Chapter 47

 

 

TEN MINUTES BEFORE MIDNIGHT

 

Mason shut his eyes. The abstracts he’d seen in Westall’s mind now rested interred in the secure compartments and files on his netbook, running on a questionable operating system. It would only be a matter of time before Belmarsh’s, business-systems expert discovered the hidden volume on his encrypted hard drive. He lifted the laptop’s cover and ran his thumb over its tired keys before restarting the machine. It grounded through the drawn-out boot-up, stalling a few times, and churned at the start-up window.

Mason cursed under his breath. This wasn’t the state-of-the-art technology to which he was accustomed. A quick inspection of the hardware configuration told him he was ready to try the clandestine program again. He’d worked all night after he’d returned to his cell, after his visit with Westall.

She’d been easy. Too transparent.

Though it was lights out, Mason labored, recalling each word Westall had spoken. Her mind was open.

Did he need more? This should be enough.

He opened an encrypted program, dormant and invisible in the bottom left corner of the monitor. A small icon, undetectable to the untrained eye. The murky screen requested a password.

He entered one.

A bad one he’d devised, something any business systems person would demote as too simple, his reason for selecting it.

 

M0TH5R

 

Any information technology, literate person could crack it. Its simplicity was its anonymity. They would not believe a once famed cryptanalyst would be imprudent enough to hide sensitive material in a folder lacking meticulous security. It was a trick he’d used often at ISTF and kept information hidden from prying eyes.

Mason’s genuinely, sensitive finds were in a secret volume.

His intellect.

The hidden software was trite. The password cracked open an obscure screen of cyber gibberish. He scanned the data with caution, pausing to register its meaning. Westall’s information was as accurate as he could get. He had more data now.

Bloody idiots! An ingenious effort and bloody simple.

He scrolled through a series concurrent data flow, programming language.

He paused.

One section of scrambled information accessed from Westall’s stubborn mind refused to decrypt.

Calla Cress.

Where are you, Cress? Westall doesn’t know.

He keyed an icon at the bottom of the open window, shutting the program that shrank into oblivion on his notebook. His interaction with Cress would have to wait.

Mason leaned his silver-haired head against the cool concrete of the cell wall. How had he first discovered the clandestine program with resolve and proficiency? Was it the day he’d first met Westall? That was almost a year ago at the British Museum. He’d commissioned the ISTF team to install garrisoned, security systems in the museum vaults and important display cases. He called it a new way of preserving history as his men marched in the museum with cases of meticulous, laser security equipment, motion-censoring alarm systems and internal burglar-proof, display cases. They had all been engineered in ISTF’s research and development center.

Mason’s visit came with an ulterior motive. ISTF would one day require an intelligent, linguist and historian, possibly a curator from the museum to validate the Deveron Manuscript. He had already scouted the person who would surface from Westall’s team. Calla Cress.

Damn it! The woman had been difficult then as she’d been hours ago. Nevertheless, Westall had the knowledge of a thousand curators and most importantly, she was Calla’s superior. The agent ISTF had handpicked to join many cryptanalyst programs, all in preparation for the validation of the Deveron Manuscript.

Westall was Calla’s confidant by his measure. He shut his eyes and recalled what he’d studied in Westall’s mind and the way she processed information. Afraid and disconcerted, hers was an intense anguish about her employee, Cress. Amplified concern about her whereabouts and an intensified burden about her well-being. Yes, this is invaluable.

When Westall talked with him, all he’d had to do was raise any casual topic, talk intelligently, and keep her engaged in topics that mattered to her, especially the security concerns at the British Museum. He pictured the words and emotions he’d perceived in her brain all geared toward one question, the whereabouts of Cress. He analyzed the three-dimensional, wave signal form of her brain activity. Why had Cress disappeared?

A sudden flashing from the laptop signaled that the program had registered new information. He launched it again and scanned the material.

He smiled to himself. The covert sequencer had not come at a stress-free price. He’d labored on it for ten years, having designed the interfaces and workings himself, but the fundamental parts were provided by a persistent overweight scientist. Mason took a deep sigh. “Now, Dr. Durant, let’s see whether your research is accurate.”

An image of the prodigy scientist came to him.

 

Dr. Durant, the French researcher from Marseilles, had been his first visitor. The shaky-fingered scientist, whose research was spearheading mind-reading programs, had by far, the most scholarly research on the topic. The study was elaborate in the way it harvested portions of people’s thoughts, then decoded brain activity. This alone allowed Mason to enhance his extrasensory capabilities. Dr. Durant’s research used a brain implant that could scan and observe a person’s contemplations by monitoring haphazard words they said.

Mason’s Belmarsh visitors, Dr. Durant, Westall and seven more had conversed with him as the implant claimed and registered their deepest emotions, thoughts and desires. He wore the implant on arrival at Belmarsh. Not one security scanner, guard, or medical examiner had picked up its existence. A surgeon would have implanted the device more competently, close to the cerebellum area of his brain, yet he’d accomplished the gruesome feat himself.

Mason was far from anatomically literate, but never winced at the sight of his own blood. He’d done the deed himself with the aid of a surgical knife. He gouged out a section of his scalp with the clinical instrument, cut a five centimeter-long incision, in which he placed the transmitter, in front of the posterior bone.

“It needs to be close to the brain stem, near the cerebellum.” He could hear Dr. Durant’s instructive words.

Aside from a bothersome lump under his epidermis, the chip beneath his scalp delivered two things, the enhancement of his telepathic ability, and the proficiency to interpret brain activity of his visitors, by conversing with them.

Silence was the only reason Dr. Durant was alive. After paying him close to two million pounds in an offshore account, the beady-eyed scientist would concoct no trouble. If he failed to understand the mechanisms of Slate Mendes, the assassin sent to the high school of Durant’s only child, matters for him would worsen.

Slate was another concern. The scoundrel had sold him out cold when arrested. The ungrateful orphan he’d raised and trained for years. All for nothing!

Nevertheless, Slate’s knife had delivered the message and petrified every scrap of self-preservation the bald researcher could assemble.

 

Mason rubbed the bump—inches above his neck on the right side. Durant’s proud face pictured in Mason’s mind and his words stung Mason’s conscience. Delivered with a Marseilles accent, they’d been accurate. “The research shows insight into how the brain processes language and thoughts. Though it’s in its early stages, it connects electric signals using carefully selected chemicals to nerve cells. The stroked interfaces between nerve cells and devices permit direct involvement of electronically processed information into our nervous system.”

Yeah? Now it’s all here!

The imbecile had sold him the mind-reading sequencer, thinking it would fetch him a Bio-behavioral Research Award.

Mason massaged the chip, no bigger than a fingernail and snickered. I own the very brilliance you used to script the program.

He watched as the notebook continued to decipher Westall’s brain activity and play back her thoughts in a series of notes it created. One thought drew his attention.

Cress.

Westall had been in touch with her. Perhaps not long after his arrest. He focused on the decryption.

 

I’ve not heard from you since the phone call from a London airport, six months ago…your research sabbatical…

Something is bothering you...me too…where are you? I talked with the curator at the Greco-Roman Museum in Alexandria…they haven’t heard from you in six months…

 

 

 

1843 hrs.

 

Nash blinked the snow from his hurting eyes. He dragged the helmet from his throbbing head, raised his stiff neck an inch, and rubbed the agony of a burdening crank in his neck. Compact snow numbed parts of his hands, his right foot and one side of his left leg. A burning stench stole past his nostrils racing from the top of the slope from what used to be his home. It was the biggest investment he’d ever made, and a secluded hideaway.

He gazed through the smoke, and dense fog steaming from the burning debris of the safe house. Solitude and diversion from his unpredictable way of life were essential to him and the exquisite mountaintop retreat delivered that.

Until now.

He hopped to his feet, kneading his left leg for warmth and pain relief. He surveyed the area and the house that once stood on its own side of the mountain, away from intrusive eyes and wanderers.

Why had he picked this spot? Aside from the fact that he was born in Colorado, he enjoyed ski sports when he could find time. The decision to live here when he was off duty was an attempt at independence from his broken family. And by his standards, he’d succeeded.

A frosty waft of wind brought the stench of smoke and ashes to his nostrils once more. He coughed and rubbed his eyes in the slight haze.

Who were they?

Son of a gun!

What did they want? He couldn’t recall much after the blast knocked him unconscious. The attackers had come for Calla.

His Calla.

The one person whose existence in his life had changed his perceptions about being in a relationship.

Damn it! He’d not listened when she’d try to tell him she was in danger. One thought reassured him. If they wanted her dead, they would have aimed better. They were capable of it.

It could have indeed been an operative. He had to be sure and there was one way of finding out.

Nash wished he’d finished his conversation with Calla. Yes, he was familiar with the operatives and yes, he knew that they were not out for her best interest. He should know. He’d spent months scrutinizing their irregular activities in the US, such as the advanced weaponry the NSA confiscated in Great Barrington, Massachusetts at a hidden factory. He’d also investigated the unconventional, biomedical research labs discovered in Red Bank, New Jersey. That’s when he’d been assigned to the operatives’ case permanently. As the key US representatives for cyber crimes at ISTF, he was also assigned with investigating the hacking wave that surfaced in several government agencies and the Republican Party headquarters.

The classified nature of his work had torn his life apart many times. He’d had to hide much of what he learned. This time, it was personal. It involved Calla.

The distressing operatives’ report the NSA demanded of him, was past overdue. And he was not done. How could he protect Calla?

After today’s attack on his house, he had to be sure it was an operative attack. The method in which the infiltration and been staged, triggered a thought he had the day he left London with Calla six months ago. Nash also sensed it in Calla, the day they’d deciphered the second code of the Deveron Manuscript.

Calla had put to rest her worst fears and questions, like discovering what had taken her family away from her and left her helpless at an orphanage, and why the Cresses were connected to the manuscript. They’d only been too aware of why Mason Laskfell threatened Calla’s life for it.

The resource, scientific and technological answers the coded manuscript examined and revealed to them, were astounding. Deciphering the manuscript led to a well of technological knowledge. The discovery answered many scientific questions the NSA wanted to get their cryptic hands on and keep hidden, not to mention five other governments.

The carbonados the Deveron Manuscript led to were anything but mere black diamonds. Under a capable microscope, the carbonados veiled codes and logarithms into computing and scientific formulas no one organization should own. Not the NSA, not Britain’s Government Communications Headquarters, ISTF, all who scrutinized every American or global byte in existence. Just as the Pythagorean Theorem, an equation at the core of much of geometry that enhanced map-making and navigation and was a basis for GPS navigations, the codes discovered could change technology, spearing civilization years ahead, to a world that was not ready.

Nash understood his responsibilities at the NSA that at times liked to operate in the shadows and away from public view, an organization that monitored and decoded any signal transmission pertinent to the security of the United States. The fact that the carbonados were in the hands of the operatives felt as if a bad dinner had wrenched his gut.

What about Mason? The ISTF boss he’d escorted to Belmarsh’s high security prison. He’d also had a keen eye on every development around the Manuscript and the black diamonds?

Could he have…?

Nash was not sure. The man could do anything.

He observed a set of footsteps in the subzero snow, trudged by the unwelcome assassin. Next to the solid prints, he studied a long, uneven trail. The man had drugged Calla and either dragged or carried her off.

Calla could handle herself. But she hadn’t.

What had he used?

She’d trained well in the last weeks. Calla had learnt to channel her strength and strike out with her closest weapon to the attacker’s closest target. It was the best thing he’d taught her seeing she despised firearms.

They couldn’t be ISTF assassins. The one he wrestled last had that accurate finesse, he’d seen in Calla. And if he were right, they’d vanished like vapor.

She could be anywhere now. He wouldn’t be able to find her with ease.

Why would the operatives hunt Calla like a criminal? Shouldn’t they be on her side? Using force meant theirs was a severe warning to him and to her. The last man he’d fought had eyed Calla with a look most bounty hunters use when in close contact with their target. He was no ordinary assassin and no ordinary operative. Nash had to find out why. The man analyzed Calla like a circus master trying to tame his overzealous tiger.

Agony from his injury shot through his side. What felt like defeat, washed away Nash’s strength. A feeling he was unaccustomed to. His insides twisted uneasily. I’ve failed you. You trusted me to protect you from whatever you were running from.

Stinging rippled through his right arm. Must’ve been the fall. The blast had sent burning splinters of wood and glass flying and one had grazed his arm.

Thank God for his snowsuit.

He elevated his injured arm for a good look. Nothing the emergency department can’t handle.

Darkness trimmed against the light from his burning lodge at the crest of the mountain slope. Except for the flaming debris stemming from what had been his home, he could barely see any structural remains of his house. Nash’s mind raced through the recent events. Who the heck dared…?

He staggered up the slope toward the dwindling flames. A fierce explosion, detonated by the bazooka had demolished one end of his living room, and most of the top floor. The house’s foundation remained solid as the fire died down. His lungs inhaled lethal gases that made his insides churn. Nash felt like gagging from the smell of burned wood, rubber and melting iron. He limped to what used to be the downstairs bathroom and grabbed a towel that he wrapped around his mouth and nostrils. He waddled eastward around the burning property and stepped over what used to be his kitchen counter. His ears caught the faint sound of the sirens of rescue teams. How am I going to explain this?

Glad he had his insurance, he pressed forward. Before he cleared the mess with the authorities, he needed to retrieve one item.

He tore his way through the ash, over scorched kitchen stools toward the basement door. The rubber on his sole melted as he vaulted from one safe step to another to his basement office. An unhinged door, hardly recognizable as it slung off the wall mangled in ash, steel and charred wood, covered his path to the room. He reached for the handle with a gloved hand and with one jostle snapped it open.

Once inside, he glimpsed round. The space was intact after the blast, except for a discharged force that moved several files and desk items. He brushed past the dismembered desk, tread for the metal shelves and fumbled for a steel case on one of the middle levels. Even with gloved hands, warmth from the singed metal seeped through to his hands as he tapped in his mother’s birthday into the mostly intact, combination pad.

The steel bolt snapped open. He removed three envelopes and two hard drives that he placed in his jacket. It was all he needed.

The emergency teams charged into the house through what was left of the scorched front door. He heard their hollers for survivors. Before he faced a succession of questions he didn’t care to answer, he needed to make an important call. Someone out there could help him piece together the events of the last few hours.

He pulled out his cell phone.

Only one person had concrete answers he needed. And now!