Encrypted: An Action-Packed Techno-Thriller

by Carolyn McCray

  “Dr. MacVetti just died.”

  That didn’t make sense. They’d had two guards die, but those men had been deep into the Black Death’s grip, with bloody froth at their lips, struggling to breathe as boils broke out all over their bodies.

  “But MacVetti was barely second stage,” Amanda commented, refraining from checking her own lymph nodes. However, she glanced at Jennifer, whose already ashen lips had gone white at the news.

  “He had mild heart disease, but it was enough to throw a clot to his brain. He stroked out.”

  That was the problem with the plague. Sometimes it didn’t wait to kill you itself. It just added fuel to an already diseased portion of the body. No one was safe.

  Sounds came from the hallway as Dr. Henderson frowned.

  “What is it?”

  Amanda’s mind went fairly wild with speculation. She had been studying the Hidden Hand so closely that she felt like they were right beside her at times. Were they now coming down the hallway?

  Instead, Henderson moved out of the way for half a dozen scientists. Colleagues— most who had not exactly ever been on Team Amanda.

  Each nodded as they passed by, and then lined up across from her desk.

  “Well?” Dr. Conek asked.

  “Well, what?”

  “We are here to do whatever you need us to do.”

  “But—”

  Dr. Conek slowly shook his head. “We discussed it. We aren’t going to wait down in the infirmary until it becomes a morgue. MacVetti did everything right. Took his meds, rested, and now look at him.”

  The new group got into their seats as Conek finished. “So fill us in on your Chicken Little Project, and let’s get going.”

  Amanda gulped back tears. Even Dr. Henderson sat down. Jennifer, on the other hand, had no problem handing out assignments. Maybe, just maybe, with ten brains working on the same project, they would find the elusive Hidden Hand.

  CHAPTER 20

  Undisclosed Location

  11:32 p.m., MST

  Francois sat upon the motel’s lumpy mattress, allowing the woman to examine his arm. While her gaze was obsessed with the markings dug deep into the flesh, Francois only had eyes for the painting that sat across from them, propped upon the faux wood table.

  They had not allowed him to burn it. Not yet. On the other side of the room, the FBI agent who had saved him held a lighter and a hair spray can—a cheap and easily assembled torch. The FBI agent did not seem to trust Francois with the items. Which was probably warranted.

  The desire to burn the painting and see the beauty of the angels’ gift to man flamed inside Francois. He had come so far, and thought himself thwarted. That God might have seen fit to grant him another chance? This he would not waste.

  “So you read these diagonally?” the woman asked.

  Francois nodded. Normally, he would not so casually reveal such secrets, but the woman had the language of the angels all over her laptop screen. And not just any symbols. But those most precious to their guardians. Secret symbols. Yet there they glistened and shimmered. If the angels so blessed her, he would be of no hindrance.

  “I had guessed as much. Is it read right to left, down the center line?”

  Again, he nodded. This one truly must have a pure soul if the angels had given her such knowledge.

  “What I don’t get is, where do I start next?” the woman said, indicating to the most recent symbols cut into his flesh. “Do I move the entire set down, or start from the top to create the new center line?”

  Francois could not help but flinch as she touched an especially fresh symbol.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, taking more care as she leaned over his arm.

  “When did they begin speaking to you?” Francois asked.

  The woman frowned. “Who?”

  “The angels?”

  The FBI agent stepped forward. “Okay. I’ve been more than patient. I have taken a lot…well, not exactly on faith here, but on necessity.”

  The dutiful doubters. Those who balanced on the edge of a sword. Not having enough faith but neither having too much distrust. Francois knew how this man felt. Francois himself had experienced it decades ago.

  Then it had been burned out of him.

  Literally.

  “Perhaps it is best if I show you,” Francois suggested.

  * * *

  Zach watched the old man’s face as Francois tenderly dragged his finger along the frame of the Picasso. Zach wasn’t exactly a modern art guy, but even he recognized the cubist painting. Francois held out his hand for the lighter and hair spray. It was pretty low tech; however, the items made a handy flamethrower when you were running from the law.

  Usually, Zach thought of himself as a man of action. He liked learning stuff by doing. He’d always hated classrooms, with their chalkboards or whiteboards, and desks. Give him a chance to field-strip an AK-47 any day over learning the penal code.

  But here he stood, not wanting to take action. Sure, it had sounded all well and good to go ahead and burn the rest of the Picasso. Why not? It was already torched along one side. However, standing here in the broke-down motel with one weird eye staring at him, an eye that the master himself had painted made Zach a little queasy.

  Again, his mother would be so proud.

  Zach looked at the door. The pilot was still guarding it, peeking out the curtain at regular intervals to make sure that their location was still secure. Then, of course, Quirk was staring at the pilot, so they were covered there.

  He glanced at Ronnie, who shrugged. “He insists that the symbols will only be revealed if we burn the painting at a high-intensity temperature.”

  Hence, the spray can and the lighter.

  Ronnie took a step closer, covering Zach’s hand with hers.

  “Quirk, what’s the update?”

  Her assistant checked his smartphone. “Another hundred thousand cases reported in the last hour. And it’s confirmed that the entire staff of Plum Island is infected.”

  The plague was spreading faster than anyone had guessed, and was far more lethal than anyone had feared. If the CIA believed that this angelic script held the key to stopping the plague—enough to set up and kidnap an FBI agent to coerce an outlaw hacker into helping—then well, there had to be something to it.

  Still, what in the hell did Picasso have to do with any of this?

  Zach could, of course, ask those questions. But by the set of the old man’s jaw, he doubted if he would get many answers.

  “I’ll do it.” Zach said. Francois opened his mouth to protest, but Zach rode right over him. “That’s a deal breaker.”

  The old man got that look in his eye, like he had back at the field office—right before he tried to pull Zach through the bars. A hint of madness tinged with desperation. Zach held steady, though. While Francois held a lot of information, the old man also needed to learn how to bottle the crazy up.

  “Deal. Breaker,” Zach emphasized.

  Francois gripped the painting’s frame, seemingly unable to let go even as he nodded. Ronnie stepped in, and at first gently, and then with more and more torque, pulled the painting away from Francois. Zach bet the old man had some splinters under his nails.

  Taking in a deep breath, not believing out of a day of completely unbelievable events, that he was about to set fire to a Picasso. Zach glanced overhead. The fire alarm had been disabled—not that it had batteries in the first place.

  Zach flicked the lighter, watching the tiny flame dance above the metal. He shook the hair spray, more to give himself time to work up the nerve than the bottle needed shaking.

  Ronnie gave a tight, not-quite-reassuring smile. Zach hit the nozzle, spraying fire before him. He took a step closer to the painting, watching the heat beat from the flame toward the canvas. He took another step. Now the flames licked the paint, melting it. Zach took care to only torch the portion of the painting already singed, trying to build up the nerve to put flame to the remaining masterpiece. Then
the rest of the canvas caught fire, curling and crackling.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, right? Zach stepped even closer, bringing the full flame to the painting. An already oddly placed eye melted into an elbow, blurring the image. Then the entire picture caught fire, consuming itself within moments. Only at the end, as the flames converged on the center of the painting did something gold flicker.

  As the canvas went up in smoke, the gilded symbol grew brighter and brighter, pulsing of its own accord, floating before them, flaring a warning across the ages. Zach’s thumb stung from the heat of the lighter, but he kept the torch to bear.

  If angels did exist and they wanted to speak, this was definitely how they would.

  Then the symbol burned nearly white as it exploded in ash.

  No one moved. No one even breathed.

  “Holy Batman’s undergarments,” Quirk finally commented.

  Snapping back, Zach released the nozzle and the lighter. The room felt too still without the whoosh of the fire. He sought Ronnie’s gaze, except she seemed to be having a religious experience herself. Zach felt moved, and he didn’t even understand what in the hell the symbol even meant.

  Ronnie met his gaze. Her eyes were half-closed, as if she’d just been roused from slumber but was not yet awake. He’d never thought that any woman could look so beautiful. Then, she blurted out, “Crap!”

  * * *

  Ronnie looked through her phone. Please, please, please let me have snapped a picture, she thought. Maybe somewhere in that trancelike state, she had actually captured the symbols that they were so desperate to find. But the last photo that showed up was the screenshot of Zach. Um, maybe since he was standing right next to her, she might want to delete that one.

  “I didn’t get a picture of it,” she moaned. She could see it in her mind’s eye, but it wasn’t one she recognized. Could she remember all of the details for proper analysis?

  “Oh, please,” Quirk said, turning his smartphone toward her. Footage of the entire event replayed. “And, as a bonus, I know have on film that you can’t survive in the wild without me.”

  Ronnie could totally kiss her completely arrogant gay assistant right on the mouth. Fortunately, he didn’t expect that of her. She turned to Francois. At first she didn’t understand what he was doing. Then as realization hit, she rushed over, grabbing his hand.

  “Francois! Don’t.”

  But it was too late. He had already carved the symbol into his arm.

  “You don’t have to do that anymore,” she chided, taking the edge of her shirt and blotting the blood.

  “There is no ‘have,’ ” he commented. “I need to.”

  Ronnie didn’t get it, but she did. In her mind’s eye, the symbol glittered, sending off rays to the depths of her…well…soul.

  “Um,” a baritone voice came from the other side of the room. “For the new guy, what in the hell just happened?”

  Ronnie turned to find Quirk trying to shush the pilot, but Zach plopped down on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, for a guy who’s been on the inside of this…What in the hell just happened?”

  She glanced at Francois, but he had retreated once again into his Latin mumblings. Looked like she was going to have to wing it alone on this one. Ronnie turned the desk’s rickety chair around and sat facing the men. Crossing her arms over the back of the chair, she gave it her best effort, even though her own mind was still reeling.

  “The symbol flaring out is probably the easiest to explain.” From Zach’s raised eyebrow, she hurried on. “Clearly, they must have impregnated the symbol into the canvas with a magnesium substrate. That’s what caused the brilliant light show.”

  And what a light show it had been. She glanced at Francois, who either nodded or was simply rocking back and forth.

  “But why?” Zach asked. “Why, with premeditation, hide a piece of angelic script in a painting?”

  Excellent question. How could a modern art painting be connected to a reemergence of the Black Death? She needed to work all this out as much for herself as for the men seeking to understand.

  “Everyone wants to keep secrets,” Ronnie explained. “From the Templars with their advanced symbology, to the U.S. using the Navajo language during World War II, we want our secrets kept secret.”

  It was her lifeblood, actually. Revealing secrets, burrowing into others’ deepest, most tightly held vaults. Usually, she was after cash. In this case, though, they had created an elaborate encryption to hold something so much more valuable. Information.

  Quirk frowned, even though Ronnie knew how much he hated to encourage wrinkles. “But then why put such an important piece of secret script in such a prominent public image?”

  Ronnie chuckled. “Have you ever lost your keys?”

  “Excuse me?” Quirk countered, now arching his eyebrow.

  “Not just you, but everyone. We forget things. We lose things. Now imagine an ancient organization trying to operate through the ages. Sure, they could hide their secrets, but then they risked losing them forever.”

  “And we are talking about the Hidden Hand, then?” Zach asked.

  Ronnie glanced at Francois, who shook his head absently. “No. I think the Hidden Hand uses angelic script, but the clues we are tracking down are from a resistance group within the Hidden Hand. Those who don’t agree with their goal.”

  “The Hand within the Hand,” Francois whispered.

  “Yes,” Ronnie agreed. “And I think they prepared for this day. When the Hidden Hand came out from the shadows. The resistance used the paintings as a fail-safe mechanism. So if the worst happened, someone like Francois could piece the puzzle back together.”

  “In paintings, though?” Quirk pressed, although Ronnie didn’t blame him. If she hadn’t seen the symbol flare in all of its golden glory, Ronnie wouldn’t have believed it either. “Seriously, people, let’s at least get them onto floppy drives.”

  “Francois?” she asked gently, as the man mumbled in Latin. “Why did the Hand within the Hand choose paintings?

  “It is the angels who chose it,” Francois said. Clearly looking confused, he asked Ronnie, “Did they not tell you?”

  Ronnie shook her head, “No.”

  The guy really did believe that angels were talking to him. Which created a minor reality problem. Sure, the symbols were angelic script, but a group of men decided on using the paintings for their safekeeping.

  “Could it be the theory of hiding in plain sight?” Zach proposed.

  “No,” Quirk answered flatly.

  Uh-oh. Her assistant wasn’t used to anyone but Ronnie disagreeing with him—not even a smoking-hot FBI agent. However, Zach had no problem coming right back at Quirk.

  “But I might suggest that the paintings, and therefore the symbols, have been doing just fine. That they are still available to us kind of proves my point.”

  Good one. Not that she would admit that in front of Quirk. It would only rev the hacker up and make him start criticizing Zach’s choice of hair-care products.

  “Maybe the Hidden Hand chose paintings because the arts are many times protected, even in times of upheaval?” Ronnie suggested, trying to weave between Zach and Quirk. “Considered national treasures? That they out of any other vehicle might survive through the ages?”

  “Of course,” Francois answered. “As I said, the angels know best.”

  Ronnie wanted to press him for a clearer answer, but the old man went back to rocking back and forth mumbling scripture and reading the symbols carved into his arm. Clearly, he had kept meticulous records—a process that seemed to take as heavy a toll on his mind as well as his flesh.

  “Okay, I am going to take that as a ‘yes.’ ” Zach said as he leaned in. “Now, the question is, do we have any idea what you are decoding? What this information is?”

  Ronnie bit her lip. She hated to speculate. She liked nice, long equations that took as much of the risk out of an endeavor as possible. “My best guess is that they are locations. Wh
at we will find in those locations, I’m not sure.”

  “Well, luckily, you’ve got my speedy texting fingers, and me,” Quirk announced. However, Ronnie was pretty sure the second half was for the pilot.

  “What do you mean?”

  Apparently just to show off, Quirk texted and explained at the same. “I’ve got a BFF at the CDC…”

  Of course he did. A hypochondriac at Quirk’s level? The man probably had a BFF at the Surgeon General’s office, the World Health Organization, and probably the American Cancer Society just to be sure to cover all his bases.

  “And she says the CIA is looking for Hidden Hand vaccine vaults,” Quirk said, then jerked his head upright. “I like the sound of that.”

  As did Ronnie. Now, some of the text was beginning to make sense. Talk of the nectar given by God and a prick to spare the ferryman.

  “Great,” Zach said. “Let’s go crash their party and get the vaccine.”

  Ronnie shook her head, though. “It isn’t that simple. This is a cipher built with code and layered over code. I need way more information before I can pinpoint any one location.” The room seemed to sag as she continued. “I am going to have to correlate this new symbol with all of the other symbols, then extrapolate where the next—”

  “That will not be necessary,” Francois stated as he rose from the bed. “I know exactly where we must go.”

  Ronnie waited for the elderly man to elaborate, but he just picked up his jacket and strode to the door. Zach blocked his path.

  “Mind filling us in?”

  Francois seemed truly perplexed as he looked at each of them.

  “Why, Graceland, of course.”

  * * *

  Amanda coughed into the crook of her elbow. Not that she couldn’t just walk up to any of the remaining scientists and cough directly in their faces. They were all infected. Each was flushed with fever. Their fingernails were blackening as their lungs filled with fluid.

  She didn’t blame two who had gone back downstairs. Nor the two who had laid their heads down for a quick rest, and were now still slumbering away. Absently, Amanda scratched her arm—only to feel wet, thick liquid under her fingernails.