Chapter 50

 

 

1258 hrs.

 

Calla cursed under her breath. Had any ounce of truth fallen off Vortigern’s lips. Nash and Jack were in trouble. Think, Calla, think!

She was an ensnared individual between the operatives’ purposes and her moment of decision. She edged back into the room and slithered toward Vortigern’s desk.

Lascar and Vortigern appeared at the door.

“Had enough time to process your thoughts?” Vortigern said.

Calla winced, her mind resonating bells of caution as Vortigern approached, his silver eyes peering into her soul. “I apologize again for the way we brought you here. But I knew you wouldn’t have come willingly.”

Her eyes narrowed. Her mind worked frantically as she headed for the door. “Gotta go.”

Vortigern set a hand on her arm. “Where are you going?”

“To see Veda.”

“Who’s Veda?” Lascar asked.

Vortigern released her arm, a calculating look shrouding his face. “Veda is Calla’s boss at the British Museum and Mason’s eleventh victim.”

“Calla has a day job?”

Vortigern ignored Lascar’s sarcastic remark and maneuvered his heavy body toward Calla. “Veda is under surveillance by ISTF. She’s in an amnesia specialist unit at the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery, according to British Intelligence. We infiltrated their correspondence.”

“Yes and by the sounds of her condition I’d better hurry,” Calla said.

“You can’t help her now, Calla.”

“That’s my call.”

Vortigern shriveled slightly at Calla’s bold expression. “Ms. Westall is being treated for transient global amnesia—a passing episode of short-term memory loss. She’ll be fine. She should suffer no signs or symptoms of neurological impairment. I think you should focus on finding your mother.”

What I do is my privilege. Calla strolled to the hefty door, dragged it open and shifted away from Lascar’s fervent stares. “All Mason’s victims are showing one form of amnesia or another. I need to go, before it’s too late for Veda.”

You’ve done the same thing to Jack and Nash!

Hypocrites!

Calla slowly began to leave before Vortigern imposed another patronizing demand. She paced out into the hallway.

Damn it! She needed her things. Take a shower. Warm food. Change clothes. Find a non-traceable phone! Her feet hobbled in awkward steps on the carpeted floor as she shuffled to the exits.

“Calla!”

Vortigern’s voice strained with the authority she was frankly beginning to despise. “Lascar’s coming with you. He is our martial arts commander, and quite versed as an operative.”

So I gather.

Calla flipped her head round “No, thank you.”

Vortigern narrowed his brows. “He can help you. Train you.”

“I can manage.”

“No, Calla, he goes with you.”

She took one look at Lascar’s fervent approach toward her and kept marching towards the elevators. “All right, tough guy. Let’s go.”

 

They careered out on the busy London boulevard. Calla considered the moderate traffic and shot Lascar a chilled look. “Should we take a cab? I’ve dealt with the hospital before. We’re going to Russell Square.”

Lascar handed her a set of keys. “Why bother with a cab. Taiven has your Maserati waiting in the underground parking.”

Calla’s eyes traveled back to the building entrance. So, Taiven had it repaired after I smashed it on the A12 highway. Good old Taiven. One day I need to thank him, whoever he is.

“Lead the way, Bruce Lee,” she said.

They reentered the cucumber-shaped building and took the elevators down to an underground parking.

And there she stood, pristine, gray, and as tasteful as Calla remembered her at her best. Taiven had thought about every detail after her recklessness with Italian craftsmanship. The Granturismo Maserati had all its prominent design fundamentals restored in the right places. Well-proportioned dynamism, an insistent grille grooming the prominent red-prolonged Trident. A set of new headlights with day-running, light technology stared at her–as she prepared for a ride complete with a mélange of aggressive performance, personality and comfort.

She drifted to the driver’s side of the two-door sports car and hauled it open. Lascar lurked by the passenger side and placed his palm on the locked handle. “Hm, nice car . . . for a lady . . . did you pick it out?”

Calla inhaled, the knuckles on her free hand tightening into a fist. She yanked the door and sank into the driver’s seat crafted with a resplendent, ivory-leather finish.

Reaching over to unlock Lascar’s side, she hesitated, swallowing hard. The permanent smirk on his face had to go. Her hand worked swiftly as she pushed down the lock and churned the engine into first gear. “I’m no lady!”

The ravenous engine roared, filling the underground parking with the hungry echoes of Italian artisanship. She swerved the car out of the parking space and growled the car toward the exit, leaving Lascar standing in the near empty parking garage, his sneer molding into a muzzled scowl.

Calla checked her rear-view mirror. “I don’t need tagalongs.”

The last she saw of Lascar in the rear-view mirror, as she exited the garage, was his smirk shifting into anxious haste as he raced towards a parked vehicle. He wasn’t going to give up. She took note as he leapt into a dark Spyker C12 Zagato, parked two spaces from where her Maserati had stood.

With her focus ahead, the garage door slid open and Calla propelled the Maserati into London’s afternoon traffic. She glanced in the rear-view mirror one last time, certain Lascar’s rare automobile, begging to participate in a Formula One race, would shadow her every turn. She accelerated northeast on Bury Street before skulking toward Bevis Marks. So it begins.

Once on London Wall Boulevard, she lost him for six minutes until he advanced behind on Newgate Street. By the time she got on to Chancery Lane, in the heart of the legal district and the western boundary of the City, Lascar was determined not be outwitted. She would have to take a less obvious route. Calla turned the thundering vehicle into Great Ormond street where she sighted the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery on her right.

Lascar was not far behind. She nosed the car into a quiet road behind Queen Square, where the hospital stood. Even as she stole into the building, she felt her heart race. She needed to find Veda. Mason had gorged at a personal nerve. Why Veda?

She waited by the entrance, scouting the reception area. Two lobby attendants sat discussing the day’s celebrity gossip. Ahead she noticed the elevators a few meters from where the talkative women sat. She’d not seen Lascar when she’d entered. He can’t be too far.

She hunched under the reception desk, stealing past unnoticed toward the opening elevators. A distracted researcher stepped out and failed to notice her disappear into the closing elevator. Now, where would they put her?

She scanned the interior of the sidewall for any information on the research patients’ division. The wall bore three panels: one with the various departments of research, one the emergency contact numbers and one describing the escape route. Calla narrowed in on the department list. This must be it—Neuropsychology, third floor.

She pressed the button for the second floor. Seconds later, the elevator stationed on a bustling floor. Once out of the car, she leaned back in and pressed the top floor button. That’ll throw him off!

Calla slinked past three doctors followed by a horde of note taking students as she stepped onto the floor. Lowering her head, she found the fire exit at the end of the hall and took the stairs to the third floor. If what she’d read in the newspaper was correct, Veda was in the Neuropsychology division specializing in amnesia. Her condition was unusual. The paper had highlighted the facility offered indepth treatment for developmental amnesia.

Would Veda recognize her?

As she neared a busy corridor pointing to the Neuropsychology section, she apprehended him. Lascar stood questioning an intimidated student staffing the entry to the research patients’ rooms. Calla slouched behind an information board that failed to cover her entire height.

She scooted down.

“You must have seen her,” she heard Lascar say.

“Listen, Mr. whomever you are, unauthorized personnel are not permitted in this part of the hospital,” said the student.

Calla peered from behind the board. From her angle, she observed the woman press a panic button under the nurse’s desk.

“I’m not leaving until I see my colleague,” Lascar said, his voice raising a decibel above cordial.

Calla calculated her next move. You need a lesson in charming women!

 

 

 

ST. GILES SQUARE, LONDON

1259 hrs.

 

Nash watched Pearl from his BMW. The pleasant, middle-aged Brazilian housekeeper to Allegra Driscoll entered the Victorian residence in St. Giles square in West London. From across the street, he drummed his thumbs on the leather steering wheel. Six months ago, he’d taken Calla out of this very residence the day they returned the Deveron Manuscript to Allegra.

Allegra. He liked her.

She usually returned the same sentiment.

She was home. He’d called ISTF offices a half hour ago. Not only had he been told that Allegra replaced Mason Laskfell as head of ISTF, she continued her duties as the Prime Minister’s special representative on cyber security. To help Allegra, he had to make sure she was on his side. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, but the day they’d left, she’d been uncomfortable around him and Calla, watching him from behind squared, reading glasses, as if he professed a threat.

A minute later, Nash stepped up to the porch and rang the doorbell. Pearl’s face appeared at the white door adorned with geometric and organic floral designs predominating the glass part of the wood. She smiled as she dragged the door open. “Mr. Shields, how nice to see you again. Is Miss Calla with you?”

Her cheery Brazilian accent had always entertained him. As she pronounced British English, a charm of aristocracy rang in her voice. Nash’s eyes softened when he saw her. He stepped into the entryway and removed his navy pea coat that he wore over a dark shirt and charcoal jeans. “He shook her hand and smiled. “No, she’s not with me.”

Pearl furrowed her brow and tilted her head against the door frame. “Please come in.”

Nash progressed through the familiar household, peeking round for any sign of Allegra’s elegant face and illustrious, soft-spoken voice. Pearl shot him a glance, still inclined to converse further. “Miss Calla left most of her belongings. She left in such a hurry. Is she coming back?”

Nash’s stride faltered. He shifted indignantly from foot to foot.

Sensing discomfort, Pearl dropped her line of questions. “I’ve kept all her things clean and attended to,” she said.

He smiled. “I’m sure you have, Pearl, and quite impeccably, I imagine. Ms. Driscoll asked me to meet her here.”

“Yes, she’s in the den, Mr. Shields.”

“Please, call me, Nash.”

His invitation triggered a warm smile as he followed Pearl in the den.

Allegra glanced up from her work desk when she saw him. “Nash.”

Even from where he stood, Allegra always managed to astound him. Though possibly pushing sixty or sixty-five, Allegra never displayed signs of slowing. She’d not lost any appeal or charm from her youth. Her range of accomplishments probably rivaled the Prime Minister’s himself. Allegra was a former diplomat and traveled the globe like Nash’s father had, negotiating diplomacy, from handling British relations with Palestinian authorities in Jerusalem, to proposing plans for a Libyan no-fly zone, and sometimes representing the country at NATO Euro-Atlantic security meets. Today, she was ISTF boss and his visit was about Calla and her safety.

Her eyes lit as he reached for a handshake. She embraced him with a hug that took him by surprise. “Nash, I’m so glad you are here. Thank you for calling.”

He raised an eyebrow as she led him to the lounger. Nash ambled to the French Empire style, upholstered sofa, as a fatigued looking Allegra eased into the seat next to him. His eyes traveled to her face for a few minutes, determined not to be dissuaded. “You know where she is, don’t you?”

Allegra avoided eye contact. Her head tipped back. Her voice, as always, was calm and encouraging. “I don’t know where she is. But . . .” She hesitated for several seconds. “I knew they would come for her.”

“How did they find us?”

“Vortigern was not exactly in favor of Calla’s association with you, given her mission as lead operative.”

“I see. And why?”

Allegra sighed. “He thinks in her role, she should be with someone else, perhaps an operative.”

“Anyone in mind?”

“I don’t know. Vortigern has always played hardball. He’s not sure about you, given what you’ve learned about the operatives.”

Nash felt a pang of betrayal. He didn’t know Vortigern that well. Still, they’d fought Mason on the same side. He failed to sort his thoughts, but he had to know one thing. “Why doesn’t he ask me what my intentions are?”

Allegra shifted uneasily in her seat. “You’re right, Nash. When I’m wrong, I admit it. I’m sorry I entertained his notions. I don’t agree with him.”

Nash’s gaze did not leave her face once. “How did they find us?”

“I don’t know. They must have scrutinized Calla’s emails, phone calls or even yours.”

He slowly drew from her, his face pained. “Allegra, they blew up my house. If that’s not an act of war . . .what are they trying to tell me?”

“They blew up your house?” She threw her head back in astonishment. “I didn’t know that, Nash. That’s too far.”

Damn right, it’s too far! Nash inclined his head slightly. “Allegra, please tell me the truth. What’s going on? I know the operatives have played a daring card with me. But what do they want with Calla? Are you part of this?”

Allegra shook her head. “No. But I know their undertakings. Perhaps that’s where my fault lies.”

Nash loosened his jaw, feeling no emotion as a weakness seeped to his limbs. He edged back into the seat, his mind refusing to register the duplicity in her words. “I gathered as much. You have a few tricks up your sleeve. Calla told me you appeared out of nowhere in Masindi to help her when she was injured at Murchison Falls. Not to mention the swift removal of the Deveron Manuscript from the Pergamon Museum. The bodily strength at your age impresses me.”

Allegra offered a halfhearted shrug and rose to close the door, before settling at her walnut, kidney desk at the front of the impressive library—chockfull with ancient volumes. “I’m not your enemy, Nash. Calla’s like a daughter to me, and I may have sat idly when she was ill advised, but I want you to know I’m sorry. Operatives are not the enemy, at least not all of us.”

Nash pinched his lips together. Could he believe her? Had Calla tried to explain something the day she was abducted? I want to believe you. Help me.

Allegra fired up her laptop. “Nash, ISTF needs you more than ever. I’m confident Calla is unharmed.” She waited for the program to fire up. “Have you seen this?” she asked.

She logged on to an ISTF intelligence portal well known to Nash. “How vital do you think the brain is?”

He leaned forward. “Excuse me?”

Allegra’s face displayed a shade of amusement. “We’re at the brink of what is becoming known as ‘technological singularity’—important advances in technology, threatening to change civilization. I’d hate to wake to a day when scientists discover their machines are too powerful to control.”

“If we’re not there already.”

“Mason can deliver it, unassisted. The brain is the center of the nervous system. Now, imagine how far the world has come by developing inconceivable technologies.”

“We or the operatives?”

“Touché.”

Wearied with thought, he sat silently.

Allegra continued. “Imagine what would happen if the human brain was no longer needed and technology took over. No power to think for one self. No will or creativity, innovation. Where does that leave humanity?”

 

 

 

1330 hrs.

 

“Is this man bothering you?”

The voice came from one of two bulky guards who moseyed toward Lascar and the woman at the desk. As they questioned him, his looming eyes caught Calla’s own. The larger man gripped him by the jacket and hauled him off toward the ends of the hall. Lascar did not resist.

Bye!

A hand settled on her shoulder.

She snapped around with a jolt and a heavy mass sank into her belly.

“May I help you, miss?”

Maybe?

At about six feet tall, a narrow, deeply seamed man considered her predicament. His thick, neck-length hair—worn in a neat style—was like black coffee. The strong-profiled doctor with two, caramel hooded eyes peered at her.

Calla dragged in a deep breath. “My name is Calla Cress and I’m here on an investigation.”

With narrowed eyes, he wore a troubled and stilled expression.

Calla bit her lip. “I’m with government intelligence.”

The doctor’s head flinched back slightly.

He doesn’t believe me. Calla fished around her jeans, hoping what she sought had been left safe in the lining of her denim pockets. She breathed in relief when her fingers grazed her ISTF identity pass. “Look, here’s my badge. I never leave anywhere without it.”

With a mask of uncertainty, he joined his eyebrows. The doctor took the pass, then studied her face once more before returning it to her. The analytical stare eased and his lips formed a temperate smile. “I thought ISTF was a journalist conspiracy theory. I wondered when one of you would show up.”

Calla’s eyes relaxed. “Do you know where I can find Veda Westall?”

“I’m Dr. Reuben Risebergl, Ms. Westall’s physician, leading the research on her case. How do you know her?”

Calla lost all guard. “She’s my boss at the British Museum, and a dear friend.”

“I thought you were with ISTF?”

The doctor’s trusting smile warmed, allowing Calla to loosen the tightness in her gut. “I’m with ISTF. I’m what we call an authenticator, brought in for the more perplexing assignments concerning language, culture and more recently cybercrimes that relate to language codes. You see there’s much in anthropological language formation that can help code decryption.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “More and more programmers draw inspiration from the brain. The result is cognitive computing.”

“Impressive.”

Calla let out a laugh, “Oh there are new things every day. As a curator, I help ISTF to link history to the future and the other way round.”

The doctor handed back her badge. “She’s this way.”

Calla kept pace with him as they neared an area of the floor sectioned off by a divider wall, manned by three security guards. The doctor fixed his eyes on her. “I’m sure as ISTF you realize the classified sensitivity of this case.”

“Yes, Dr. Risebergl.”

The doctor pulled back the divider wall.

“Why trust me so readily, doctor?”

He paused for a few minutes and considered before replying. “Ms. Westall has mentioned your name repeatedly in her sleep. You must be close.”

Calla ran a hand through her dark locks. “She’s like a mentor to me.”

“So I gathered. She came out of the coma this morning. She’s asleep, though.”

Behind a mostly glass divider, Calla caught sight of Veda. Risebergl unlocked the glass door by fingering in a code in the latch that prevented access to her bed. “We’ve faced some debate as to the nature of memory loss in Ms. Westall. She’s been in this condition for two days now. In some respects, her memories seem wholly lost and in others, partially. We caught this from her brain wavelengths. I’m glad that you’re here. You’re someone she knows and it may trigger something.”

Calla followed the doctor into the exclusive area, and glanced down at the still resting frame of her superior. A woman she admired and one who’d first mentored her at the British Museum, believing in Calla’s ability to understand history at a whim. Calla sank into a stool next to the bed. “Tell me more about what she’s going through?”

“She opened her eyes for the first time this morning. We think she’s suffering from transient global amnesia, or TGA. This means she may have significant problems accessing old memories. Sometimes it’s recent memories. What’s worrying is that her brain lapses. One minute she is normal and the next she suffers complete deterioration in thinking powers.”

Not good. Veda is one of the biggest brains in international circles of anthropology.

“What sort of risk is she facing? I mean regarding her long-term health.”

“She seems in perfect health. What concerns me is each time she relapses from one state to another, her heart undergoes duress and therefore, we’ve had to set up this medical unit with heart specialists.”

“Does she retain new memories?”

“In typical TGA, one almost has no ability to establish new memories, but hers seem mentally attentive and articulate. As explained before, she is moving through two or three conditions of amnesia. Hers is a worrying case.”

Calla settled a cool hand on Veda’s sleeping frame. “Can she hear us?”

“We’ve put her to sleep while we study the activity in her brain.”

Calla stroked an itching eyebrow. “How does one get this way, doctor?”

His pained face showed struggle for an answer. “First guess, brain damage. Such as a blow to the head. But from the police reports, they say nothing of the sort happened while she was visiting the prisoner in Belmarsh.”

Fiery tears and compassion wrestled in Calla’s face.

Sensing Calla’s struggle, the doctor shuffled his feet and moved to the head of the reclined bed. “Her brain is deteriorating to a state we typically see in later patients of amnesia or dementia. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I hear she was fine one minute, then this happened,” Calla said.

“If she were older and maybe had suffered this sort of thing for a while, I’d have assumed it was natural memory loss, seen in older patients. Her condition has only developed in the last forty-eight hours. She’s only forty-nine according to her employment records. Look here at this data.”

Calla followed his finger to where it pointed to a screen with a beeping line. “Heat is developing in her head. We’re monitoring that heat with this apparatus. See this?”

She observed the steadily mounting line. It ascended like a healthy sales line on a chart. “What is that line doing? What does it reveal?”

The doctor fingered a few buttons on the machine. “The apparatus stabilizes the temperature in her brain. However, it’s moving faster than I’m comfortable with.”

A grave look engulfed his face. “The heat might cause a burst in her brain.”

An involuntary gasp left Calla’s lips.

He turned his face toward her. “We’re trying to steady the swelling as best we can, but at this rate, I don’t think she will last a week, ten days at the most.”

 

 

 

1359 hrs.

 

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” Nash said feeling his muscles relax for the first time since entering Allegra’s home. Tension left his face. “Twenty months ago, I was part of an ISTF research team that studied the human brain, all attempting to better understand signals intelligence . . . how the two are related. None of our research was conclusive.”

“What did you find?” Allegra asked.

“It’s an ongoing side project. Some of it is controversial. We’ve shared the program with MI5. We like to keep an eye on proprietary electronic equipment that analyzes electrical activity in human beings.” Nash leaned over to study the screen. “These are computer-generated brain mapping programs that continually monitor all electrical activity in the brain. But what’s this all about?”

Allegra set her palms on the table. “I’m sure you realize that Calla is a remarkable person.” She caught his concentrating eye. “I’m the last person who needs to convince you of that. As an operative, Calla, with her aptitude for linguistic form, history and technology plus her genetics, put her in an exceptionally, strategic position for Merovec.”

Nash crossed his arms over his chest. “Merovec? Who’s Merovec?”

“Who he is, isn’t important. What we need are his designs for technical and linguistic programming of the human brain. Mason has launched a war on the human brain using sophisticated, neuron altering schemes.”

Could the rumors of telepathy Nash had heard be true? Nash breathed in heavily, fatigue seeping into his muscles. “If this Merovec is so versed in comprehending Mason’s war, why doesn’t he step up? He’s an operative, I take it?”

“The head operative. His argument will be that Calla was the one wired to do so. Whether she likes it or not, she was the one he nominated to do this. Her talents match Mason’s hostility. Unfortunately, Calla and Mason are genetically matched.”

“Have you shared this with ISTF?”

“So far the intelligence comes from the operatives. The operatives want to work with ISTF, only, it’s yet premature.” She gripped his arm. “I want this to work for everyone. Calla can be an instrument in bridging the two sides.”

Nash thought for a moment. “By my measure, this only works if the two sides walk together.”

Allegra pulled up another file. “Taiven retrieved a microchip Mason designed with a scientist named Durant. ISTF confiscated his computers. Let’s say Taiven unceremoniously retrieved it from Mason’s skull.”

Nash flinched back. “Serious?”

“Mason self-implanted that chip. We don’t know yet what it does, but what we saw when it was analyzed at one of our London coves, is that Mason’s victims all suffered from neurological problems. We assume he wants to attack innovation at its core. This’ll threaten technological advancement. Any creator today uses computing technology. That goes for researchers, software engineers and developers.”

Nash squinted in the early afternoon light that poured into the den. “I’m not so sure. Mason must have another ulterior motive. It just doesn’t add up. The NSA looked at similar programs. What will he do? Retrieve human thought with a telepathic chip that archives memories?”

“Yes.”

“If that chip does what I think, he’ll be able to send and receive electromagnetic copies of thoughts and direct them anywhere, another being, a computer network—”

“So that’s why the operatives need Calla. Disarm him and his train of thoughts,” he said.

“Taiven informed me she was taken to one of their London offices this morning.”

“Do you agree with that sort of behavior? Abduction? She could be hurt.”

Allegra’s face lowered with a downcast pout. “No.”

“Is she all right?”

“I’m sure she is.” Allegra changed the subject. “The human brain has progressed over the last two-hundred thousand years responding to the interaction between environmental challenges and activities—”

“Yes and it continues to do so at a natural pace.”

Allegra tilted her head. “Not any longer. That natural pace is what is at risk, if Mason finishes his worm. First he targets technology then the brain. The future may be more directly in Mason’s hands.”

“No one will be safe,” Nash said more to himself.

“Forget the NSA spying on PCs. Mason will have our thoughts. The information we’re deciphering here shows that in less than fourteen days Mason could have computers writing books, performing medical procedures, commanding the armed forces, business politics, culture and recreation . . . in essence, humanity.”

“Have you analyzed how he’s running the program? For instance, is he tuning in remote frequency emissions from his personal computer circuit boards? I assume he left the computer behind when he escaped Belmarsh? If we could retrieve the machine he used, it might help.”

Allegra scrolled through her online notes. “Not sure. What we do know is that the system he’s creating automates by building databases of information to source from. So far, this has been the brains of some of the world’s greatest minds. The system then custom-tailors a query about a topic and creates templates of packaged information. The program mimics the thought process an expert would go through to create, to rule, command and do their job. Mason is the only one who controls the software.”

“We can hack it.”

“Nash. Mason’s technology is at least fifteen years ahead any government. It’s not as easy as it seems.”

Nash returned to the desk and eyed the information on the screen. “So to recap, Mason steals human intelligence, scrambles it like eggs to re-create a network grabbing hack that in turn thwarts global computers off track without our knowledge, all trying to create a mechanism powerful enough to read human thought. Damn! We’re sitting ducks! He will use human intelligence to create an even greater threat.”

“We need Calla to find Merovec. If I know Vortigern, she’s under his supervision at the moment.”

 

Nash took a slight step back. Only a few months ago, Calla had found the thing she’d longed for most—information on her family, her parents. Instead, she’d walked into a ploy that had waited to ensnare her all her life, and personally, he didn’t blame Stan for what he’d done. It now made sense. Who was this Merovec? What the heck was wrong with these operatives? An unusual superior portion of the human race, amassing skills and technologies for years and here they were stunned at a threat created by their kind. Yet they had the very same weaknesses that make the human race vulnerable. Fear.

Allegra wanted swift answers to eliminate Mason. She was afraid of something. Like this Merovec perhaps, who refused to make an appearance. Or even Mason himself? A name he’d hoped to forget. He owed someone a visit. The woman who’d charmed Mason and brought him to his knees.

“Allegra?”

She raised her head.

“One question. Why weren’t you affected when you went to see Mason in his cell? The notes here say you were one of the visitors.”

“I—”

Nash set a hand on his temple. Waves of crushing agony beat against the back of his eyelids. A sudden pain throbbed in the right side of his head. He recalled the wound that had grazed him in Colorado. The throbbing intensified, slowly dropping to his neck. He decided to ignore it.

“Are you all right?” Allegra said.

“Yeah.” He slumped back into his seat rubbing his temple.

The desk phone rang. Allegra pressed down the speaker phone. “Yes.”

“Ms. Driscoll,” said a woman’s voice, “I’ve the PM for you.”

Allegra shot Nash an inclusive look. “Put him through.”

A matter-of-fact, upbeat male voice commanded the cracking speaker. “Ms. Driscoll.”

“Mr. Prime Minister.”

The PM cleared his husky throat. “I need to discuss something urgently with you.”

Allegra set a finger over her lips warning Nash to remain silent. “Please go right ahead.”

“I’m ordering you to shut down UK’s ISTF operations, resign your position as head and contact the other four governments with Britain’s disposition on the matter. ISTF is no longer of use to national and global security.”

Her lips tightened. “Why PM? We’ve progressed in our investigation in this new cyber threat. We can’t stop now.”

The PM’s voice interrupted. “As far as I’m aware, the cyber threat originates from the last person who led ISTF. I’ve ordered a full investigation of ISTF and I need you to redeploy resources and funds to the Secret Intelligence Service.”

“But PM—”

“I’ll expect ISTF to stop all operation in a month’s time, when I’ll make a public announcement and frankly, an apology to the cabinet.”

“PM—”

The line went dead. Allegra glanced out the window, a frail hand settling on her trembling lips.

With his upper body in agony, Nash was quiet for several seconds. He knew what this meant. The member countries were not going to cooperate on this new cyber threat. ISTF, the only organization capable of uniting them against Mason, had been incapacitated.

Nash altered his position on the sofa to relieve the pain. “He doesn’t mean that. It’s a political ploy, someone in his cabinet is not happy and its seats shuffling time.” He stroked his temple and curled forward. “I need to go.”

“Where are you going?” She hesitated. “Nash what’s wrong?”

To find Calla, then her mother. She’s the only operative who had any sense to disappear from all this madness. He hobbled from the seat. “I need to get to the US Embassy. I’m sure I can discover more about what’s going on with ISTF.”

Allegra rose. The news had hit her hard. ISTF was the only organization ever to cooperate with the operatives. “Nash, be careful.”

“Thanks. I’ll contact you soon.”

Nash scrambled out of the house and staggered the few meters to his car. The throbbing deepened. He took a deep breath. He’d come here in a hurry. Why?

Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure he knew anyone who lived in West London. Had his memory suffered a slight setback?

 

 

 

RUSSELL SQUARE, LONDON

1520 hrs.

 

“Thank you Dr. Risebergl for all your help.”

The doctor’s voice weakened. “I wish there was more we could do.”

Calla plodded beside him as they made their way back to the elevator before returning to the main lobby. She reached for his firm hand and gave it a gentle shake. “I’ll be back soon to see her.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the outline of the Skylar, parked in the hospital entryway. Calla edged back toward the elevator, taking the doctor with her. Lascar remained outside like a hungry cub waiting for a lionesses’ feed. She pursed her lips and caught the doctor’s eye. “Dr. Risebergl?”

“Yes?”

“Could you do me a favor?” She scribbled Allegra’s residential number on a piece of paper. “If Veda’s condition changes, could you please let me know by calling this number.”

“Of course Ms. Cress. You really care about her, don’t you?”

The compassion in Risebergl’s eyes eased Calla’s nerves. Her lips stretched into a smile. “She’s phenomenal with a prodigious mind. The world needs more people like her.”

The doctor stuffed the paper in his pocket. “I’m certain it does.” He tilted his head. “Who’s your friend?”

Calla’s eyes traveled to the entrance. Lascar had been out there, probably since security had curbed him outside. She set a hand on the doctor’s arm. “Is there another way out?”

The doctor followed her gaze out the front, spotting Lascar drumming his fingers on the dashboard. “Friend of yours?”

“More like a stalker.”

“I don’t blame him. You’re a beautiful woman.”

A slight flush crept across her cheeks and she ran a nervous hand through her dark hair.

“Come this way. You can leave by the staff entrance,” he said.

“Thanks, Dr. Risebergl. I don’t need to deal with him now.”

 

Calla stole out of the back entrance and gave the doctor she’d come to appreciate a wave. She almost jolted into a bevy of nurses on a coffee break as she scurried to the Maserati that waited in a small alleyway behind the hospital. She fired up the engine and within minutes, raced down Marylebone Road on her way to West London. Calla waited at a stoplight and took in the pungent scent of her clothes, a mixture of sweaty struggle, cabin discomfort and lack of fresh air. The thought that she’d been wearing the same items for close to two days repulsed her.

Famished and needing a shower, she reached for the car’s in phone system and switched on the untraceable application. Was Nash okay? What about Jack? Damn it, I need my things!

What sort of drug could have put Veda in such a state? She wasn’t even pushing fifty. Veda was more than a prodigious curator. A linguistic genius and unparalleled historian, who’d studied Hebrew, Arabic, Mandarin, Greek, and if Calla was right, all before the age of twenty-one. One of Veda’s important accomplishments was her published work in linguistic anthropology, all stemming from her controversial theory about the origins of language, which continued to be a matter of debate in scholarly circles. Her theory explored language as the unconscious, vocal imitation of movements in one’s natural environment. Veda also argued that language was ingrained in one’s DNA.

Is that what Mason was after? Her theories? Her undiscovered ones? How far would he go?

Veda had supported her theory by comparing fossil records and archeological evidence from numerous ancient languages. Though her theories were not shared by most, they had raised eyebrows. Aside from her riveting mind, Veda was a guru to Calla. One who encouraged Calla’s potential and curiosity, given her access to all she’d learned as they worked together at the British Museum.

What did Mason want with her mind? Determination gripped Calla’s will. She faced a choice and pressed her head against the secure headrest; realizing fatigue would set in if she didn’t have a decent meal soon.

She had no choice. She’d been pulled into a hunt for her mother and a neurotic loose criminal. And without doubt, the former frightened her more than the latter. Why did you lie to me Stan? What father does that?

 

The Maserati nosed into St. Giles Square, a few meters from Allegra Driscoll’s residence.

This was it. She could no longer run. So many people’s lives depended on cornering Mason and dismantling his worms.