The Voynich Cypher Read online

  Hundreds of skeletons held silent vigil in cavities along the narrow crypt, all facing the spot where the new arrival stood; a phalanx of mute sentries to voicelessly witness the actions of anyone foolhardy enough to breach the stillness of the sacred burial space. The specters of the thousand-year-old remains generated no reaction in the masked figure, who was more than passingly familiar with the many faces of death. While the grim reaper wasn’t exactly a friend, he certainly wasn’t a stranger to the black-clad prowler, who’d ended the lives of enough miscreants to defy recollection.

  The intruder stepped carefully past the groups of long-dead clergy, compelled forward by a more pressing mission than sightseeing in one of purgatory’s antechambers.

  Tracker 1x24 NV night-vision goggles rendered the darkness of the clammy chamber irrelevant; now the blackness was bathed in a greenish glow, with the level of detail similar to when having the lights on – had there been any lights – the only illumination would have come from the row of wall-mounted iron torch holders, with black smudges of gritty soot marring the stone ceiling above them. The departed had little use for modern conveniences such as electricity, and the old ways were still the best in the hall of the dead.

  The only sounds other than the draft wafting through the corridors were the occasional rat scurrying about the bones and the trespasser’s muffled footsteps moving stealthily towards the forbidden destination – the rumored ‘Scroll Chamber’. Preparation for the early morning’s adventure had included memorizing the layout of the surviving Abbey buildings and also the maze of catacombs beneath. The location of the Chamber was exactly one hundred twenty-two yards from where the abandoned water-shaft offered ventilation and egress – a fact that was pivotal now that the sanctity of the hidden recesses had been breached.

  The most difficult part of the operation would take place at the Chamber – the advance intelligence had been clear. It would be guarded, both by a man outside its door and another within. A frontal assault was out of the question; the slightest slip and the interior sentry would sound the alarm, even if the exterior guard had been dispatched. No, a better approach would be required to achieve entry into the supposedly impenetrable room, although it too would require no small amount of luck to succeed.

  Careful study of the almost impossible-to-locate ancient blueprints had provided the clue for an alternative means of accessing the Chamber – one that the guards and the friars were likely unaware of.

  It would be obvious momentarily whether the strategy was a winner, or a dead-end.

  The Scroll Chamber was a small room, engineered to exacting measurements, and constructed entirely of stone blocks painstakingly hewn from a nearby quarry. Four meters by three, with not a centimeter of variation anywhere, its furnishings were modest, with only a dilapidated stool and a hand-carved stone table cleaved from the wall nearest the access door. Resting on this rustic ledge was a single cylindrical canister, twelve inches in height, resembling nothing so much as a coffee thermos – with the exception that common beverage containers were rarely constructed of medieval amalgams of oak and alabaster, embossed with crude Christian symbols and dire warnings in Latin.

  The only occupant of the room was a tall man, also in the camouflage garb favored by the Abbey’s protectors, whose immobile form was illuminated by a tiny battery-powered camping light he’d positioned on the table’s edge. He was napping; his head drooped on his chest, and occasional rumbling snores disrupted the stillness. He was a young man, no more than twenty-five, heavily-bearded, with a scar on his forehead in the shape of a cross. This guard was also armed with a SIG Sauer automatic pistol – an incongruous anachronism given the nature of the room and the Abbey’s monastic purpose.

  A crudely rendered stone grid near the ceiling shifted upwards an inch at a time, six feet away from the slumbering man’s head. It weighed over a hundred pounds, and yet it slid silently into the dark cavity behind it without so much as a scrape against the ancient stones of the Chamber. The slumbering guard hadn’t stirred.

  The intruder crawled out of the hand-carved tunnel and dropped lightly to the Chamber floor, pausing in a crouch, studying the crucifixus on the guard’s forehead before scrutinizing his eyelids, watchful for any sign of awareness.

  Satisfied that the man wasn’t an immediate threat, the silent trespasser’s focus turned to the canister on the table, now only four feet away. The container was distinctly unimpressive considering what it purportedly held. It was almost a disappointment that the intelligence on its safeguarding was correct; no complex Indiana Jones-like counterweights to contend with, no medieval combination locks to breach. Nothing, except for the droning guard – the first priority if the mission was to be fruitful.

  The intruder approached on catlike feet, another syringe at the ready.

  A loose flagstone beneath a delicately-placed boot jarred the silence. The guard jolted awake with a start. The intruder lunged forward with the needle, but this guard was faster than the one by the well; he dodged the attempt at his neck and spun towards his assailant as he shook off the grogginess of sleep. He fumbled for his pistol, but the intruder snap-kicked his hand, audibly breaking the bones. The guard howled in pain and, not as adept in close-quarters combat as his attacker, he swung ineffectually with his good hand. The intruder dodged the awkward assault and delivered three successive blows to the tall man’s solar-plexus, trachea and jaw. It was the throat-blow that stopped the guard mid-stride, and he staggered back against the door with a thud before crumpling to the floor.

  The sound of his exclamation and body slamming against the heavy door alerted the other guard, and the rattle of keys scrabbling at the lock echoed in the now-still Chamber, followed by the guard’s cries of alarm to the Abbey above.

  So much for stealth. The intruder grabbed the canister and hastily shoved it into a streamlined backpack, then reentered the ventilation shaft and wedged the stone grid back into place.

  The Chamber door heaved, but the weight of the unconscious guard held it closed. Within moments, more men were struggling with the door, and it grudgingly slid open. A shocked silence accompanied the discovery that the container was missing. The unthinkable had happened after centuries of vigilance – a locked room, a downed guard, and the cylinder gone, but nobody else in the Chamber. How was it possible?

  One of the friars spotted a small lump of dust in a corner near the rock ledge that had been home to the Scroll. His trembling finger followed the path of gravity up the wall, ultimately pointing at the stone ventilation port. A cry went up, and half of the men ran out into the adjoining passageway, while the other half rushed to remove the heavy stone grid that barred the coal-black shaft behind it.

  The intruder slipped along the crawlspace at high speed on a thin sheet of fiberglass with small rubber wheels mounted on the four corners – a modified low-profile skateboard, its ball-bearing axles rolling soundlessly. A second rappelling cord affixed at the starting point had proved a good idea for the return trip; the intruder traversed the entire length of the eighty-foot tunnel in seconds by pulling the makeshift trolley along the rope. The nylon line had also prevented confusion over which route led back to the catacombs – the shaft split in three directions at a central junction, but following the cord left only one choice.

  The clamor of the guards exiting the Chamber reverberated down the passage where the prowler had dropped to the floor from the duct at the far end. Engaging the night-vision goggles again, the intruder easily found the harness dangling from the well’s opening and, with a practiced motion, donned and secured it. The climb back to the top of the narrow shaft took several minutes of fiercely-determined exertion. At the end of the ascent the noise of pursuers fumbling through the hall below inspired a burst of stamina – the final twenty feet were conquered in a few seconds, just as the guards reached the bottom of the shaft, screaming in frustration. Shots echoed from the void, and bullets nicked the interior of the well’s rim, but it was too late.

  T
he nearly-invisible figure ran three hundred yards through the brush until arriving at a clearing – an ancient cemetery, possibly for the Abbey’s service staff, or a long-departed farming family. The intruder glanced back at the Abbey, now glowing with illumination, every window streaming light into the gloom. The frantic roar of car engines starting shattered the still night over the foggy moor.

  Perfect. The din would cover the sound of the getaway vehicle – a blacked-out obsidian Moto-Guzzi Stelvio NTX motorcycle hidden, for a fast escape, behind one of the battered headstones.

  A gloved finger stabbed the starter button and the big motor cranked to rumbling life. The rider checked the backpack, ensuring it was tightly closed and safely strapped in place. It wouldn’t do to have the canister lost on a trail somewhere in the English wilds.

  No, the contents were far too precious to take foolish chances with. If the legends were true, the cylinder held the key to the most important secret ever known – a secret capable of changing the course of history.

  Slamming the motorcycle into gear, the black-garbed rider sprayed gravel with the rear wheel and roared off into the night.

  CHAPTER 1

  Present Day, The Road to Lucca, Italy

  Dr. Steven Archer Cross was having a very bad day.

  His cell phone, wedged in its dashboard holder, signaled an incoming call just as he narrowly missed ramming his 2009 Porsche Cabriolet into a Renault sedan that had come to a skidding halt in front of him, blocked by a stalled VW Wesfalia covered with faded bumper stickers. The cars behind him slammed on their brakes and then stood on their horns in frustrated anger, as though somehow he’d conspired with the Renault and broken-down van immediately ahead. Steven had the Porsche’s convertible top down, and he could feel angry eyes boring into the back of his head as he waited for an opportunity to pull around the immobile camper.

  Eventually, one of the vehicles behind him took pity and waved him forward. He signaled and pulled past the log-jammed clump of vehicles to join the rubberneckers in witnessing another unlucky driver’s misfortune. A tall man with curly brown hair and a faded Grateful Dead T-shirt stood by the side of the road, agitatedly talking on his cell phone. The look on his face telegraphed this wasn’t the first time the Volkswagen had betrayed him.

  Steven stepped on the gas as he drove away from the congestion, checking the digital dashboard clock as he accelerated through the gears. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror, the wind buffeting his shaggy, light brown hair; the beginnings of hairline wrinkles on his tanned face framed his hazel eyes. Not so bad for forty-five, he reasoned, especially considering the mileage.

  The road ahead of him opened up and soon he was tearing along at eighty, traffic having thinned to nothing. The vehicular crisis circumvented, he turned his attention to the phone and the missed call.

  He reached for the keypad and hit the send button. His office manager Gwen answered.

  “Hullo,” she said in British-accented English, her Yorkshire heritage obvious even from the single word.

  “Hey, sorry I couldn’t pick up. I was a little busy.”

  “How busy can you be on a day like today?” Gwen asked.

  “You’d be surprised at how much I have going on,” Steven protested. “What’s up?”

  “A strange call came in a few minutes ago. The gentlemen said he needed to speak to you immediately,” Gwen said.

  “Okay…did you get a name?”

  “Winston Twain. Mean anything?” Gwen asked.

  Steven mentally file-referenced Twain. It was familiar, almost on the periphery of ‘very important’, but after racking his brain for a few moments the sensation of familiarity flitted away. Which didn’t necessarily mean anything – he’d been scattered since…

  No point dwelling on the unpleasant.

  “Not really. What did he want?” Steven asked.

  “Just said it was a matter of significant importance.”

  “Significant? Fine. What’s his number?”

  “He didn’t leave one. Said he’d call back. He sounded like another Yank. I think the call might have been international,” Gwen opined.

  Steven considered Gwen’s words – most calls of actual ‘significant importance’ tended to leave call-back numbers. Especially ones from the States, assuming her instinct was correct. Which it usually was. Gwen had been his office manager and handler since the inception of his software business three and a half years ago. She had an uncanny knack of being able to read people and was rarely wrong.

  An uncomfortable silence hovered over the line.

  “You’re still going to jump today?” Gwen asked.

  “Yes,” Steven said.

  “Jump out of a perfectly good plane, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Dropping at thirty-six feet per second, at a speed of–”

  “Stop it. I have to go,” Steven protested.

  “Cheers, then, and remember: what goes up…” Gwen disconnected.

  As he fought the morning traffic towards Lucca, a city roughly half an hour north-west of Florence, Steven suddenly remembered what the name Winston Twain meant.

  “I’ll be damned,” Steven muttered to himself.

  Winston Twain.

  Arguably the most respected cryptologist in the world.

  CHAPTER 2

  Thirty Months Ago, 20 Miles South of Florence, Italy

  The rustic Tuscan country house seemed to glow in the bright noon sunshine; its mustard-tinged paint blended with the field of green and brown grass surrounding it, creating the illusion it was floating in a rusted verdant sea.

  Two figures stood in a quiet embrace on the circular driveway’s stones. A light breeze carried the scent of hay from a nearby barn, intermingled with the smell of garlic drifting from neighboring kitchens. Neither of the pair noticed. They kissed like newlyweds, which was hardly the case – it had been three years since they’d exchanged vows but to any onlooker it would appear that these were teenagers enraptured by the powerful glow of first love.

  The woman’s auburn hair stirred as she pulled away from the man and, rolling an elastic hair tie down her wrist, she drew her mane into a ponytail. He held her at arm’s length, as though memorizing every detail of her face, and then hugged her close once more. They kissed again for a fleeting eternity.

  The moment passed and the woman glanced at her watch. “Oh, Steven, I’m late as usual. Okay, this is goodbye for real this time. I have to go,” Antonia exclaimed.

  “Why are you abandoning me?” Steven asked in a theatrical fashion.

  “Cara, it’s only a weekend. And you could have come, but you changed your mind at the last minute. You and your hobby, too busy to keep a girl satisfied, so she has to find diversion elsewhere…” Antonia complained. Her English was fluent, yet the unmistakable Italian accent colored the cadence in a musical way.

  “I wish I could go, but I made the arrangements for this meeting weeks ago, and I can’t cancel. It’s taken me a year to get the old bastard interested in selling, and he could change his mind at any time. You know I want to go with you,” Steven declared.

  “Si, si, I know. Oh well, then, it will be just me and my uncle…and perhaps the pool boy,” Antonia said.

  Steven knew better. Antonia’s uncle, Dante, had a palatial home half an hour south of Venice, as well as ten-bedroom ‘cottages’ in Chianti, Naples, and on the shores of Lake Lugano. There would inevitably be dozens of relatives arriving for his seventy-fifth birthday celebration, and likely everything from visiting heads of state to a reunion of the surviving Beatles to commemorate another year on the planet for the patriarch. It wouldn’t surprise Steven if, upon Antonia’s return, she reported that the Pope had dropped by unexpectedly to wish Dante continued good health.

  “Do try to have a good time, would you? I know how boring old Dante can be,” Steven quipped, fully aware that the weekend would comprise non-stop revelry. “Maybe I’ll take the train up and surprise you. I’m hope
ful this meeting won’t be a multi-day negotiation, but you know Italy…”

  “Yeah, yeah. At least I have the internet. I’ll tweet and let you know how the party is going,” Antonia promised.

  “I wouldn’t mind giving you a good tweeting before you go,” Steven fired back.

  “There’s nothing I’d like more, but I have to leave. Really, my little sparrow.” She pulled him next to the car. “Ciao, amor. I’ll see you in a few days.”

  Antonia kissed Steven’s lips one final time, then opened the door of the silver Audi TT. He couldn’t help but appreciate how magnificent her tanned, lithely-muscled legs looked as she climbed behind the wheel, her fashionably-cut skirt riding up to the top of her thigh. The engine burbled to life, and she shut the door and waved at him through the smoked window as she popped the transmission into gear.

  Steven watched the little car pull down the drive and onto the small strip of pavement that passed for a road in their rural area. Antonia tore off as though the devil was on her heels – a sedate pace for her, he knew. He could hear the engine revving into the distance for a full minute before tranquility descended again.

  You’re a lucky man, Steven.

  It was true. Three years ago he and Antonia had ducked out of the rat race and committed to prioritizing their time together over everything else. They’d roamed Italy for months before settling in Greve, where they could be in Florence within twenty minutes (if Antonia was driving) and yet were still well away from the hubbub of the city.

  Not renowned for resting on his laurels, once they’d established their new home in the Tuscan countryside, Steven had become increasingly engaged in his burgeoning hobby of cryptography – pursuing it with single-minded focus until Antonia suggested channeling his energy differently. At her goading he’d started a boutique software company, which had quickly blossomed into a five person organization that managed the efforts of nine remote programmers in Russia, the Ukraine and India. Ironically, neither of them needed the income – Antonia’s travel magazine sale had made her a small fortune, and Steven had accumulated enough in the market to never have to work again.