The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (15 page)

He placed it over his left eye and glanced through the window again.  The trespasser had scurried to the mezzanine floor.  Not only was he in a frenzied rush, overturning item after item, he did not really care about the destruction he left behind. 
A thief would have left by now.
 
This man is after something else.

Nash surged to the back of the building.  The kitchen window was closed tight. 

He slit the latch open with his Swiss, army knife and listened for any inside activity before gliding it open an inch.

He hesitated. 

The man muffled in hushed rasps.

Nash strained his ear. Were there two?

“There’s nothing here.  Are you sure she has it?” said a muffled husky voice. 

Nash concluded he was on the phone and continued eavesdropping.

Impatient in tone, the voice continued above the stillness.  “I’ve already ransacked the place.  She may have hidden it somewhere else.” The man paused.  “All right.”

Another pause.

“Got it.  Okay.”

Is he taking orders?

Loud thudding footsteps alarmed Nash.
 Must be coming back downstairs.

“I’ll try another approach,” said the man.

Nash ducked below the window. 

Jolts and a loud clamor rummaged through the apartment.  Helpless, he hated himself for not intervening earlier.  Something about the way the man had crept into the apartment convinced Nash he was a professional.  He suspected he had a weapon. 
The coward has no spine!

The raider stomped into the kitchen.  Nash stole a quick look and witnessed the man pull out a spray can.  Thankful for his 20/20 vision, Nash made out the bland words that formed as the man drizzled his can. 

WHERE IS IT?

Where’s what?

The invader turned his head towards Nash’s hideout.  For the first time since he had arrived, Nash managed a quick glimpse at him. 

A military type with a burn scar on his right cheek, the moonlight beamed off his clean-shaven head. 

A heroic souvenir or a job gone badly? 
Nash couldn’t tell.

He failed to place him, but took a quick snapshot with his phone. 

The man cantered to the window and gazed outside. 

Nash held his breath ready to jolt him if he came close enough.

With a precipitous thud, the front door swung open.

Calla!

* * *

5:39 P.M.

Nash’s core shook with resolve.

He had to get her out. He mouthed the words, but no sound left his lips. 
Get out!

Nash had left his gun in the car.  He quietly tugged at the window, only to see the night visitor leap onto the sink.

Nash dropped to the ground.

The man threw open the window and escaped past him, bolting to the street.

Calla turned on the lights. 

With nothing unturned, every item in sight was out of its place.  She froze and dashed to the kitchen.  Gawking at the message on the wall, its paint still dripped in thick, downward streams.

Nash raised his head, imagining the fear she felt.
  I can’t just walk away!

Calla scuttled upstairs.

The doorbell shrilled, followed by hysterical pounding.

“Calla Cress!” said a forceful male voice.

No!

Calla stomped down the stairs. 

Even from his hiding spot, Nash saw her shudder with confusion.

The front door flew open. 

Two armed constables scurried into the apartment with stern glares at her terrified face.  “Come quietly and you won’t be handcuffed,” said the constable.

“But—”

Her words were inaudible.

Damn it! What now!

CHAPTER TEN

6:30 P.M.

Calla’s nerves tensed as she bore directly into the flashlight aimed at her face, blinding her vision.  Her eyes blinked several times trying to make out the faces. 

Two or maybe three of them?

The constables moved the light from her face.  Her vision slowly focused on two figures, a man and a woman.

“Calla Cress?” said the gruff female.

“Yes?”

“Please come with us?”

“What for?”

“If you come quietly, there’ll be no need for these.”  The constable held out a pair of glistening handcuffs.  “You don’t have to say anything.”

“About what?”

 The female constable showed no remorse.  “It may harm your defense, if you do not mention when questioned, something which you’ll later rely on in court.”

“Why am I being arrested?”

She ignored Calla’s question. “Anything you do or say may be given in evidence.”

Calla’s gaze fell on the pair of handcuffs glistening in the officer’s grasp.

“Please listen—”

The female constable held out a hand. “Save it for the station.”  Moments later, she was whisked like a conventional criminal in the back of a police van racing through the streets of London.

* * *

7:25 P.M.

Newlands Avenue, Hertfordshire

England

The Elizabethan style manor in Hertfordshire was a serene place to withdraw from the hubbub of the city.  Mason often retreated here, about once every fortnight.  Tucked away on a private twenty-acre hill, the eighteenth-century manor was one to be desired by countless standards.  It had been in the Laskfell family for over a century.  Guarded by a fierce army of staff, security alarms and closed-circuit television cameras, the home was the envy of any government security system.  The eight-suite estate comprised of three enchanting cottages, a walled outdoor swimming pool and a generous, landscaped garden skirted the grounds with a series of pebbled pathways and herbaceous borders.

Jack was a little apprehensive at this private invitation to the ISTF head’s residence. 
What could he want?

His car negotiated up the windy hill along the private road lined with apple tree blossoms.  He’d never really imagined how Mason might live.  Judging from what he’d seen on the short drive from the main road, Mason was in a league of his own.

Jack proceeded to the secured iron gate, rolled down his window and peeked out.  A cool breeze crept into the vehicle alerting Jack that even with the sunny weather they’d been experiencing in London, the nights were still crisp.  He glanced upwards spotting a security camera lurking down at him. 

Even the most experienced burglar couldn’t penetrate the gated fortress. 

The doorbell was in reach.  He stretched a few inches upward and spotted the keypad that required a pass code.

The code.

He slid back down in his seat and fished in his bag for the scribbled code. 

Why would Mason want to meet here? 
He could have discussed whatever he needed to in the office.
 

He fingered in the secret digits on the smooth keypad.  A loud discord sounded at the gate, as it clanged open, throwing the heavy iron back to reveal stately premises. 

Here goes.

Mason had called Jack shortly after Calla had left for Berlin.  He’d been quite persuasive in his manner.  “Jack, I’d like to talk to you about some government business in private.  I need your expertise here.”

“Should I come to you now?” Jack said.

“No, I’ll have Lillian send you the details of the meeting.”

“Could you tell me what it’s about?”

“You’ll find out soon.”

Lillian sent him an email shorty after that with an address and the instructions to arrive promptly.  She had also dictated the code over the phone.

Jack was no stranger to ISTF’s covert missions, but rarely had they involved consultations in a private residence.  This had edged Jack’s curiosity further.  He was inquisitive and suspicious by nature, stemming from a lack of connection to his parents as a boy.  His mother left his father for a sinister man in Mahé at the age of five - someone much like Mason.  Ever since adolescence, he’d been seeking a remedy to take his mind off the simmering anxiety within him.  Refuge from it had been secured in his inventions and gadgets.  Jack learned to depend on himself from an early age and anyone around him had to earn his trust. 

Mason was nowhere close. 

Too driven by a desire to win.

Once inside the main gate, the road progressed to the residential cottage.  He put the car in first and ambled up the path, noticing the Roman, neoclassical theme with which Mason had selected to adorn the gardens and the lawns. 

Several Roman statues graced the grounds and reminded Jack of overbearing Roman gods with the moonlight beaming off their burlesque frames.  M
ust have cost a pretty penny.

Jack had stepped into a different world.  He took in the planar qualities of the gardens as well as the sculptural details of the grandeur displayed outside the main house.  It was not at all what Jack expected of Mason, a man who obviously indulged in magnificence.  Mason didn’t come across as one who completed anything in halves.

Jack killed the engine after parking in the spaces provided, several meters from the entrance of the house.  He jumped out of the car, mesmerized by the night air perfumed with scented magnolias, amazon lilies and some tropical plants that resembled flowers native to the Seychelles. They spawned their fragrance to any passer-by as he maneuvered towards the main entrance. Though ancient in its appearance, nothing about the custom-made, solid oak door spoke of primitive.  Miniature, nearly invisible, security cameras lined the top frame of the entrance, eyeing Jack’s every movement.  He knew the camera designs well having created similar technologies for the government.

Jack pressed down the doorbell, glancing at his watch.

Eight o’clock sharp, as he’d been instructed. 

The door inched open and a heavyset, butch of a woman stood expectantly at the hefty doors. Her weak chin twitched as she shot him a brief smile and eyed him with curiosity.  She was not the small talk type.  “Mr. Laskfell is expecting you.  Please, come in.”

“Thank you.”

Jack proceeded through the large entryway admiring the manor’s interiors - lavish and expensive.

“Shall I take your coat?” asked the housekeeper.

I can’t imagine I’ll be staying long.
  “No thanks, I’m okay.”

She ogled him from foot to mane.  “All right.  Come this way please.  You’ll dine with Mr. Laskfell.”

Jack hadn’t expected a dinner invitation, still he followed her through the hall. 

The internal appearance of the property was a testament to attention and detail, with the bordering and architraves fitted amid broad oak paneling.  He examined a set of double doors opening from the salon through to the family room.  To his left, the dining room offered every inch of spectacular and a custom-made, oak staircase led from the salon to the galleried first floor landing. 

Jack tailed behind his hostess.  His eyes focused on a giant dragonfly embroidered in a large vintage tapestry.  It hung sublimely above the dining room door, dangling upside down, ready to devour any who dared enter.  “Is this one of Mrs. Laskfell’s favorite species?”

The housekeeper pouted, obviously uninterested in his light conversation.  “There’s no Mrs. Laskfell,” she said.

Not the happy type.
“I see.”

Jack quickly calculated that the dining table, suitable for any state dinner, seated at least thirty people.  Set with gold and white china and dusted with images of dragonflies of all shapes and sizes, Jack could only imagine a dramatic dining engagement had been prepared.  Each table setting was garnished with gaudy gold silverware. 
Probably worth their weight in gold!

The housekeeper pulled out a chair at the far end of the table, adjacent to the head seat.  “Take a seat here.  Mr. Laskfell will be down shorty.”

She left the room by the far exit.

In a self-conscious silence, he surveyed the room.  Elegant dining always made him uncomfortable.  He preferred a good Jambalaya or Indian curry in front of his television set, or seated at his computer.  Banqueting was for those who had time to muse over the finer things in life.

Jack inspected the invaluable treasures from artifacts he didn’t recognize, to priceless paintings, swords and sixteenth century amour.  The feeling one would get entering the Musée D’Orsay overrun him.

Jack picked up the fork in front of him.  Just as he’d thought, solid gold. 

Dinner had been set for two.  Who did Mason typically entertain here? 

The mesh of modern and traditional took Jack by surprise.  The room was also decked with state of art technology items.  He gaped at the interphone system, a Crestron, control unit with Luton lighting, each seamlessly hidden amongst the more conventional furnishings.