The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (47 page)

The stones, the manuscript.

Life…

Rosetta watched Calla hurtle to the Maserati as she glimpsed outside the rain-stained, kitchen window. She regretted the amount of information she’d revealed, convinced that she’d caused more harm than good. 

Then again, she hadn’t given Calla the most vital piece of information. 

However, that was the one thing the couple had asked her never to tell Calla.

.

* * *

5:58 P.M.

A12 Highway to London

Would they have kept me, if I wasn’t a freak?

The thought hung in the air as Calla hauled her heavy feet into a run towards her Maserati. 

She flung herself into the front seat, a piercing pain attacking her chest. Her face mirrored the thunderous discharge that continued to assault most of Essex. 
I’ll never know family, belonging…

 
A bolt of lightning lit the sky, followed by a crack of thunder.

I’m incapable of loving because I’ve never been loved. That’s why I run…every time.

From Nash…

Another explosion of lightening.

Afraid to give affection to the one person who treasured her with a fondness so visible, Calla was incapacitated.

The pelting streams blinded the driveway ahead as she revved up the Maserati’s engine and accelerated towards the A12 highway en route to Central London. 

With the road submerging under voluble streams, brought on by the incessant downpour, the sports car sliced through forming puddles, threatening to curve her off the road. 

What would anyone care if I ended it all now?

Surely that’s better than mutating into God knows what!

Nash’s image formed in her mind, threatening to alter her resolution. 

She brushed it away. 

Nash. It would have been…

Drunk with disgust at herself, her world, her parents, whomever; she stepped on the gas. 

Darkness threatened to steer her into oblivion as her vision marred, at best with a brew of tears and precipitation. Not a single car loomed in sight. Armed with a bruised heart and a tortured mind, Calla made a decision.

I won’t take anyone with me.

It only takes a second. Maybe two…

The engine chortled, raucous as it navigated through gushes and thunder.  Calla focused straight ahead, her eyes blinded by desperate windshield wipers. 

She spotted an overpass bridge about a mile a head.  The concrete structure would deliver the demolition she required.

Will it hurt?

She swerved into fifth gear, rocketing just under the hundred-and-sixty miles per hour mark, her eyes fastened onto the dense structure.

Now or never!

Nash…I’m so sorry…

With no clear cautioning, an arresting light surfaced from under the flyover. Her gate to extinction.

As if to ward her off, the dazzling headlights flickered with the ferocity of a panicked lioness.
Where did you come from?

This is not what she wanted. 

She wanted to go alone. 

She slammed the brakes and shut her eyes. The Maserati failed to conform to will and flew forward towards obscurity.

CHAPTER THIRTY

7:09 P.M.

Hertfordshire, England

Mason surveyed the faces one last time.  He’d been in conference all afternoon with his counterparts.

“So let’s recap, Mason,” said Sydney, “the hackers will not be aware of their activity?”

“No.”

“How’s that possible?” Tel Aviv asked.

Mason placed his hands on his hips leaning against the sidewall.  “That, ladies and gentleman, is for me to know.”

“But how will you be able to get onto those cloud systems?” Milan said.

“The software is powered by energy and high charge electricity from the carbonado diamonds.  With such energy, I can produce a superior, mainframe processor capable of creating a distinct password stealing botnet, or in street terms, a network of infected computers - from any global system.”  He surveyed the attentive glares.  “Think of it as an upgrade to last year’s malware scandal, you know, the one with the software that damaged millions of computer systems.  That scandal has been linked to more than $100 million in bank fraud.  This will be far superior.”

“Fantastic, Mason.  How did you—” began Milan. 

“Never mind the details.  The hackers carry this technology disease as they work in my target organizations and unknowingly stumble on internal websites with security vulnerabilities.  ISTF has identified many such weaknesses in these three establishments.  We just need one website from each organization.  We then hack the site’s software or simply steal an administrative password from a desktop computer to get on the site.”

“Perfect, just genius!  So the three have all signed?” asked the representative from San Francisco.

Mason ambled around the elegant video-conferencing room.  “Almost.  Samuel Riche still needs a little persuasion.  But that is under control as we speak.”

“When will he sign?” Tel Aviv asked.

Mason’s hands fisted, despising the man.  However, he needed him and his influence in the Middle East.

He glared at Tel Aviv, an individual who’d always envied Mason’s ability to rally an army of advocates behind the Deveron Manuscript. 

He fired Tel Aviv a menacing look.  “It will only be a matter of time before I flood Kumar’s oil reserves, drive Arlington insane with her lust for the seat in the White House, and ensure that Samuel Riche faces the biggest dilemma of his life.”

The room erupted with murmurs of both trepidation and excitement.

“We need entry into Samuel Riche’s empire.  We need to make sure that all three thousand hosts find their bearings in time,” argued Cape Town.

Mason took a seat and faced his onlookers.  “In the end, the three executives will have to agree whether they like it or not.  There’ll be no good option for them.”

This time Milan grimaced.  “How’s that?”

Mason clasped his hands.  “Their greed will engulf them.  In fact, because their end of the deal is so sweet, they’re blind to the fine print, even if it stares them in the face.”

“When will we have the carbonados, Mason?” Tel Aviv said.

Irritation boiled in Mason’s veins. 
How dare that moron question my authority?

He clicked onto the next slide.  It had not always been so with this group.  They’d never questioned him until recently, starting with Tel Aviv.  “In a day or two.  Once they’re in our possession, the hosts must be mobilized.”

Mason contemplated, realizing his need of each participant for the hacks to succeed. 

“The manuscript and the stones are as good as ours,” he said.

“This needs to happen quickly, Mason,” Sydney said.  “Remember we only have one chance.  The opportunity will never come again.  There is only a short window to combine the diamonds.  Can you confirm that Slate will succeed?”

“I agree,” San Francisco said. 

His sentiment was echoed by Cape Town.

“And what about Driscoll and Cress?” Milan asked.

“Slate has taken care of them.  Cress has suffered a fatal fall I doubt she’ll recover from.”  He pursed his lips and smiled.  “I instructed Slate to bring the diamonds and the manuscript immediately.  He’ll be checking in any minute.  Well, if there are no more queries, we’ll reconvene in a few days once we have the items.  That’s it, everyone.”

Mason switched off the unit.

Where’s that Slate?

He lit another cigar.  It was coming together as planned.  He tipped the ashes into a porcelain ashtray, and shook his head slowly toying with his dragonfly pin. 
The insurgence would be different this time.  He was working with a new generation, one that was technologically minded. 

Mason examined the noteworthy, technology room he had built in the basement of his Hertfordshire home.  Leaning back against the leather of his chair, he rested his silver-haired head in locked hands. 

Mother.

He recalled the night he’d heard the news.  She had not found the Deveron. 
How she obsessed with the wretched thing! 

Once she’d learned of its existence, it powered her normally reserved and unassuming behavior.  Her search for it, mostly in China, turned a rather cultured woman into an inconsistent, anxious creature, who towards the end of her life lost confidence in her abilities as a gifted government investigator.  Ultimately, she became withdrawn and took her life, the Deveron Manuscript having consumed her entire adult life.

She could not live without it and it still bewildered Mason that anyone could have possessed such unfathomable lust for any object.  That’s how Mason had first-hand learned of greed, a powerful force that could seize one to the point of losing grips with reality. 
Greed that will consume Kumar, Riche and Arlington in much the same way.

He rose and pulled a nearby drawer open, locating a faded picture of a dainty woman, clad in a timeless, scarlet gown. She smiled back at him as she had on many occasions. 

I should never have let the Deveron do that to you. 

Why did you have to go after it? 

If you hadn’t, you’d still be here.

He replaced the photograph and slammed down his fist sending his whiskey glass flying. 

He cursed. The Deveron had preoccupied his mind for as long as he could remember. All for the wrong reasons. 

Still, once he had it and the stones, the inevitable had to be done, if only for the sake of the memory of the woman who was no more. The dotting woman in the photograph that he’d lost prematurely. 

It has to be destroyed.  

And, he knew just how. 

Only a few hours to go.

He finished his cigar, shut down the equipment, then meandered upstairs, his thoughts reverting to the man in Tel Aviv.
A scrounging leach!

He alone was leading this.

Mason dialed Slate’s number. 

Voicemail picked up.

Where’s that moron?

It had been nearly half a day.  Slate always checked in. What was the hold up?

He left a message.  “When you’re done with Cress, I’ve a job for you in Tel Aviv.”

* * *

2:00 A.M.

Thessaloniki, Greece

A cool breeze swept through the top floor apartment of the white, stone building.  The wind puffed out the candles on the shabby oak table, as a woman rose to close the battering windows.  Her dark-chocolate, waist-length hair swung in the intrusive breeze. 

She checked the small clock on the table.

Even at two in the morning, she could not sleep. Without thought, she returned to her online reading. 

Spring evenings in Thessaloniki were disposed to low temperatures and calm.  Pulling a woolen, knit shawl over her bare shoulders, she took in a deep breath. Now and again she set down the papers she’d printed and researched a topic on the Internet.  The Wi-Fi connection tended to be unforgiving, mostly fading in and oftentimes out.  Tonight it behaved reasonably stable.

The shrill from a red, pyramid desk phone drew her attention and she answered it. 

“Yia sou?”

“She came,” said the faint voice.

“Who’s this?” she said, her thick tone heavily accented.

“Mila?  It’s Rosetta calling from Blackmore in London.  Oh Mila, she’s beautiful and all grown up.”

Mila pursed her lips, grimacing.  She’d not spoken to Rosetta Black in over twenty years. 

It had started.

“Who came?” Mila asked.

“Calla Cress.”

She had not heard that name in years.  The news sent a chill through her nerves as she lifted the phone, taking it to the window with its hanging cord tailing behind. 

She pushed the cedar open, filling her lungs with gallons of fresh air.  “What did you tell her, Rosetta?  You remember that you were paid handsomely never to reveal any more than we authorized you.”

“Yes, I do, and with the money I was able to keep this building and the surrounding grounds.  I also managed to find all the girls better homes.  Whatever was left, I now use to live modestly.”

Mila had always liked Rosetta, but did not need her confessions right now.  She glimpsed down into the charismatic street with rows of bars and clubs.  A hoard of vulgar tourists rambled out of a bar, their intoxicated voices bellowing some senseless English tunes.  The night chill failed to calm her racing emotions.  She turned her attention back to the conversation.  “What did she want?”

“To know all about her records…and her parents.”