature prize for her treatment of lost languages, focusing on those at the risk of extinction. Her appetite for life and travel was infectious. Allegra had visited just about every country in existence. Not surprising since she’d also served as a diplomat for over forty years. She’d witnessed most of modern day history first-hand given her diplomatic seats at international negotiating tables. History and artifacts also fascinated Allegra evident from her abundant collection in her West London villa.

Several decades ago Allegra inherited a vast fortune. Calla never once questioned the origins of this wealth as the media speculated about family links to mining. Did it really matter? Allegra was no snob.

Calla glanced at her watch. It was 10:55 a.m. Her appointment began in five minutes. “How much further, driver?”

“Nicht weit. Not far. Not far. Another ten minutes maybe.”

Calla opened her shoulder bag. She dipped her hands deep to locate her electronic tablet. She fished it out and turned it on. The itinerary revealed that at 11:00 a.m. they were to meet Herr Brandt, the director of the museum for a private tour of the Pergamon accommodating three separate museums. Work began at 11:30 a.m. in a private museum room.

The taxi nosed into a parking space on the busy street, several meters from the main doors.

“We’re here. The Pergamon Museum, Fräulein.”

Located on the museum island of Berlin the triple-winged complex stood perched over the edge of the Spree. Its neoclassical, architectural structure reflected in the water below against the blue sky and scattered clouds. It seemed even more opulent than she’d imagined. Calla had read about this eminent landmark, which had sustained severe damage in the war, during the air raids of Berlin. Though the legitimacy of some of the collections remained controversial within its vast walls, the Pergamon showcased antiquities, Islamic art and Babylonian architecture.

She looked forward to hearing Allegra discuss the Market Gate of Miletus and the Ishtar Gate, including the Processional Way of Babylon, and the Mshatta Façade.

“I think you’ll be waiting for a very long time,” the taxi driver said. “I can't get any closer. The police won’t let me. I'll let you out here, Fräulein.”

Crowds lined the entrance of the building as the late morning sun peeked through the clouds. Calla glanced outside and nodded her thanks. “Danke Schön. I can walk from here. Where’s the main entrance?”

He pointed ahead. “Up the stairs. I don't think you can go in today. So much trouble is going on.”

What does he mean trouble? Calla reached in her pocket searching for the euros she’d withdrawn at the airport cash machine upon arrival. She handed the taxi driver a fifty Euro note. “Keep the change.”

The taxi driver drove off leaving Calla standing in front of the stairs leading to the entrance. She advanced toward the growing queue. Ten minutes late! She hated being late. Perhaps there’s another way in. Allegra must be here by now.

A commotion of police and sirens fenced the entry grounds of the museum. Calla stood on her toes glancing above the group of French students in front of her. Only a few yards ahead the entrance was closed. Calla scrutinized the glass façades. The authorities appeared to have evacuated the museum and several evacuees had been quarantined. They waited in a neat queue on the other side of the main doors.

The cab driver was right. The queue hadn’t moved an inch in the five minutes she’d waited. When the group in front of her made a move she edged closer to the entryway. Streams of others made their way off the island. Where’s the Pergamon pass that Allegra sent me last night by courier?

“Das Museen ist geschlossen! The museum is closed. Le musée est fermé!” belted a fog horn voice from within the crowd.

The police officer with the megaphone attempted a multi-language announcement down the queue. Fresh energy filled Calla when she found the laminated pass in a bundle of papers at the bottom of her bag. She stopped the officer when he got to her section of the queue. “Entschüldigen Sie, bitte.”

Her German was confident. “Darf ich bitte rein?”

She asked politely if she could go in.

The officer didn’t move a muscle. “Nein, es tut mir leid.”

No? Why?

He continued his parade down the queue and she began a chase after him. “Excuse me, sir. My colleague Allegra Driscoll is on the board of the museum. Here’s my pass. I’m meeting her here.”

The cop didn’t flinch. His English was fluent. “Listen, I’m sorry. Nobody is going in today. Now move aside!”

 

 

 

 

12:12 p.m.

Pergamon Museum, Am Kupfergraben 5,

Berlin

 

What now? Calla patted her pockets for her cell phone. The one Mason had given her must be in her carry-on. She’d configured it completely the night before she left London. A lavish device that came with a GPS application sophisticated enough to identify her pre-set numbers. She could locate Allegra that way.

Her private smartphone, though more primitive, was in her left jacket pocket. With a full battery a local service provider had already identified her device. Her fingers moved fast as they typed a quick message to Allegra.

 

 

Held up at entrance.

Are you inside?

Calla

 

 

Exposed to the sun in the crowded plaza full of international tourists, she glimpsed upward. The noon rays hit her face, warming her cheeks making it seem more like a midsummer afternoon. Irritation thundered through her as she video-dialed Allegra.

No pick up.

The voicemail came on. She sent another text message.

 

 

Can’t get into museum.

I’m off to the hotel.

 

 

Her throat tightened as she placed the phone in her pocket.

“How interesting that we carry cell phones with us. But we choose not to be reached when we’re most needed.”

Calla zipped her head round following the German accented, male voice that came from behind. Prying eyes speared into her. The intrusive voice originated from a sneering gentleman a few feet away. He must’ve watched her interlude with the police. She chose to ignore his remark. He caught her gaze and maneuvered closer, extending a firm handshake. “I’m Manfred Bierman. Looks like you’re not from Berlin.”

Calla shook his steady hand. “What gave me away?”

“You seem a little lost.”

“Could you tell me why the Pergamon is closed today?”

“I take it you’ve not been keeping up with German news.”

She shook her head.

“Please. Allow me to explain.”

Bierman wore a dark trench coat with a trilby hat pinched at the sides and could have come straight off a 1940s film set. As they ambled a few feet from the queue Calla detected hints of tobacco. Cigars maybe. He led her from the dispersing queue toward one of the concrete benches, situated within the museum grounds. Calla glanced over at the glass entrance. The police, efficient in manner, questioned every evacuee in turn. One by one the meticulous officers took down statements and checked identities.

 “The German press has been reporting about ancient artifacts that went missing from Berlin vaults during the war.”

“I see.”

“These are due to be returned and inaugurated at the Pergamon today.”

 “What artifacts?”

“Do you know much about the Pergamon Museum? Or Berlin’s cultural history? This is a monumental inauguration for Berlin.”

 

Calla recalled the night she and Allegra had talked about the German capital. Throughout the evening, they’d discussed the history of the museum. The Pergamon had been a top priority on her list of places to visit. Allegra presented a slide show at her villa, elaborating several details. The museum closed in 1939 at the outbreak of war. In 1943 it took just a few hours to destroy it. Certainly one of the chief treasures in the capital’s proud cultural heritage the Pergamon burned as British bombs blasted holes in its structure late in November 1943. The undamaged wing was later destroyed in February 1945. In the last days of the war battles on its grounds between the SS and the Russian Red Army forces left its walls blackened and its exhibition rooms destroyed.

Allegra explained that several precious items from the museum’s collection were removed and hidden in mine shafts. Most were preserved. Nevertheless, many others were looted at the end of the war and the Russians had returned much of this so-called trophy art from 1955 to 1960, including the Pergamon Altar.

“Let’s go visit the museum. I can arrange a private tour. We can go next spring.” Allegra had said.

Her invitation had only been a few months ago and now its doors were closed to Calla.

 

“You all right?” Bierman said.

Calla nodded averting his gaze and placed dark sunglasses over her eyes. “I know about the Pergamon.”

“Very good. Now have you heard of Priam’s Treasure?”

Even though Calla was well informed, somehow, he took great pride in filling her in. The open plaza had cleared of most of the hordes, except for the last evacuees being held by the police. Sirens blared across the concrete bridge as several new police cars arrived. The pair stopped to gape at the commotion.

A moment later Bierman moved between her and the museum, blocking off the distraction. “Priam’s Treasure is one of those collections we’ve been waiting for since it was stolen from us during the war. In 1945 it was taken from a protective bunker underneath the Berlin Zoo, only a couple of kilometers from here.”

“Didn’t German archeologist Heinrich Schliemann discover the artifacts, mostly gold, copper shields, and weapons, in Anatolia in 1837? If I’m correct he named them after Priam, King of Troy. As far as I know Schliemann illegally smuggled the loot to Berlin convinced he’d found proof of the Iliad’s ancient city.”

 “That’s right. It’s a treasure of gold and other artifacts from ancient Troy. Schliemann discovered it when he excavated a hill in the Ottoman Empire around 1873.”

“Yes. You seem to know your history,” Calla said. “But that’s a debatable fact, Herr Bierman.”

“Indeed, nevertheless, the treasure is priceless.”

He leaned forward, catching Calla off guard. She edged back as he attempted a whisper in her ear. “There’s more,” he said.

“More?”

“The other little secret is that five governments know there’s another treasure within the cache,” added Bierman. “One that was planted, or hidden should I say? The Deveron Manuscript.”

How does he know about the Deveron? That’s classified information. Though she’d been brought late into the talks about Taskforce Carbonado, nothing about the Deveron document had been publicized. She’d not read the full brief but knew the manuscript was sought after.

Calla didn’t flinch.

Bierman smirked, sensing her full attention. “The Deveron Manuscript has repeatedly disappeared throughout history. Many are now trying to appraise its real value. It’s priceless.”

“How so?”

“It’s written in the same script as the Voynich document they say.” He bit his lip. “Until yesterday many believed the Voynich language was a made up, medieval farce. Thanks to the Deveron, today they’re probably eating their words.”

Calla debated whether to entertain his story or politely move on about her business. She failed to understand what this had to do with the evacuation of the museum. “How do you know this?” she asked.

“I get around.”

“I guess so.”

“Are you still with me?” Bierman said.

Her nod edged him further into his story.

“Last night a museum worker was inspecting the items to go on display and he found the manuscript within Priam's Treasure. My guess is whoever stashed it there hoped it wouldn’t be found.”

“How do you know that?”

Bierman reached inside his trench coat and pulled out a business card. “I work for RTL, the German media station.”

She inspected the card but made no move to take it. Calla suspected he’d paid for the information. The museum worker must’ve sold him this story. She shuffled her feet on the concrete as a warm breeze caressed her face. “I can see the pride the museum would have in returned artifacts but not enough reason to cause a tourist standstill.”

He replaced his card. “Interestingly, there’s no verified record of the documents’ existence. Yet five western governments are bidding for it. It was last seen in the sixties. From what I hear photographs were circulated secretly.”

Calla probed him further, purely interested in his version of the rumors. “What’s so fascinating about the Deveron Manuscript?”

Bierman pulled out a cigarette from his jacket pocket. He tapped it on an overused cigarette case and lit it with a costly Ligne 2 Diamond lighter. He let out a little laugh. “It’s written in a language and symbols no one has ever been able to understand. Comparisons with the Voynich were made in the sixties before the Deveron disappeared. The manuscript’s age isn’t determined and carbon dating tests have left many debates as to its real age.”

The fumes he puffed stung Calla’s nostrils, confirming her decision never to take up smoking when offered in high school. She fanned them from her face. “Where does the Deveron come from?”

He took another puff and this time blew the smoke away. “This is something many are questioning.”

Calla scanned his face. “What do you think the manuscript says?”

Bierman finished his cigarette and tossed it onto the ground. It rolled along the concrete tiles to the rude sneer of a nearby group of Scandinavian women. He shrugged. “Some believe its contents infer to military tactics. Others say that it contains insights into the creation of the world. The more adventurous ones think it’s a treasure map of some sort.” He grinned. “Whether you believe any of these myths, or just value the manuscript for its own historical interest, it still makes it very valuable. Take a look at this.”

He fished for a document from his leather briefcase and shoved it in her hands. Calla recognized the memo, a scan of various classified documents identical to those shared a couple of days ago in London. With a rise in afternoon temperature she shifted her feet, pulling back her hair into a makeshift chignon. A tourist bus from Hamburg sidled nearby only to be warded off by the police.

Bierman shoved the paper in his case. “Apparently a specialist has arrived today who can translate it.”

She’d heard enough and her thoughts transferred back to Allegra as light hit her eyes. It all made sense now. Allegra’s historical and linguistic expertise with ancient manuscripts would be invaluable in such an endeavor. She’d marked her territory and must’ve known about this all those months ago when she invited Calla to Berlin. “Thank you for the history lesson, Herr Bierman, but I must go. I’m meeting someone and I’m terribly late.”

“Don’t you want to know why the museum has been evacuated?”

Calla had almost forgotten.

“A couple of hours ago I heard that Priam’s Treasure was stolen from the museum vaults.”

Calla paused. “That’s impossible.”

“Oh yes.”

She surveyed the admission doors. Evidently she wouldn’t be going in the museum today but Allegra had to be inside. I wonder if that’s the hold up. She rose. “Bis später, Herr Bierman. Bye for now”

Only too aware she wouldn’t get any closer to the entrance, she sent a text message.

 

 

Can’t get into museum.

Meet me at the hotel.

 

 

 She proceeded the same way she’d come, down the concrete stairs and over the small bridge. Calla turned to see if Bierman had gone. How did he obtain such highly classified information in less than forty-eight hours? Calla zipped her head forward in the direction of the street, only to be jolted by a hurrying pedestrian. The blow to her chest threw her off balance in one aggressive shove.

Calla lost her footing and plummeted to the ground. “Watch where you’re going!”

She landed on the concrete with her hands under her chest. She raised her head as a bulky figure hurried through the crowds of tourists. Calla only caught sight of the back of his head as a conversing tourist whisked by and with one blink her aggressor was gone.

Her carry-on had landed a few steps from her feet, she reached for it and rose. Her hand slid to her throbbing face. Moisture streamed from a cut above a bruised chin and left a trickle of blood at her feet.

 

 

 

 

1:52 p.m.

Hotel Adlon, Berlin

 

Calla held a tissue over her chin. The throbbing pain somewhat subsided as she slumped into the waiting cab and dumped her carry-on in the adjacent seat. “How far to the Hotel Adlon?”

“Not very long. Twenty minutes?”

She checked her phone. No messages. If truth be known she just wanted to rest in the car and wait outside the museum but she now had time to kill. “Can you show me some of Berlin before we go to the hotel?” she asked in German.

The female cab driver dipped her head obliging. “Gerne,” she said.

The driver started the engine and swerved the Mercedes into lunchtime traffic. With no messages Calla rested her tired frame on the comfortable leather seats. She caught a glimpse of the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche, the eminent memorial church, where they stopped for a few minutes in front of the neo-Romanesque structure. Calla captured some images on her smartphone to further her research on Berlin’s history. Situated at Breitscheidplatz, a vibrant plaza and one of Berlin’s most prominent landmarks, the damaged tower stretched against the blue sky, a permanent reminder of the destruction of war.

Savoring the warm breeze that blew through the yellow taxi Calla laid her head back forgetting the pain from her chin. Her excursion continued past Checkpoint Charlie, the former Berlin Wall crossing point between East and West. The cab driver, possibly looking to make her journey count, insisted they whiz past Strasse des 17 Juni, the main boulevard through Tiergarten central park. By the time they’d flashed back toward the former eastern part of the city it was almost 3:00p.m. local time.

The Mercedes pulled up in front of Hotel Adlon, a lavish, historical establishment on Unter den Linden Boulevard. The hotel faced the renowned Pariser Platz that, even with extensive refurbishment, hinted at the grandeur of the Prussian capital.

 “We’re here.”

Calla collected her belongings and paid the driver. “Danke Schön.”

She stepped out onto the pavement under the cherry-colored canopy above the grand entrance. The Brandenburg Gate stood proudly to the left. Across the street the sidewalk was lined with official buildings including a few embassies.

Cafés served late lunches, mostly baked goods and hot drinks. Calla could almost smell the Butter Kuchen, or sweetened cakes, the famous Eierkuchen pancakes served with lemons and powdered sugar, as well as sugary, dough dumplings better known as the Berliner Ballen. Seated café customers basked in the sun, sipping sweet aroma coffee, reminding Calla of her hunger. She placed a hand over her stomach and steered through the double doors, clutching her bag as she strode toward the reception desk.

“Guten Tag,” smiled the receptionist.

“I have a reservation under Calla Cress.”

The woman checked her computer. “Aha, Frau Cress. You’re in the Linden Suite.”

“Suite?”

“Yes. One suite for Calla Cress reserved by Allegra Driscoll.”

“Has Frau Driscoll already checked in?”

The woman hit several keys, clicking her sleek nails over the keyboard. “Let me see. Yes, she arrived yesterday.”

Calla thanked the woman for her keys and steered toward the elevators.

The baroque styled Linden Suite spared no luxury for its exclusive guests. The April sun peered through the vast windows of the corner suite with an astounding view onto Unter den Linden. Garden-fresh white lilies and sunny-yellow roses arranged in a magnificent bouquet on the coffee table and a chilling champagne bottle awaited her arrival. Sweet scented aromas from a bouquet of lively flowers filled her nostrils, giving her pleasant memories of earlier trips to Berlin. Calla believed that Allegra had handpicked this particular suite that featured eighteenth-century, French antiques and Chinese lacquer work, reflecting the appetite of Prussian kings for Chinoiserie.

The porter gave her a quick tour of the room with its ornate fittings. She inspected the separate marble bathroom and adjacent living space as he waited at the door ready to leave. “If you need internet connection the fittings in here are wired for most international plugs. Will that be all?”

Calla ran a finger on her clotting wound. “Do you have a first-aid kit?”

The porter moved to the bathroom and produced one. He set it on the table in the living room.

“Thank you. I think I have everything now.”

She tipped him a handful of euro bills and closed the door behind him. The pain from her accident resurfaced. She grabbed a ripe plum from the fruit basket and bit into its skin before checking her phone.

 

 

No new messages.

 

 

 It had been more than three hours. Was Allegra okay? She threw the pit in the wastebasket and picked up the first-aid kit. Right now she would attend to her wound. She located the antiseptic and a small Band-Aid. Calla gulped down an aspirin with the water supplied in the fridge and started to unpack her few belongings. She settled in the upholstered couch facing the window, kicked off her shoes and turned on her electronic tablet.

Tell me, Allegra, what did I miss? She checked her diary. Allegra had left London a week ago via St. Petersburg, and then onto Berlin.

Calla waited on the sofa staring at the unresponsive phone as she dressed her wound with a thin plaster. Her eyes moved toward the window taking in the luxuriant details of the suite. She was grateful for the first class treatment. But even after spending much time with Allegra over the months how much did she really know about her government working friend?

No one superseded Allegra, even at sixty-seven when it came to elegance. Born into an aristocratic family, she’d been raised every inch the lady. Her charm and ageless good looks were to be envied. Allegra usually kept her hair in long, black and gray, woven braids, usually four. Neatly groomed on her head they flowed like tails behind her. Large, olive green eyes radiated and twinkled when she smiled, distracting one from the sophisticated wrinkles on her face, the only features that gave her age away.

What would it be like to have Allegra’s credentials? One minute rescuing refugees, walking the sands of the desert to feed the hungry, and another negotiating peace reform alongside governmental leaders. Not to mention poring over historical and sense-defying manuscripts.

Allegra’s brain worked like a machine, computing information from just a few clues. No wonder the government consulted her expertise on many levels. Most recently she’d acted as a special adviser to the Secret Intelligence Service on linguistic and historical discussions. The exact details? Those she kept to herself.

Calla mused over her conversation with Bierman. Was he right? If the Deveron really exists and is a legitimate artifact, what is it? What does the British government want with it? Let alone the other four.

If anyone could decipher the historical riddles around this manuscript it would be Allegra.

Calla stroked her forehead and guzzled down more cold water. It was the most attention she’d ever given the Deveron. Her eyes shut as the aspirin worked its drowsiness through her blood stream and she rested her head against the cushions.

 

Calla shot up at the sound of sharp ringing from the hotel phone. Her groggy eyes slowly pulled open as she staggered to the table and grabbed the telephone. “Hello?”

Unintelligible sounds filtered through the line. Then silence.

The line went dead and Calla held the phone against her ear for several seconds. “Hello?”

Nothing.

She set down the receiver and gazed out the window. Lights from the Brandenburg Gate fell onto the expensive carpets. How long did I sleep? She checked her watch and realized that her aches had disappeared. Is it really midnight?

She sauntered to the bathroom to check the wound on her chin. As she removed the adhesive her jaw dropped under her touch. Her chin was spotless. Any sign of an injury had faded. Had she imagined the whole thing?

Allegra!

Perhaps she’d called. Calla plodded back to the couch and located her cell phone.

No messages. What now? Going to the museum at this hour wasn’t an option. She found the remote control and turned on the wall-mounted plasma TV. As she scrolled through several channels, she landed on RTL reporting in German. The newscaster stood at the steps of the Pergamon.

 

“Even though museum officials and police won’t confirm, we believe that a secret document or manuscript was among the stolen treasure of Priam—”

 

Images of the earlier closure of the museum flashed across the screen, including a snappy interview with a police investigator. Brightness from the TV screen blazoned into Calla’s eyes as she navigated the dark room. In one purposeful reach she turned on the side lamp.

 

“Police are not confirming if this was a break-in or if there has been any damage to the museum. It is still unclear how the culprit escaped with the artifacts.”

 

The rest of the program detailed the history of Priam’s Treasure and moved onto other news. Calla rubbed her eyes. Fully awake now she called the front desk. “Could you please order a taxi for me?”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”