The Calla Cress Decrypter Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Calla Cress Decrypter Thriller Series, #1

By Rose Sandy

Unlock the secrets of the past and the dangers of the future with Calla Cress in the Decrypter series.

 

The Calla Cress Decrypter Series is an action-packed thrill ride that will keep you on the edge of your seat. The first omnibus edition of the bestselling series features the first, second, and third novels in the series, featuring the dynamic and resourceful protagonist, Calla Cress.

 

Book 1:  In Secret of the Lost Manuscript, Calla must use her wits to decode a riddle and retrieve a highly guarded and undecipherable document that vanished in Berlin before it's too late.

 

Book 2: In The Mind Hacker, Calla is kidnapped and must find a missing MI6 agent to disarm a series of hacks.

 

Book 3: In Digital Eyes Only, Calla is called upon to decrypt a mysterious cipher left in the Prime Minister's home after his private accounts have been compromised.

 

Each book in this series is a standalone novel, but the series is best enjoyed in order. The books in this series are fast-paced, action-adventures steeped in history, espionage, and cyber defense in an increasingly digitally dependent world. They explore a world where technology and science are at the forefront of humanity.

 

Enter a world of espionage and danger in this page-turner that fans of Scott Mariani, Steve Berry, Jason Bourne, Ernest Dempsey, and Clive Cussler will not be able to resist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rose Sandy
• Release date: Dec 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201180409

Book preview

The The Calla Cress Decrypter Thriller Series

THE THE CALLA CRESS DECRYPTER THRILLER SERIES

BOOKS 1-3

ROSE SANDY

Silver Gravity Publishing

ABOUT THE SERIES

BOX SET 1

Calla Cress is the Decrypter in the first omnibus edition in the best-selling action series.

This digital box set contains the first, second and third thrillers.

Where technology and espionage meet history in pulse-racing adventure.

Book 1- Secret of the Lost Manuscript: When a highly guarded, undecipherable document vanishes in Berlin, Calla Cress finds herself against an adversary with superior firepower. Calla must use her wits to decode the manuscript’s riddle before it’s too late.

Book 2 -The Mind Hacker:  After an explosion rocks Calla Cress’s hideout in Colorado, she wakes up halfway across the world at the whim of a powerful, unidentified organization demanding she produces the whereabouts of a missing MI6 agent who can disarm a series of hacks snaking through one government system after another.

Book 3 - Digital Eyes Only: When the British Prime Minister’s private accounts are compromised, Calla Cress is called on to decrypt a mysterious cipher left in the Prime Minister’s home.

Each book in the Decrypter series can be read as a standalone novel, but the series is best enjoyed in order. The novels are fast-paced, action-adventures steeped in history, espionage, and cyber defense in a world evermore digitally dependent. The books explore a world where technology and science are at the forefront of humanity.

CONTENTS

Note to Readers

The Decrypter Thriller Series: Box Set 1

SECRET OF THE LOST MANUSCRIPT

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Epilogue

The Decrypter and the Mind Hacker - Book 2

THE MIND HACKER

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

The Decrypter: Digital Eyes Only- Book 3

DIGITAL EYES ONLY

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

About the Author

NOTE TO READERS

If you are new to the Decrypter Series…

Each book in the Decrypter series can be read as a standalone novel, but the series is best enjoyed in order. The novels are fast-paced, action-adventures steeped in history, espionage, and cyber defense in a world evermore digitally dependent. The books explore a world where technology and science are at the forefront of humanity.

And so, our story begins…

For all those who are curious about our world,

its mysteries, history and the technology that runs it.

The Decrypter: The Secret of the Lost Manuscript

SECRET OF THE LOST MANUSCRIPT

For those who are curious about the world, its history and the technology that runs it.

PROLOGUE

Present Day

9:40 p.m.

London, United Kingdom

Calla Cress had never been called a coward. Tonight, she wouldn’t give anyone that satisfaction.

Her shoes slapping against the ground, with a quick snap, she glanced over her shoulder, then stepped off the train at London’s St. Pancras International Station.

He was following her.

His gaze burned like a hot brand on her back.

Calla calmed her heavy breathing as she made her way along the station’s main concourse, clutching her bag to her side.

As she approached the glass exit doors, he was right behind her.

She patted the shoulder bag she’d carried from Paris and increased her pace, then quickened through immigration. Not only could she lose him in the crowds, but she would also make sure the thug stayed off her tail for good.

Calla shuffled through the main foyer of the station, brimming with tired night travelers. They pushed past her.

The air was cool and tinged with the scent of smoke and mist, and the street’s stillness was a stark contrast to the busyness inside the terminal. St. Pancras, the ‘cathedral of railways’ that lorded over the city with its gothic spires, towered above her. Her eyes tracked to where the arched-glass ceiling merged with London’s growing skyline. In a motion as automatic as the turning of an hourglass, she moved.

Her limbs weakened as she shook off the numbness in her hands and the tingling under her skin.

She pressed on with labored breaths and felt the terrible, painful results of running for so long. The balls of her feet screamed for relief, for rest, for anything that would slow the pounding of her stride.

Gasping for breath, Calla turned back to look over her shoulder, and stared into the night, wondering if she should have stopped to phone the police.

Her tendons tightened as they protested against the harsh treatment they had received. Calla held herself upright, bracing against the chill of the night.

Through resolute breaths, she whisked down Euston Road toward Camden Town Hall, which stood next to a barely visible underground garage.

With shaky legs and a hungry desire to escape, Calla set off for the underground parking lot behind Camden Town Hall, her muscles burning with every step.

Her arms and shoulders tensed as she pushed hard on the door.

She stood there, listening to the sound of a car’s tires rolling away. Then she heard footsteps behind her. The sound struck her ears as the parking lot door pushed open.

More tightness formed in her abdomen, shooting discomfort through her body and reduced her concentration. She had to move and snap free of the trance while dragging heavy feet across the concrete.

Keys rattling in her hand, Calla found her silver Maserati on the lower-third parking level, where she’d left it that morning. With a grunt, she slotted the key in the keyhole, sank into the seat, and wove the car out into the bleak street.

She slowed the Maserati to a halt at a red light. Her palms rested on the smooth leather, her knuckles pale, but she clamped down on the wheel tightly and didn’t let it out of her grasp. Tiny beads of sweat trickled down her forehead and stung her eyes as she shaded the high beams from the car behind her. Blindingly bright in a gleaming dark Range Rover, sure enough, he was there. Brute!

The light changed, and she launched off and her foot slammed on the gas pedal, She checked to see if he would chase, but he stayed in place, watching as she went.

Then he made a beeline for her rear bumper.

She swerved around a white Toyota, and the Maserati picked up speed, starting a sixty-mile-per-hour run through London’s tight streets.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she maneuvered in and out of traffic. She could hear the squeal of his tires as he steered his vehicle behind hers. The car shot forward down Park Lane after she slammed the pedal to the floor. She checked the mirror and saw his headlights drawing closer. His determination  made her nervous.

Fifth gear looked good right about now. She ramped up the engine, and the sports car wound through medieval streets, testing its motor limits as she took to the city’s eastern section.

The Maserati gunned down an empty road. Soon, the ancient Roman City Wall loomed ahead in the haze of the distant landscape, its curved edges and straight lines visible.

Hands trembling, she slammed the accelerator.

Her tires smoked.

She fed more gas to the engine and the needle of the speedometer crept past seventy miles per hour.

When she’d peeled off into a one-way street, Calla rechecked her rearview mirror, then swung into Bishopsgate’s banking district toward Monument.

The Range Rover clung to her tail.

Eyes ahead, she sped toward London Bridge that spanned the River Thames. Calla clenched her jaw and forced her gaze on the road, trying not to look at the black hulk that followed behind.

This was the only place she could lose him.

What did he want?

A hiss left her lips.

Calla whizzed across the box girder structure, high above the river, reflecting the capital city’s lights below. The Thames flowed fast in the rain, a massive stream of life snaking through the city of London. She twisted the wheel and roared onto South Bank. The river was a deep black, as she curved into a deserted street behind a line of dated warehouses along the Thames.

Sure that she’d broken the speed limit and half a dozen traffic laws, Calla winced. She couldn’t think about it as the Range Rover surged forward, driving her out of the intersection, closer to the scattered office buildings.

Her eyes locked with a startled man pushing a stroller across the road and a woman leading a toddler by the hand.

Her fist slammed against the horn.

She hit the brakes,

The family stood frozen in front of her sports car and the decision sent her car spinning several times.

Calla’s vision turned to streaks of bright light and dark shapes. She couldn’t hear the engine roar any longer, but a ringing in her ears that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.

Her pulse throbbed below her lip and behind her eyes.

Though she hadn’t thought it possible, Calla was even more terrified than before.

A stench of burning rubber stole past her nostrils as her tires squealed a shrill of terror, and the vehicle came to a quick halt, meters from the towering Shard skyscraper.

Her gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, and she lifted her head high, then turned off her engine as the bewildered family hastened toward London Bridge station.

The Shard loomed above the streets of London like a glowing white pyramid whose peak cast a cone of light in the thick London fog. Calla squinted toward it, her ears ringing.

Where was he?

The sidewalks and roads were not busy, and as she waited, the seconds ticked by.

The drone of a hungry vehicle throbbed in her veins as the Range Rover revved its engine. A moment later, the headlights of the steel beast dimmed.

Calla bit her lip.

She leaped out of her car, her head snapping left and right, looking for anyone to help but finding only the quiet of the night.

A street light flickered on and off, giving her an eerie feeling. Despite the warm air, she shivered.

Hands-on hips, she wanted him gone. Her legs trembled with rage as she marched toward the waiting beast.

A figure in dark military attire sprang from the Rover then hastened in her direction. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and she stopped in the middle of the street, feeling alone and exposed.

She watched him step closer. His build was large, and his face hid in the shadows.

She wiped beads of sweat from her brow and her breath came in quick gasps as he advanced and lunged. She swung a punch in a full arc.

Calla sidestepped the blow as it zipped past her nose, and her pulse vibrated in her fingertips.

He struck again.

She couldn’t move fast enough. The brusque strike slammed into a shoulder blade.

Off-balance, her feet tangled, and she collapsed backward.

Her eyes closed instinctively as she fell, and she braced herself for the concrete that would collide with her back. She rolled with the blow, so that the pavement wouldn’t knock the wind out of her.

When she sprang up again and took a moment to regain her bearings, she coughed and spat blood onto the gravel. It splattered like raindrops onto the oil–stained concrete.

He grunted at her.

She wasn’t done.

Her fist caught him in the jaw and he crashed to the ground, opening a one-centimeter gash on his chin.

He lay still,  unconscious for a few seconds.

She waited for him to open his eyes, but he lay still on his side.

Her shoulder still burned from his blow, a strike that had forced an acidic taste in her mouth. She wiped trickling blood from her jawline. Though the wound stung like fire, she eyed him without blinking. What the heck do you want?

Silence.

I don’t have it! she said.

He regained consciousness and stared at her.

Her eyes darted to the side. He stirred, then shot up.

She froze.

Eyes on her, he kept closing the distance between them.

Calla reached behind her back and pulled a strap - the one that secured the backpack - toward her waist so he could see it.

Her other hand stretched for the side of his neck.

He caught it mid-air and gripped it in a lock as his other grip snatched the bag strapped around her waist.

His eyes locked on the harness before he reached for the bag. The manuscript was secured within, and her mind raced as she tried to think of a way to make him let go.

She screamed. Stop! Give that back!

He bolted toward the Shard’s entrance with bag in hand  and shot inside Europe’s tallest building.

CHAPTER

ONE

Day 1

Ten Days Ago, 4:50 p.m.

International Security Task Force (ISTF) Headquarters

Watergate House, London

Calla stretched her palm across the electronic reader and connected to an invisible database terminal. 

When she touched it, it displayed an image of her palm.

Tiny bolts of light danced around the edges of the device, spinning as if waiting for a signal. Identity. What a funny thing.

This was her ISTF identifying procedure.

The machine made a beeping sound, and a green light came on. When Calla looked up at the security guard, he was smiling down at her.

 There you go. Miss Calla Cress, he said, studying her. Cultural agent. Code, Green Sparrow.

If Calla had cared less about trying to get to the Kew Archives that evening before the closing time, she would have given the man more attention and hoped this ISTF gathering would be a quick briefing.

His eyes were still on her. Says here you’re registered with a standard-issue ISTF agency firearm. Please leave all weapons here before you go into the next room.

Calla studied him. He was guarding an organization he didn’t know anything about. All intelligence, but not all-knowing. 

She watched him like a hawk, still and silent.

Calla had never been in this part of the ISTF building, the wing reserved for admitting members with high clearance. The secret organization was careful who it let in and when, especially when it needed expertise from specialists.

British Museum curator in charge of the Roman and Byzantine antiquities, Calla was here as a code breaker for ISTF. ISTF briefings were on a need-to-know basis and her credentials didn’t spell out spy. She searched the man’s face. I don’t have a weapon. I never carry a gun with me. It might just go off.

He smirked. Isn’t that the whole point?

Calla grimaced, walked past him, and continued down the hallway and into the special room.

After three years of working for ISTF and helping to break codes, she’d become a field agent. A non-gun carrying one.

The message last night had been urgent. All it said was to show up at 5:00 p.m. Her British Museum curator credentials had earned her a seat in this congregation. They were looking for analysts, code breakers, you name it. Calla just hoped she didn’t have to read codes tonight.

Not tonight of all nights.

She moved into the high-tech room.

The seats were set in a circle and there was a podium in the middle of the room. Dark, with no windows, Calla passed a row of chairs before proceeding towards the back of the room. In front of her, an electronic reading device waited for her thumb print.

She slumped into her seat and pressed her thumb on the reader.

More people filed into the space as the ISTF board chairman tugged at his collar.

He scanned the conference room as participants took their seats one by one.

Thirty people crammed in the twenty-seater space.

When the lights dimmed, Calla glanced around the room.

The podium, surrounded by several chairs, made the meeting mimic a prime minister Cabinet Briefing Meeting session, or C.O.B.R.A. International scholars and police officials, plus analysts from five nations, waited as they compared notes.

As they examined the photographs projected on the presentation slides, they questioned the validity of the top-secret ancient manuscript that took form on the tablets before them.

Voices murmured in disagreement.

Calla observed and listened.

Please settle down. We’ve got an hour for this brief, the meeting chairman said. Several of you will get a turn to articulate your thoughts on the Hadrius Manuscript.

As Calla flipped through the briefing notes, she encountered a photo of the manuscript.

The central part of the manuscript was two-toned and covered with black and burgundy text. The thick, script-formatted lines traced over every surface of its tattered pages.

The chairman moved to the next slide.

Calla guessed most of the on-looking faces coveted a seat within Taskforce Carbonado, this was an ISTF group that would work with the manuscript’s decryption.

The Chairman continued, After this meeting, we’ll select a special task force called Taskforce Carbonado to investigate the manuscript’s authenticity and lead some of its retrieval efforts.

A woman interrupted him. We rarely investigate cultural heritage crimes, so why are we looking into this one?

He winced, his facial muscles warped into a grimace. We are unparalleled in our intelligence, and we have connections that go far and wide. If we don’t get to the manuscript, the wrong people will. The Hadrius has resurfaced in Berlin after it disappeared over fifty years ago, so we must act now.

Still, the woman said.

ISTF’s aim is always to prevent a crime of any sort, even though our most recent endeavors link to cybercrimes and crime linked to new technologies, he replied.

Why now? she asked.

The Hadrius’s black-market worth alone makes it a valuable artifact, and therefore, a potential criminal target, he replied

Excuse me, but surely the German government can tackle this on its own, a French researcher said.

The chairman’s eyes dimmed. Calla Cress, artifact specialist for ISTF, can explain more.

All eyes fell on Calla, and she drew in a deep breath before responding. "The Hadrius is a historic, cryptic manuscript. Some think it’s an ancient letter. Others say it’s an instruction manual. The Hadrius family, whose ancestry goes back to Cheshire in northern England, first discovered it in 1879, just off Britain’s shores.

Correct, the chairman said. Research we commissioned to experts in this room suggests that it details the whereabouts of potential resources that will make crude oil seem like dinner leftovers. Believe me, ISTF needs to get to this first. Our efforts will reap significant economic value for our five governments and the globe.

How’s that? interrupted a Parisian. There’s even skepticism here whether it is authentic. We can’t read it.

The chairman pinched his lips together. There are about 1.3 trillion barrels of oil reserves remaining in the world’s major fields, which, at present, rates of consumption will only last another forty years. Our resources, Miss—?

Pascale.

His eyebrows drew together. Ms. Pascale, we believe the document was encrypted to hide certain resources, and secrets ISTF needs to know. The light at the end of the Hadrius enigma could add several hundred years to that figure. As you know, the rising cost of oil, gas and other natural resources has now forced global governments and energy companies to look at exploiting new resources. But we’ll delve into that in a minute.

He searched the room.

Was he looking for more cynics as the gathering quieted?

None attempted to challenge his perspective, and they waited with silent nods for more revelation.

The Hadrius Manuscript, like many unexplained artifacts, had plagued Calla’s mind. She squinted as the chairman drummed the podium and waited for the noise to settle.

His voice rose. After today, we will make nominations for the mission. Over to you, Chester.

Chester Hitchens, an animated Bletchley Park archivist, marched to the presentation stand. A screeching noise fed through the sound system as he adjusted the microphone, lowering it to his short frame.

With unsteady fingers, he straightened his thick glasses. Though he spoke with eloquence, he paused short of a stammer after only a few breaths. The Hadrius Manuscript, printed on vellum, first came on our radar in 1962. The government sent anonymous images of the first two pages to the museum for validation. We do not know who sent them. Although we couldn’t establish the nature of the writing, nor its contents, our archivists declared it to be a manuscript defying all decipherment. Later we discovered its mysterious origins. The manuscript was discovered In Renaissance Venice, in a confessional booth in Saint Marks’ Basillica. It was found by a visiting monk. After that, we have little visibility of how it came on to our radar.

Chester’s eyes narrowed, and spots of red darkened his cheeks. God help us if it isn’t a fake.

Calla fought a throbbing in her chest and wiped her brow as a scholar’s voice sounded from the audience. The language on the Hadrius looks like Voynich’s own lettering.

Why did they compare this document with the Voynich manuscript?

The Yale University-owned document had baffled many linguists and cryptographers for decades, and she doubted they would reach a conclusion in this forum.

But has anyone seen it? Touched it? asked a bearded Russian professor.

The Chairman stepped in front of Chester and spoke again. There will be many opportunities. ISTF has the duty to do whatever it can to diminish the threat of terrorists using looted art to finance crime, and they will take advantage of the situation.

Calla’s throat closed up as the debate continued. Seated close to the back door, she searched her notes, then passed a hand through her hair.

The clock above the projector read 5:50 p.m.

Ten minutes.

She worked in a museum for crying out loud. These government intelligence gigs were just for amusement and a lucky chance to hang out with her intelligence friends.

Calla half-listened, then glanced around the room.

Where was Allegra? She was a key ISTF board member. Why would she encourage her to come and not turn up?

The noise level in the room rose.

A second presenter from Munich left the podium, having offered no new insights on either the Voynich or the Hadrius Manuscript.

None had laid eyes on the Hadrius since the sixties, those who had couldn’t describe it fully.

Calla bit her lip. Even the low-resolution photos showed only three images.

The British analyst stood. Order! I’m not finished yet. We must consider the implications of the Voynich script on the Hadrius Project.

We don’t know that. The designs are similar, but we have no concrete proof that they have similar origins, said an art history professor from the University of Paris Sorbonne, seated in the front row.

Calla looked over to her right at the man next to her, desperate and needing to stay awake. He was nodding off, and she was ready to leave. He flicked his eyes open and issued a gruff whisper. Look, everyone needs a break now. I sure as heck could use one after that last speaker. Calla’s gut twisted as she felt the tinge of nausea running through her body. She was so beyond ready to go.

If she hurried, she could make it to the National Archives in time. The drive would take her close to an hour down Chelsea Embankment, then toward the A4 motorway.

With a glance at the clock on the wall, he tapped her frayed notebook.

Shuffling her feet, she was ready to head out.

Without hesitation, she seized her shoulder bag, straightened her khaki trousers, and slid on her coat. It was now or never.

In the darkness, she rose.

Almost on cue, the next presenter concluded, and the meeting chairman stepped behind the mic. We’ll notify those who’ll work on the Hadrius Manuscript in Berlin. Some of you will receive a call.

Calla barely heard the words.

6:50 p.m.

Dark clouds above the London skyline echoed her thoughts. Calla checked the speedometer of her used Audi A3 hatchback.

Philler hated lateness, but he owed Calla a favor. He’d made it easy for them to become friends when they met five years ago in a training course on SMART technologies.

Last January, she had translated a manual for Philler. He wanted to impress a woman he liked who worked at his local library.

She remembered the hours she’d poured into the document. Thinking about her hard work, she shook her head.

After several minutes, the automobile came to a traffic light.

She rechecked the light as it turned green.

The car ahead failed to move.

She slammed the car horn. Come on! Her voice boomed in the tiny space.

Thirty minutes later, her car pulled up in front of the National Archives Building in the London suburb of Kew. Calla hurried through the main entrance.

On Tuesdays, the offices stayed open until 7:00 p.m. Hands trembling, she checked her watch.

A tired female voice came from the reception desk. We’re closing in ten minutes.

Calla thanked her and scanned the lobby, pulling out her cell phone.

There you are, a voice said.

The receptionist relaxed her face as Philler trotted toward them. His black-rimmed glasses didn’t hide the Philler as he gestured for her to move through the glass barriers. She’s with me. Sign her in as Miss Calla Cress.

Philler, we’re closing. No more visitors, the woman replied.

She’s my niece, he lied. I’ll be responsible for her.

The receptionist shook her head. I’ll look the other way.

Calla followed Philler, and they took the elevator to level two. Once there, they moved down the hallway lit on one side by early moonlight peering through the glass facade.

April had promised an early spring this year, and Calla’s tension eased at the thought. Her twenty-ninth birthday would be soon. This year would be different. Calla would find them. Her parents.

They stopped at a secured door that was missing a label.

Philler produced a chained pass from his pocket and swiped the card reader, pushing the door open for Calla. This is a staff research room prohibited to the public. The computers here have unrestricted access to all known civil servant records. Click on the blue book icon and select ‘civil records’. The rest should be straightforward.

He handed her a green Post-it note. This is the password you’ll need. Use it when prompted. I can give you ten minutes maximum. He straightened his glasses. That gives me plenty of time to sign out, raising no suspicions. They’ll assume I was checking the systems. Okay, I’ll leave you to it.

Philler switched on the fluorescent overhead lights and turned to leave. Ten minutes, tops, he called as he walked out the door.

She nodded. Thank you.

The door shut behind him.

Her skin radiated a chill, and the hairs on her arms stood on end. Calla shivered and hugged her elbows, feeling goosebumps rise. Her tongue felt heavy, her mouth parched. She licked her lips and tasted nothing but dust and stale air.

It had to be close to five degrees Celsius in the room as she shook it off and moved toward the multi-screen computer on a desk.

Hundreds of brown boxes, piled together, stood on gray steel shelves. Stacks of brown cardboard and yellow paper stank with the stench of plastic and wires. What the heck did they do in here?

The archives were on the far side.

She switched on the computer.

Exactly as she had imagined, a secure socket layer of encryption protected it.

A thin layer of tape wrapped around the primary drive, all but a thin band of clear plastic. Calla couldn't work around it but punched in the details from Philler’s Post-it.

The computer accepted her entry and lit a screen with four boxes.

Calla chose the civil records icon as Philler had instructed. It was a considerable risk for him to let her use the restricted room, but she had only one name signed on her birth and adoption forms.

Bonnie Tyleman.

If only she knew if her parents were dead or alive.

She muttered under her breath, All right. Just be ready for whatever you find.

The computer churned, and she pulled out the only form she’d ever seen on her adoption that came through a court in England.

After several years of research, she’d contacted the General Registrar Office and requested the rights to get all records about her birth and adoption.

A month ago, she’d needed every nerve to apply for a certificate of her original birth entry, and her adoption certificate.

The documents were incomplete, containing only what her biological parents had left before they disappeared.

She had pored over the adoption form. It showed that she was adopted at five years of age.

Calla fumbled through her bag for what she believed was her original birth certificate and studied it.

Place of Birth: County of Essex

Father’s forename and surname: Unknown

Mother’s forename and surname: Bonnie Tyleman

The name Bonnie Tyleman had brought no concrete results. Could she find any link to her past? Calla had followed all avenues open to her, sometimes on ancestry websites, sometimes by grilling her evasive adoptive parents who had christened her Calla Lily Cress.

She’d taken the information to a private investigator two years ago, paying the more significant portion of her savings to locate Bonnie dead or alive.

His investigation identified two women named Bonnie Tyleman.

The first had changed her name from Sarah Monet to Marla Cox several years before Calla’s birth. The investigator’s search also led to a civil registry, where he discovered the second registered as a civil servant.

It took every ounce of technical knowledge she possessed to navigate through the complex software system. Though the software was foreign and new to her, like an old Cold War manual, the allure of it was both comforting and confounding.

Calla continued studying the government encryption program.

It had to work.

After all, Jack had given her a quick lesson in operating the new smart tools, such as the ones in front of her. He’d also given her a quick course in the latest database software that intelligence services were using. You can even use them with just the irises of your eyes, if you have permission, Jack had said.

Calla slid her finger across the screen, working fast with one eye on the time.

Seven minutes to go.

Calla narrowed her eyes and focused on the glowing screen. The bright and colorful text of the catalog database was a confusing hodgepodge of numbers and letters. It reminded her of cryptograms she had seen in an ancient book.

She stopped.

A bold headline stared back at her:

Civil Servant Commission 1800–present

The cursor blinked, and she entered the name Marla Cox and waited a few seconds.

Twenty entries found.

Damn, who do I pick?

She glimpsed to the right of each listing, hoping for a period or date.

None.

What the heck? I have nothing to lose, she muttered.

She hit the back icon and returned to the previous screen. Calla typed the name that had plagued her mind since the day she’d discovered it.

Bonnie Tyleman.

Okay, she muttered.

The cursor blinked, searching the database for information.

When it stalled, Calla tapped her fingers on the desk.

The machine failed to respond.

A knock came from the outside. It was her two-minute warning.

Palms sweating, her muscles twitched, bringing on a feeling of nausea. She’d waited a long time. She knew enough about genealogy, DNA tests that determined a person’s ethnicity, but she wouldn’t go to these extremes. For now, she gave the dawdling computer a chance.

Who had brought her to the foster home as a baby?

Why?

Why was there no record of them? Were her parents still alive? Perhaps they lived right here in London. Maybe in mainland Europe. Where had she inherited her skin, emerald-amber eyes, dark hair, and athletic physique? No one had ever told her.

Could it be that her parents were Caucasian, or of Asian, perhaps Latin American, French, or even Indian descent? For all she knew, she could also be the product of mixed race from just about anywhere in the world. For her twenty-ninth birthday, Calla wanted answers.

Search result…

Finally, she said, exhaling.

Over 200 entries found

Now what?

She leaped from her chair as she hit the enter button several times. She glanced at the clock in the top right corner of her computer screen. With a click and a beep, a drop of sweat fell onto the silver surface of the desk.

The high-pitched beep bounced from speaker to speaker, joining with the other beeps and chirps of the machine.

She dropped a fist on the table. No, not now! Don’t lock me out! Come on!

The screen flashed a warning.

You may not access this information

As Calla slid her fingers across the monitor, her efforts failed. The computer continued with its loud warning.

A hand stretched over her shoulder and hit two function buttons.

Philler’s eyebrows knit. What did you do? he said, shutting off the machine. You raised the alarm. We’ve gotta move. A systems’ security person could be here any minute. I’m afraid you must leave now. God knows I’m in enough trouble already.

Please, Philler, this is my only chance.

Philler sighed.

With the soft gust, the world seemed to release its pressure.

I can’t, Calla. I’m sorry.

The door flung open with a thud.

A female data security manager, with a tight grip on the doorknob, blocked their only means of escape.

She stormed into the room, followed by a male security guard. What’s going on here?

Just a routine checkup, Philler said.

The woman’s eyes fell on Calla. And she?

Just a trainee.

Let’s go! the guard shouted.

Calla picked up her belongings and rose, followed by Philler. I hope I didn’t get you into trouble, she muttered to him.

The male security guard approached Calla with a barrage of loud profanities. With a sloppy extension of his body, his hand gripped her by the arm and jostled her out of the building.

Calla’s eyes narrowed, her hair disheveled. Hey, it’s public property, she called back.

Her hands were moist and sticky. She wiped her brow, raw and sore from the scuffle and sweat.

She’d been so close.

CHAPTER

TWO

Day 2

8:12 a.m.

Thames Embankment, London

Morning sun cast its rays on the café table and peered in through the windows that overlooked the river walk along the River Thames’ north bank.

The café was already a buzz of activity, mostly coffee and breakfast takeaways.

A chill-out track crooned in the background of the tiny yet popular café as morning commuters scurried in and out with their orders.

Even with the ear-splitting tumult of clinking glasses and plates, Calla stayed focused, tuning out intrusions and people’s voices. Bridging the gaps in her past ranked high on her to-do list. It had taken her all of seven months to persuade Philler to give her access to the restricted database rooms, and now, her efforts had brought nothing.

Calla glanced up from her laptop as cars zipped past on Victoria Embankment.

I’ll close the window, a waiter said. Sometimes, blue skies can be deceptive in April.

Jack and Nash were running late.

The cell phone beside her laptop had been silent all morning. She scrolled through its apps, landing on a text message Allegra had sent the night before.

Calla,

They have selected me to lead Taskforce Carbonado. You’re part of the team. I’ll see you in Berlin tomorrow.

Allegra

Calla set the phone on the table.

Dropping her shoulders, she scanned the summary notes emailed overnight. Calla didn’t know how long she would be on Taskforce Carbonado and needed to get cover at the museum before the end of the day.

It was the ninth time ISTF had called on her expertise in the last twenty-four months. Could she decipher the Hadrius Manuscript?

Contrary to thoughts shared at yesterday’s briefing, the Voynich was a fabricated document. However, she would need to see the Hadrius text herself to be sure.

For several minutes, she sat at her computer, not typing. A reflection of her face was visible on her computer’s black screen, and she stared at it with contempt. It reminded her how yesterday’s effort had fallen short.

To get some guidance, she could visit the foster home where she had been left as a child. The investigator had provided the address. She could find out what happened to her family. Somebody there had to know something.

Calla could also look for Mila Rembrandt, a relative she’d been told, using an ancestry search company. Her adoptive parents, Mama and Papa Cress, had told her many years ago that Mila came looking for her when she was eight years old. How could they have kept such information from her? Calla had been at boarding school and never learned of the visit until her high school graduation day. She didn’t speak to Mama Cress for days.

The question still lingered. Why had Mila come looking?

Would you like another kiwi juice?

With a glance at her watch, she looked up at the waiter. Thank you.

The guys were late for the breakfast appointment, and the next ISTF session started in twenty minutes.

Calla twiddled her diamond ear stud between her fingers, a pensive habit from her adolescent years, and picked up her glass of kiwi juice.

Before she could take a sip, it dawned on her that Allegra was a political director in the FCO and had access to files on past members of the civil service, including Bonnie Tyleman. If anyone could help, Allegra could.

You’re a million miles from here.

The voice came from behind her. She turned to see Jack approach with an espresso in hand. Jack.

Jack Kleve was the most carefree person she knew.Even in a setting as formal as ISTF, today, like all days, he wore the usual Converse shoes, Levi’s jeans, an Adidas sports jacket, much his ‘uniform’, and sported shoulder-length dreadlocks.

As he paced her way, he commanded attention.

She giggled and wondered why she’d never given him credit for his sturdy frame, long arms, and broad shoulders. He had toned up in the last few weeks. Hanging around Nash would do that to any man.

Jack’s childlike eyes smiled at Calla as he dropped his bag on the chair next to her and plopped into a seat.

To what do I owe your tardiness? she said.

He grinned. Nash here yet?

Not yet. So, were you schmoozing with one of your client lists of government agencies? Or, let me see… private corporations, or perhaps a security firm like the gig months ago with Nash at the American Embassy? she asked.

Hm…, he said with a smirk.

Don’t be bashful, Jack. You’ve made quite a name for yourself recently. I hardly see you anymore, unless it’s ISTF work. I miss us hanging out.

Me too. But hey, guilty. I was on a call.

She grinned. When we first met, you were so keen not to sell your technologies. What changed your mind?

That conference in Edinburgh changed my life.

And your bank account, she said, smirking.

Laughter sparkled in his eyes. Maybe leaving the Indian Ocean behind had more impact on me than I thought. I like a good gig.

Jack, all I’m saying is I miss you dragging me to silly street dance classes.

His boyish grin was infectious. I know. We’ll do it again soon… When I retire.

Huh! Never. Jack, you’re only thirty-one and one of the most creative entrepreneurs on every major science and technology website and platform, might I add. You’re just cool and can demand any fee. Possibly any place of employment.

So, can you.

Her curiosity got the better of her. Not like you. How much did you get for that smart securities job with the European Parliament?

A nonchalant shrug lifted his shoulders. Just coz I share everything with you… okay? Seven million.

Sterling?

Sterling. Hey, researching and developing technology takes money.

And offers you one of the best bachelor pads in London.

Hey, if it’s the only way I can get you and Nash to hang out with Korean barbecue takeaway, then so be it.

He leaned over and turned her laptop to face him. Now, what’re you up to? He smirked. You need to give this a rest. Ancestry.com will not get you any closer to solving the riddle of your past.

Had she acted wisely, telling him about her family quest? How could Calla resist? Jack was her close friend, and she needed a sanity check sometimes.

Jack gave her a peck on the cheek. You’re an alien, and you know it.

She grinned. I suppose you’d know. Tell me, Jack, when was the last time you dialed home to your mother ship?

His eyes lit. "There’s nothing great to write about being a boat boy in Mahé, although I do love my home country. Nothing like the Seychelles.

She wriggled. He was right. Yes, but there’s much to say about having a family, however dysfunctional, paying for your education and earning a gazillion scholarships. Jack, I admire and envy you at the same time.

A smirk flashed on his face, and she edged closer. Listen, do you think I’m crazy hunting for clues to my background? I mean, wouldn’t you want to know where you came from?

Jack shifted with a nervous grin. I suppose so, Cal. Your parents were crazy to let you go, if they’re still alive.

He took her hand in his. I don’t want you to get hurt. They may not be all that. A happy family is a dream. No one has one. In your own words, look at my dysfunctional family. Don’t let the past dictate who you are or who you’ll become. Write your own story. From where I’m looking, you’re doing great.

He patted her left hand and withdrew it to take a sip of his espresso.

Was Jack right? Calla never pictured what she might find.

He cast a glance at the main entrance. Ah! Here comes Nash. He’s finally joined us.

Nash Shields pushed through the doors. His navy-blue blazer hung above faded jeans. His tousled, sandy-brown hair, still wet from his shower earlier that morning, reminded Calla he liked to run first thing at dawn. Well-built behind the loose clothes he wore, he liked to stay comfortable. At six-foot-three, his lean build and posture spoke of years of military discipline, though that didn’t rob him of the sparkle in his engaging and deep gray eyes. Quiet confidence dazzled from his intent look, and he usually followed it with a sharp sense of humor.

Nash never failed to astound her. Here he was, intelligent and athletic enough to make her self-conscious by looking at him. He was extremely attractive. And as she watched him move, she hoped he didn’t know that fact. He shot them a brief nod.

After making his way toward their table, he lowered into the extra seat next to Calla, then gave her a peck on the cheek. Hey, beautiful, any new archeological finds I should know about. I find your work fascinating.

His standard American vernacular charmed Calla. She felt a blush coming on and hated that she was awkward around men she found handsome. As a general rule, she kept them at arm’s length. Even though she’d known Nash for the two years they’d worked together at ISTF, recently, something had changed, and she couldn’t explain it.

She snapped closed the laptop. You forget, I haven’t been on a historical dig in months. Can’t afford to anymore. By the way, I’m going to Berlin. Allegra is leading Taskforce Carbonado. She’s asked me to document her work at the Pergamon Museum.

The memo came through last night. Jack and I are also on board, Nash replied.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "You mean the Allegra Driscoll. Winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature and the Prime Minister’s special representative on cybersecurity? Plus, she does a bunch of other things. I don’t think she was there yesterday at the briefing," Jack said.

Calla couldn’t contain her excitement. That’s right. Some of her many titles, and no, she wasn’t there.

You going to Berlin too? Calla asked.

No, we’ll be here, Nash replied.

Calla ran a finger on the rim of her empty glass, studying Nash.

He took a napkin and wiped away a drip of juice from the corner of her squirming lips.

She removed his hand gently. This is a genuine opportunity for me and challenging work. The Hadrius is no ordinary manuscript.

He extended her a curious glance. ISTF has now agreed with Germany for a group of specialists like you to look at it in Berlin, Nash said.

Allegra is right for this, Jack said.

Calla’s eyes didn’t leave Nash’s face. Glaring, she gave him a nod. It’s fascinating watching the woman work.

Ever been to Berlin? Nash said.

Once, she said. I’m sure I can still manage German.

Jack leaned in. Time to go. Mason Laskfell is on his way. They’ll now disclose detailed assignments relating to the Taskforce.

Calla had never spoken a word to Mason, the head of ISTF, with the code name Red Fox.

Like all organization heads, everyone knew who he was. He never took one-on-one meetings. Except for the few times she’d seen his name on memorandums, he might as well have been a ghost.

Jack tilted his head, his eyebrows knitting as if he’d come by peculiar information. He asked me if I’d seen you, Calla.

9:00 a.m.

ISTF Offices, Basement Level, Technology Museum

They had called him a mind reader.

Which was why many avoided him.

The morons had said this was his primary criminal investigative procedure.

Mason Laskfell leaned forward and placed both palms against the display glass.

Fatigue gripped him, and he ran a hand through his hair.

If it hadn’t been littered with streaks of gray, he swore he could pass for forty-five, give or take a year.

He didn’t care. Age was rarely a judge of character or intelligence.

How many cryptic and classified codes had he deciphered? Languages, accents, and handwriting. Had it been twenty years since he’d led ISTF? Yes, it was, and that morning’s memo to staff had acknowledged his years as head of the organization, the Red Fox.

He ran a hand across his chin.

Told that a closer look at his physique made one think of a striking warrior, he grimaced, imagining himself a lieutenant in Napoleon’s army rather than the expert cryptographer and capable intelligence analyst he’d become. Now chief of ISTF’s research signals intelligence and linguistic divisions, he thought about the enviable agency position. But it could all go wrong.

Calla Cress stood in his way.

Mason leaned his six-foot frame against the safety glass.

Spotlights above his head illuminated the museum pieces, piercing his eyes.

He tugged at his new chocolate suit and straightened the Armani shirt. The dragonfly charm in his boutonniere, with sapphires and mini diamonds, sparkled in the overhead lights. His hand slid over its rough edge, lips compressing into a tight smile.

Today, the Prime Minister’s office needed his service for a briefing that afternoon, but his mind drifted elsewhere. He needed more time and checked the schedule on his phone.

Mason tapped the glass window before him, displaying an ancient cryptography machine.

How had the Hadrius Manuscript appeared again?

Why now?

Was this the manuscript?

Was his search over?

He wasn’t ready.

His cell phone buzzed and he twitched.

It was Lillian, his assistant.

Calla Cress is here.

Send her down to the museum section, he said, his voice echoing off the walls.

Five minutes later, Calla squeezed through the door into the small gallery.

Mason drew away from the glass and watched her. Athletic, exceptionally beautiful, though awkward, she paced into the room with a quick step.

Sensors lit up above and flooded the stone-tiled floors with artificial light as she inched into the room.

Her step wavered, but she strode straight up to him with a fixed gaze, her palms clutching her electronic tablet. You asked to see me?

She might just be the bait he needed for Allegra. He would even overlook that she’d been untried for the task he required her to do. Youth and ignorance were what he desired. Calla was close to Allegra, he’d been told.

He edged toward her. You’ll be joining Allegra in Berlin.

She squinted. Is that what you wanted to see me about?

Mason ignored her question and slotted the cell phone in his pocket, not once shifting his eyes from her. Ever been to Berlin?

She nodded.

Her antics amused him. It’ll expose you first-hand to some crucial intelligence work. Allegra is one of the best. In Germany, her diplomatic approach will be crucial. On Taskforce Carbonado, she named you her right-hand person.

Calla kept her eyes on him. I’m honored naturally.

Mason stroked his chin.

He watched her step back, shifting her feet and distancing herself from him.

Perhaps she believed the rumors about his alleged telepathic abilities. Good. He could use fear. Intimidation always produced the results he desired.

Mason examined her posture, straight and no-nonsense. He stared right into her being. Your work in Berlin is confidential, even to those within ISTF.

She tore her eyes away from his, shifting them toward the glass display case. Why’s that?

Has Allegra not told you? he asked.

The lights overhead dimmed again, as neither had moved in the last several minutes. Then her lips quivered. She left yesterday for Berlin. I haven’t spoken to her, but I’ll join her shortly.

Mason moved an inch closer, shortening the distance between them.

The motion switched the sensor lights back on. Good. Allegra is a great resource for ISTF.

Calla studied the dragonfly in his suit. Was there something else you wanted to see me about?

Mason turned his back to her and strolled to the other side of the small room. After a few steps, he stopped at the glass display on the opposite side, showcasing communication systems that went back as far as the First World War. He reached into his jacket pocket and drew out an electronic device.

In the dim light, Calla twitched, catching sight of the mobile communications unit.

Mason searched for clues in her expression as he handed her the sleek gadget. Do you know what this is?

Looks like a cell phone.

It’s a new prototype from our research and development labs. I’ve been looking for an opportunity to test this device. My chance has come. You’ll test it for me.

Calla delayed a few seconds, then took the phone.

Unlike most smartphones, this was the size of two small, translucent, fused credit cards with dual-sided touchscreen capabilities. Its laser lights lit up in blue when stroked, displaying an elaborate keypad and different functions.

She slid her finger across its smooth surface, and it recognized her in an instant as the screen produced the words:

Morning, Calla Cress.

Your device will now be configured.

Mason’s phone buzzed again.

He ignored it and studied her. I want to be informed of anything Allegra discovers in Berlin. Keep a diary, he said. This phone helps you gather information and assess situations. It’s different from most smartphones and has a high-definition screen, layered menus, touch activity, offline caching, and…, best of all, it’s packed with knowledge on locations.

I see, she said.

I’m sure you’ll discover more as you use it. You’re quite techie, I hear.

I get by, Calla said, studying the phone. I’ve known about the ISTF research labs designing communication devices. This is an incredible achievement.

He knew the high-tech angle would get her.

Calla ceased her examination and switched it off. But is this necessary? Surely, Allegra will share the Berlin report. What sort of information do you need me to document?

  She wasn’t easily fooled. He persisted with care. Just note your observations. We’ll determine later if the information is useful. This could be momentous for your intelligence career.

Calla pocketed the phone. I already have a career. This is a job. I’ll do my best and need to go now. Was that all?

Mason gave her an abrupt nod. Have a pleasant trip.

She tipped her head and stole out of the room without turning back.

Mason waited a few seconds and then reached for his secure cell phone.

He pressed the speed dial. Slate? Is it working?

A husky, Italian-accented voice spoke in low tones. Yes. She needs to have it turned on. Did you activate the function?

Damn right, I did.

CHAPTER

THREE

Day 3

10:03 a.m.

Berlin, Germany

Calla smiled as she gazed out her window. The vibrant metropolis drew into form from behind the clouds.

Soon the plane started its descent over the overcast city after the ninety-minute flight from Gatwick. Berlin, built over centuries on the banks of the Spree River, was home to more bridges than Venice. Strewn with cultural paradoxes and markers of science, the arts, politics, and media.

She reached for her overnight carry-on and stepped off the aircraft after landing.

Sun peered through scattered clouds, lightening her anguish.

Outside the main arrival terminal, Calla waited her turn in the long queue for a cab.

Several minutes later, one rolled toward her, and a cab driver sprang out, hopping to the curb with a buoyant spring. "Wohin, Fräulein? Where to?"

Calla grabbed her carry-on. To the Pergamon Museum.

He smiled, showing a grin littered with gold teeth. "Any suitcases, Fräulein?"

His English was accented but understandable.

She stepped into the car. No, I travel light.

By the time they navigated past Adenauer Platz, in the heart of former West Berlin, Calla was running late. Traffic crawled, a stark contrast to Central London that morning.

She settled into the leather seat and glanced over her shoulder, watching as the car turned down another street.

Was it the constant smirks she received from the driver? They seemed to come every five minutes as he beamed gold teeth looking back in the rearview mirror.

Though good-humored enough, he conversed little during the journey.

A nagging sensation haunted her. It had started at Gatwick Airport, then through customs. She peeked once more in the rear window.

Nothing was out of the ordinary.

Calla checked her watch.

10:55 a.m.

Her appointment was in five minutes. How much further, driver?

"Nicht weit. Not far. Not far. Another ten minutes, maybe."

Calla opened her shoulder bag and dipped her hands deep to locate her electronic tablet. She fished it out and turned it on.

The itinerary showed that at 11:00 a.m., they were to meet Herr Brandt, the director of the Museum, for a private tour of the Pergamon accommodating three galleries. Work then began at 11:30 a.m. in a private museum room.

The taxi nosed into a parking space on the busy street, several meters from the main doors.

"We’re here. The Pergamon Museum, Fräulein."

The triple-winged complex on Berlin’s museum island stood perched above the edge of the Spree River. Its neoclassical structure reflected in the water below against the blue sky and scattered clouds. It looked even more palatial than she had imagined. The prominent landmark had sustained severe damage in the war during the air raids on Berlin.

Calla was confident in her assessment. Though the legitimacy of some collections remained controversial within its vast walls, the Pergamon showcased antiquities, Islamic art, and Babylonian architecture she desperately wanted to see.

She wanted to discuss the Market Gate of Miletus and the Ishtar Gate, including the Processional Way of Babylon and the Mshatta Façade with Allegra.

I think you’re in for a long wait, the taxi driver said. "’ll let you out here, Fraulein."

Crowds lined the building’s entrance as the late morning sun peeked through the clouds.

Calla glanced outside and nodded her thanks. "Danke Schön. I can walk from here. Where’s the main entrance?"

He pointed ahead. Up the stairs. I don’t think you can go in today. So much trouble is going on.

Trouble? Calla reached in her pocket, searching for the euros she’d withdrawn at the airport cash machine upon arrival. She handed the taxi driver a fifty euro note. Keep the change.

The taxi driver drove off, leaving Calla standing in front of the stairs leading to the entrance.

Police fenced the entry grounds of the museum. Perhaps there was another way in. She advanced toward the growing queue.

Only a few yards ahead, the entrance remained closed. Calla stood on her toes, glancing above a group of French students in front of her.

She scrutinized the glass façades. Authorities appeared to have evacuated the museum and had quarantined several evacuees. They waited in an orderly queue on the other side of the main doors. The cab driver was right. The queue hadn’t moved an inch in the five minutes she’d waited.

When the group in front of her made a move, she edged closer to the entryway.

Streams of others made their way off the island.

Where was the Pergamon pass Allegra had sent her last night by courier?

The police officer with the megaphone attempted a multi-language announcement down the queue. "Das Museen ist geschlossen! The museum is closed. Le musée est fermé!" belted the foghorn voice from within the crowd.

Calla found the laminated pass in a bundle of papers at the bottom of her bag. She stopped the officer when he got to her section of the queue. "Entschüldigen Sie, bitte."

Her German was confident. "Darf ich bitte rein?" she said, excusing herself and asking if she could go in.

The officer didn’t move a muscle. "Nein, es tut mir leid."

No? Why? she said.

He continued his parade down the queue, and she began a chase after him. Excuse me, sir. My colleague Allegra Driscoll is working with the board of the museum. Here’s my pass. I’m meeting her here.

The cop didn’t flinch, but he understood her. I’m sorry. Nobody is going in today. Now move aside!

Calla patted her pockets for her cell phone.

The one Mason had given her was in her carry-on. She’d configured it the night before she left London.

It was a costly system with a sophisticated GPS program to identify her pre-set numbers and personal details. With this,