Chapter 54

 

 

US EMBASSY

GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON

0927 hrs.

 

The corridor was deserted. The building had not changed much, from the vivid entry rotunda, modern lobby and a four-story interior atrium with a sweeping, spherical stairway. The US Embassy always had a sense of mystic and duty all intertwined in one. Nash had to get to Masher’s office before he fell into a lap of prying questions. Why had Masher not returned his call? Lieutenant Colonel Masher was a senior officer he’d fought along in Syria and later came to serve under at the London Embassy.

He strode past the bureaucratic consulate section, accessed via the staircase, whose entrance faced the seemingly endless set of stairs. Nash quickly glanced at the consulate’s interior, displaying the art of forty artists from the United States, mostly modern. He never cared much for modern art, or for most art displayed in the Embassy hallways for that matter. His taste included classic and purposeful strokes, rather than spur-of-the-moment creations, or at least that’s what it seemed to represent. He crossed two lengths of expansive office space on the quiet floor. Masher’s office was at the end of the hallway.

“Commander Shields?”

That voice. It felt too familiar. Nash halted as a marine ambled out of the adjacent room.

What was he doing in this part of the building? His impeccable uniform and stance reminded Nash of the days he’d been in charge of the protection of classified information and equipment, vital to the national security of US diplomatic relations at the London Embassy. He wouldn’t take an assignment here again were it offered.

He purposed to pace right past the marine, mind and eyes fixed ahead, perhaps a courtesy nod.

The fully uniformed marine saluted him. “Shields?”

Nash acknowledged him with a single nod. “Major Chidson.”

“Thought you’d been relocated. What’re you doing here?”

Nash didn’t have time to explain his priorities to the junior officer he’d once commanded. The fact that Nash left the marines, joined the NSA two years ago, worked alongside the CIA as a ‘watcher’, and was then planted in ISTF as a US agent, would not settle well with Chidson, a marine who envied him. Only because, ISTF recruited the best marines, spies, analysts and recruits from all fields they considered necessary. That fact alone was not popular around Embassy circles any longer. Chidson didn’t understand the classified nature of ISTF, and that the appointment had given Nash what he’d desired most, the chance to be back in London, to protect Calla.

Nash stopped and saluted him back. “Nice to see you again, Chidson.”

“Good to see you too. Will you be here long?”

“In London? Who knows? I’m here to see Masher.”

Chidson turned around and pointed him to the door at the end of the hall.

“Thanks,” Nash said.

Chidson threw him a half smile and resumed about his business navigating toward the staircase. “Be seeing you.”

Nash minced toward Masher’s door. So far, his NSA credentials had raised no eyebrows on entry into this part of the building, but he needed to be cautious. At Masher’s, door he knocked twice, the sturdy door sliding open behind his fingers. Nash glanced both ways before peering into the darkened room.

“Masher?”

Silence.

It was against norm for unoccupied offices to stand ajar. His investigative senses alerted, Nash drove the door open, casting a backward glance.

Masher was a tidy man, but he’d never kept his office as impeccable as this. Nash’s eyes scanned the space, from the US flag by the shaded windows, the set of level files under the front section of the desk, the three desk phones each with a different strategic purpose, the gold-edged, picture frame of the US President and, the miniature desk next to the window behind the mahogany work desk, where Masher usually kept his computer. Nash hunched over the desk and examined the environs closely for a minute.

Masher’s laptop was gone.

He eased round the desk and dipped into the padded chair. What had happened to his friend? Where was he? His office was clean. Tidy. Too tidy! What am I missing?

His eyes traveled to the top of the glass covered desk and scrutinized the far corner nearest the door. He caught sight of a crack, a centimeter deep—no bigger than a thread of hair in the glass. That told Nash all he needed to know.

Masher had been taken by force. The chip in the table had been caused accidentally. Like something crashing into it.

What?

Nash ran his fingers over the cut glass, his eyes diverted up, then behind him to the steel flagpole. From the angle the flag stood, it had come down on the desk glass like a landing pole vault.

Not too long ago.

Nash’s eyes swept the room again.

Transferred?

Possibly.

Killed? Don’t want to think about that.

Early retirement? His stuff would be gone with him.

Nash shot out of the chair, scouting for any extra clues.

Nothing.

He back trailed behind the desk and reached for the top left drawer. He tugged at the handle.

Locked.

He then searched for a laptop. A cell phone? A diary? A notebook. Gone.

The desk stood devoid of personal belongings. Nash sidled to the cabinets on the far right of the room and grazing his fingers along the shelves, he stopped at a photograph taken in Syria of Masher and him. Eyes smiling, shirts turbaned round their heads like senseless schoolboys, an effort to cool their blistering skin, Nash found himself smiling as he recalled how much Masher was like the father he always wanted. He was nothing like George Shields, his father.

Masher had lost his son in the Gulf War, a younger version of the colonel lieutenant. He’d told Nash his son was like Nash in every manner except Masher junior had been stubborn and impractical.

Nash had never met the soldier, yet acknowledged the fondness Masher used when he spoke of him. His smile disappeared quickly, overturned with apprehension. Masher would never have left the Embassy without telling him. The last time he’d seen him, Nash had handed the older man a memory chip in a sealed envelope that contained all Nash’s analysis and codes on the operatives. One detail had made him want to keep that file safe. Calla’s one weakness as an operative.

Nash feared she didn’t know what it was, and the consequences should it be appropriated by desirous hands, like Mason and the government.

He didn’t want to consider that option. He couldn’t take that risk. Perhaps that’s why he’d been so ready to make a crummy deal with Mason. If Mason were ever extradited to the US for trial, which would happen once caught, the current administration would eventually have him executed in some capacity. If they seized the information on the memory stick, they would know how to annihilate the operative, if it ever came to that.

He hastened his fruitless hunt, wondering whether he’d endangered Masher’s life by trying to save Calla’s. His ears caught insistent footsteps thudding the hallway. He narrowed his eyes into the door, alert.

Once the smothered voices disappeared, he glided to the shelves and ran his palms over books, trophies and memorabilia in the middle sections. Grazing a small opening between a volume on US diplomacy and a hand-to-hand combat manual, he pulled out the two-inch volume. His hands steady, eyes fixed on the volume, he recalled an incident and something he’d seen behind the book. He hated himself for prying into Masher’s private affairs, and wished he’d never accidentally seen Masher place some controversial photographs behind the volume.

Curiosity settled in him. When he opened the volume, his eyes glanced past the title credentials until his attention fixed on a small bronze key taped to the front flap. He eased the key from the adhesive, his hand trembling slightly, not wanting to tear the pages. Nash rotated the key for several minutes in his palm, marched to the door, closed it and scrutinized the room.

His boots slid unintentionally across the carpet and a rip in the woven Persian almost caused him to trip. Nash nearly abandoned his search when he loped back to the shelves and stopped. He retreated, then moved forward two steps. His feet grazed over a slight rise, barely noticeable, a lump in the floor surface as he neared the seat of the main desk. Nash fell to his knees and grazed his palm across the carpet under the desk. This must be it. Masher wouldn’t have taken the envelope out of the Embassy. It’s safer here.

He tugged at a partly loose carpet, careful not to rip it. It lifted effortlessly in his grasp, as if held in place with Velcro.

And there it was, a rectangular, steel covering amid the wood panels that fashioned the floor. In its core was a key hole. He hastened to unlock the latch. Once turned, the key activated a small digital window he’d missed altogether in the corner of the small safe. The reader sprang to life and asked him for a six digit code.

He searched his mind for a code Masher could have used.

A birthday? An anniversary? Too easy.

His first day in the army? Too simple.

Think, Nash! You’ve known this man close to fifteen years!

What if?

He fingered the numbers.

 

06. 23.09

 

 

The day he’d saved Masher’s life while rescuing refugees in Syria. Masher had always maintained he’d never forget the day he got a second chance at life.

The counter failed to respond.

Nash’s heart sank into his gut. Not sure what to do next, his eyes darted around the room in frustration.

The safe snapped open. He lifted the small steel flap and his fingers discovered his envelope, just as he’d given it to Masher. Sorry, Masher. I need this!

He locked the panel, repatched the carpet and rose. With the letter safe in his coat, he turned toward the window, his back away from the door.

Was it the slight whisk of air that grazed past his ear, or the rapid senses of one so accustomed to covert missions? He rotated his body to one side and stole a slanted look behind him. His muscles stiffened, arrested by the cold steel that grazed his ear. He cast his eyes toward the frigid sensation.

“Not so fast, marine.”

Chidson’s Beretta M9 jabbed against his ear.

 

 

 

Stan’s face froze. His lips twitched. “How do you know that?” His eyelids fell to his shirt and he surrendered a sigh. “Yes. She was born Nicole Jefferson and used Bonnie Tyleman as her alias.”

Calla returned to the desk and retrieved her mother’s items.

Stan’s shaky hands took the worn document as his body went rigid. “Where did you get this?”

“Mila. Do you recognize it?”

“No. When did Mila give it to you?”

“Yesterday, in Santorini. Father, she’d guarded this note from mother for years, at least twenty, the last time she saw her.”

Stan sank deeper in his seat and examined the note’s edges, the script, and the symbols. He drew the microchip to his nostrils and inhaled its scent. Calla observed his face and the way his lips moved as if in silent prayer. She placed a hand on his knee and dropped slowly to the floor beside him. “Do you know what it says? What Hisit means?”

He shook his head. “No, but she’s clearly imitating the Deveron Manuscript’s style. If only I had the journal.”

“Mila said she left it for me. Mother wanted me to find her someday.”

Stan brought a hand to his eyes and wiped them dry. “She must’ve known she wanted to hide, to get away.”

“From what? Surely, she wanted to be with you.”

“Oh my brave, beautiful child. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes when we left you at the orphanage. She hated me for it. Yet at the same time, she was determined not to get your life mixed up with the operatives. She didn’t trust them. She trusted no one.”

Calla thought twice before venturing on what could have been sensitive ground. “What about you? Did she trust you?”

Stan’s finger traced the lines of writing on the paper that grew smaller and cramped toward the bottom.

“Were you in love with her? Did she love you?” Calla asked.

Stan eyed Calla, his lime-green eyes adoring his daughter. “We were so irrationally in love. The day she learned she was expecting you, was the happiest day of our lives. We knew the Deveron Manuscript and what it required. It was a responsibility we weren’t ready to place on you.”

“But why did she leave you?” Calla insisted hoping his answer would explain her difficulties with commitment.

“I don’t know, Calla. I’ve spent the last twenty-nine years asking myself the same question.”

So that’s why you told me she was dead?

Stan turned his attention to the microfilm in his hands. “Can we view this?”

“Yes, here,” she said and pointed his attention to a microfilm scanner on her desk. “I had that brought from the archives this morning and have printed a copy of what’s on the film. Here.”

He took the printout from her hand and fingered it, as if the act would bring Nicole back to him. “Have you been able to decipher it?”

“Almost.”

He watched as Calla rose to get the journal from the desk. “I’ve translated the symbols, thanks to the journal you wrote.”

“I knew you’d find it. It’s not easy to keep anything hidden from you. We thought we were crafty by hiding it. Who’d have known fate had another plan and that you’d inherit skills that led you to your destiny.”

“It’s not my destiny. Living is a choice, not destiny. I have my reasons for wanting to find her. Not theirs.”

“What about Mason?”

“If I can help, I will. . .then. . .” Calla stopped mid-sentence. “Here, father. This is what I’ve been able to translate. Can you tell me what it means?”

She read the scribbled notes aloud.

 

AMENDABLE TILLER

A linguistic victory for one so fair.

 

AWAIT EMBANK OAT

A model of modernization,

a cry from my dwelling charred to the ground.

 

RAM SKIN NU

A mystery out of ten,

a mausoleum of inexplicable men.

 

Calla’s eyes bore in to him. “It makes no logical sense.”

“Neither did the Deveron Manuscript. But you worked it out.” He sighed. “Nicole liked reading about mysteries in history. In fact, as COPPER J21, her MI6 code, she was remarkable at deciphering mysteries, cryptography, you name it, and anything encrypted was easy. It was her special gene as an operative and she passed it on to you.”

“What did I get from you?”

“I think you know. Have you ever lost a sword fight or hand-to-hand combat?”

Calla trailed her mind. He was right. She’d fought a few fights with those her size and those much bigger and belted her opponents.

Stan’s voice interrupted her musings. “Anyway. . .during the Cold War, with Soviet codes still unbreakable, Nicole gained considerable access to their encrypted communications during the late 1970s. We all admired her and that’s why they gave her the tough cases.” He smiled at Calla. “You two are so similar.”

“At the bottom, she says: ‘Find where I lay and there my heart will be. There I leave a trail for thee,” Calla said.

“She wants you to unravel this. Maybe she’s referring to events in history, or location coordinates. I could check some of my files from—”

“Hang on a minute.” Calla retrieved the notes she’d spent all morning scribbling, her hair cascading over her face as she spoke. “Part of this is an anagram.”

“Clever girl. Nicole didn’t want her location to be compromised. She probably figured if you ever found the answers to the Deveron mystery, you could also find the answers in this note and if you didn’t, then you wouldn’t know any better.”

Calla scrutinized the note again. “We may not be as far off as we think. She read the first two lines again.

 

AMENDABLE TILLER

A linguistic victory for one so fair.

 

“We may not have far to go. That’s only a few doors down,” Calla said, her mind churning through the history of language. Ancient and modern.

“Come again—”

“The answer may be in this building. The ‘linguistic victory’. It’s the Rosetta Stone. That’s right here on the ground floor.”

She reached for her badge. Stan grasped her hand. “Calla, wait!”

Looking down at his arm, her face crimped with puzzlement. “Wait? Why wait? Surely you of all people would want to find her?”

Stan paused, reluctant to move. “Calla, you may not like what you find.”

“Why?”

Was Stan afraid to find the woman he’d lost years ago? Was he suffering from fear of meeting her again? Calla settled a gentle hand on his shoulder. “We can do this together. Don’t you want to know where she is?”

“Yes and no.”

“Why?”

“Because, she’s always known where I was. We bought the manor in the Cotswolds together and planned to retire there together.” He swore insults that filled the small office. “Now it sits half livable, a faint memory of what it used to be and I’ve been unable to release it all these years because I foolishly thought she’d return one day.”

“It still can.”

His face raged. “She’s never attempted to come home.”

Calla’s eyes softened. “Maybe she’s afraid?”

Stan glanced at her and straightened his shoulders, his eyes hopeful. “Nicole was never afraid. Not once in her life. And if so, of what?”

Calla pecked his cheek. “That’s what we need to figure out, father.”