The Voynich Cypher

CHAPTER 15

Steven woke to the sound of a rooster crowing nearby and for a few seconds was disoriented. Then the whole adventure came rushing back to him. He was in a rented villa, being hunted by shady miscreants intent on torturing him, while in the company of a modern Mata Hari with a mysterious past and beautiful eyes.

His phone indicated it was seven in the morning. He sighed, and then focused on meditating: a practice that was second nature to him. Steven felt the immediacy of his surroundings fade away, and soon he was in a void, absent any thought or mental images. After twenty minutes he felt a stirring and returned to conscious awareness, slowly coming back into the world, his nerves alive and again processing sensation.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he debated going for a morning run, but decided that it probably wasn’t the day for it. They had a lot to do, not the least of which was getting away from Florence as soon as possible. Steven peered through a gap in the curtains at the driveway and saw a silver Audi sedan parked in front of the house. Frederick had been busy last night.

Steven shuffled to the bathroom and showered, reflecting on the prior evening as the hot needles of water invigorated his skin. Natalie had proposed having dinner at the restaurant, and they’d lingered over an excellent bottle of Cabernet once their pasta entrées were through. She’d opened up a little, offering glimpses of her past, tantalizing slivers of an at-times rebellious and unconventional adulthood. Natalie had hinted at a background in law enforcement, although she was reluctant to go into detail. But that explained her comfort with weapons and her lack of agitation over their brush with violence.

He fingered the bullet scar on his leg, recalling how long it had been since he’d had to contend with being hunted. Antonia and he had nearly been killed when they’d first landed in Italy, in the small hill town of Todi. That seemed a lifetime ago, but it had only been six years.

Steven snapped back to the present and shut off the water. There was no point in throwing himself a pity party. Antonia was gone, and with her his interest in women. Until now. He had to admit that there was something about Natalie that had gotten to him. Not just the obvious visceral appeal, although that was potent. No, it was more the combination of her looks and her personality. Some elusive quality that was difficult to pinpoint, yet powerful.

She was as unlike Antonia as she could be. American, tattoos, goth look, accustomed to rough situations. And wildly smart, he remembered from their discussion of the Voynich. It was quite a cocktail, and Steven would need to keep on his toes to prevent being lulled into comfortable relaxation. He still wasn’t sure whose side she was on, although he was leaning more towards betting she was on his since the attack. But the truth was that she was on her own, and part of his job over the next few days would be to figure out where he fit in that scheme.

He toweled off and donned some fresh clothes, inspecting himself in the mirror. Not too bad — looked at least five years younger than he was, on a good day. Things could have been worse, he supposed. Steven repacked his shaving kit into the duffel and zipped it closed.

His phone rang. He glanced at the screen to discover it was from the office. Gwen’s voice chirped at him when he answered.

“Your results are in on that task you had Sophie run. You want me to e-mail it to your account?” Gwen asked.

“Yes, please. How long did it take to finish?”

“Let me ask. I got in a bit late today, and everyone was here before I made it.”

Steven heard her move the phone away from her mouth and call out. She was back on in a few seconds.

“Just before five this morning.”

“Wow. That was quicker than I expected,” Steven said.

“Sophie co-opted everyone’s computers, so it was a distributed effort,” Gwen explained.

“Ahh. Thanks, Gwen. And listen. If anyone else stops in looking for me, I’ve decided to extend my holiday indefinitely.”

Gwen paused. “Well now. You must be having a ball,” she remarked dryly, stressing the final syllable.

“It’s not like that. I can’t really explain because I don’t know much more, but it isn’t what you think,” Steven finished lamely.

“No. Well, I’m sorry to hear that. She looked like such a sweet young innocent thing. Really about the age of a daughter, if you’d gotten started young.”

Gwen was obviously not happy with the new arrival. She’d always been protective of Steven, but this was the first time he’d detected jealousy.

“I’ll continue to think of her as a daughter, Gwen. Thanks for that reminder,” Steven assured her.

“You can always have her call you ‘Daddy’ or ‘Papa’ to keep you centered,” Gwen offered. “Well, then, I’ll be e-mailing your findings to you now. Was there anything else you needed…Papa?” Gwen finished sweetly.

“That should do it. I’ll check in later.”

What the hell was that all about? Just when he thought he had enough trouble, something new surfaced. Now Gwen was getting territorial about Natalie? There was nothing going on there. And nothing between Gwen and Steven, either. It was all a big zero.

Could Gwen have somehow detected that Steven’s interest in Natalie wasn’t purely altruistic? It seemed like she knew things before Steven did. It would have been more efficient if Gwen had just sent him a list of what he was going to do every day. That would have been more useful than veiled innuendo.

Steven put his duffel onto the bed and moved to the bedroom door. He smelled the distinctive odor of strong coffee and…eggs. His mouth started watering on the way down the stairs, and he realized he was no better than a dog this morning. He was starving. Gwen’s mocking voice echoed in his head. Yes, old boy, you’re a dog, all right — ‘Papa’.

He smiled at his internal dialogue as he swung into the dining area. Natalie looked up from her position at the table, her hands cradling a cup of steaming brew.

“You’re certainly in a bright mood this morning. Nice to see — you had a good night, I take it,” she commented, noticing Steven’s grin. He stifled it and grabbed a cup of coffee.

“A little rest can do wonders.” He took a cautious sip. “The results are done. The office is sending them to me,” he informed her, suddenly all business.

“That’s awesome. Let’s get you online and cranking. You in the mood for some eggs? OJ?” Natalie offered.

“That would be great. I’m famished for some reason. Scrambled is good.” He moved to where the laptop was sitting and quickly logged into his account. “I’ve got the code. This will take a while to download. It’s a big file,” he explained. Natalie shifted to behind the breakfast bar and began preparing eggs. Steven looked up at her. As if reading his mind, Natalie paused.

“Don’t get used to his. I usually don’t do breakfast. And windows are definitely out of the picture.”

“What? I didn’t say anything. I was just admiring your…multi-faceted talents,” Steven teased.

Natalie ignored him. “Three eggs do the trick?”

Without waiting for an answer, she cracked three and whipped them into a froth before pouring them into the hot skillet. Steven chose to remain silent, tapping his fingers impatiently while the file downloaded over the slow wireless connection.

“So what’s your deal, Steven? Are you single? Seeing someone?” Natalie asked.

What was that all about? Had he been that obvious? It seemed that every woman he was in contact with could read his innermost thoughts. So much for his inscrutable poker face.

“I’m widowed. Two and a half years ago…”

“I know that. If I could find you on the street, I did that much background-checking. No, my question was, are you seeing anyone now?” Natalie pressed.

“Why? What’s it to you?” Steven volleyed.

“We may be gone for a while. A long while. I have no idea how anything is going to turn out, but I do know that Morbius Frank won’t stop until he has the Scroll and its secret. The Order is going to be the same way. So if you have someone you’re seeing and you try to stay in touch, sneaking in a call here and there, it will endanger us both, as long as we’re together,” Natalie explained matter-of-factly.

Steven digested this. His imagination had been running away with him. The idea that Natalie was interested in him was ludicrous, he supposed. She was at least fifteen years younger, maybe more, and doubtlessly had men fighting to get her clothes off every time she went out. The notion that she’d be drawn to him was some delusional male-menopausal fantasy. She was just trying to assess his liabilities.

“Nobody special,” he admitted.

Her eyebrow cocked again.

“And your receptionist? Gwen? Nothing going on there?” she asked disbelievingly.

“My office manager?” Steven corrected. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why not? She clearly likes you, and she reacted to me like a cat dropped in boiling water. You could see her back arch from across the room,” Natalie observed.

“I think you got the wrong impression of Gwen. She’s a professional, and we’re not…we’re not an item. So don’t worry.”

“Seems like there’s some unfinished business there, whenever this is all over, Dr. Cross,” Natalie said.

“Thanks for the dating tip, but that’s not an option. It’s not something I’m interested in.”

“Women, or Gwen?” Natalie asked simply.

Steven was momentarily flummoxed. This wasn’t at all the discussion he was expecting first thing in the morning, with teams of assassins hiding behind every bush.

“You missed your calling as a high-pressure interrogator,” Steven advised.

The computer pinged, and he returned his attention to the screen.

“Ah. The file’s finished,” Steven announced, saved by the bell. He turned his attention back to the little laptop screen, and Natalie let the touchy subject drop.

Ben skulked to the bathroom, casting a furtive glance at Gwen and Sophie. He was having a rough day again, and the paranoia was setting in even after he’d done his maintenance dose of heroin that morning before making it to the office. He despised himself for his weakness and the constant dull ache of pain that was his legacy from the horrible accident that had left him scarred. If he’d been paying more attention that night he would have seen the car swinging out of the driveway, and instead of striking it with his motor scooter and flying thirty feet through the air to bounce against the cold cobblestones like a broken ragdoll, he would have braked in time, or swerved and dodged it.

He’d played the scene over in his head many times, nearly every night for the seven years since that fateful evening. As he was recovering in the hospital, his bones broken and his skin shredded, after three operations to repair the internal injuries, he replayed the incident, and each time he made a minor adjustment, or had been going slower, or had been paying more care to the road — and less to his fiancée, Sabrina, whose arms had been locked around his waist, distracting him with their warm embrace.

They’d met at university, where he’d been finishing up his doctoral thesis for a Ph.D. in computer science and she’d been majoring in political science. At first there had been little in common — she a native of Sienna, only in the big city of Florence for her studies, and he, an American expat who’d decided to live abroad and who shied away from social situations. They’d met at a mutual friend’s party and, other than an immediate and powerful physical attraction that had resulted in her joining him in his dingy little apartment that first night, they hadn’t really found much to talk about. And yet one night turned into a week, and then into six months, and ultimately a discussion of marriage.

It was an odd pairing. Sabrina was stunning in a no-makeup, naturally-beautiful way that could stop traffic even in a city filled with gorgeous women, whereas Ben, while decent-looking — his nose a little too big, his eyes a hair too close together — was naturally withdrawn and introspective. She was the life of most parties, whereas he was a loner, but somehow circumstances conspired to bring them together, and their passion could have powered a small city. By the time their first month together had passed she was living with him, and both were convinced this was it.

When his scooter had crashed into the VW, he’d flown over the front fender and hood. Sabrina hadn’t been so lucky, and her trajectory had carried her headfirst into the car’s roof. The emergency medical technicians who’d appeared on the scene within ten minutes said she’d died instantly from the broken neck and had probably felt no pain. That was slim consolation to Ben, whose waking hell on earth was only relieved by the ever-present morphine they’d given him for the pain. Once he’d been discharged, he’d been weaned off the meds and given less powerful painkillers, but they had virtually no effect, and his suffering had been ongoing.

The counselor at the hospital had been of the opinion that much of his discomfort was mental, but Ben didn’t see how that theory helped or changed anything. He was miserable, physically and spiritually, and even after the plastic surgeons had repaired him to the point where he didn’t frighten small children, he’d felt like his life was over and he was running out the clock on a tortuous existence.

The first time he’d smoked heroin it had numbed the pain, and by the time he’d moved to skin-plinking, his chemical romance was firmly established. It was only a matter of time before he’d moved to shooting up, the progression inevitable. Ben wasn’t stupid, and he understood that he was dancing with the devil each time he injected himself, but a part of him was dead, and the drug helped him get through the day. Heroin was plentiful in Italy, a function of the trafficking from North Africa and Afghanistan, so he never had any problems copping. But the cost was a killer — it took ever larger doses to achieve the same effect, and he’d watched his meager savings leak into his arm. He’d tried reducing the amount gradually, but in the end it was no good, and he now found himself in a different kind of hell.

He was still one of the fastest and best coders around, making a more than livable wage, but when the hunger was riding you like a pony it was never enough. And his weekly sexual holidays with the working girls cost him dearly as well. Since the accident, he hadn’t sought out any company other than that of professionals. He knew that there was no way a broken, addled and addicted wreck would be able to attract any kind of a mate, so he didn’t waste his time in a depressing, doomed-to-failure pursuit, preferring to stay with the prostitutes who would pretend he was normal as long as he could afford their charms.

He splashed some water on his face and studied the scars in the mirror, wondering how long he could continue like this. He needed to figure out how to get his hands on more money, or every day would be this kind of purgatory, where the dose was never sufficient to make him feel good and barely kept the howling void at bay.

Ben was loyal and thought of himself as a basically good man, but the monkey on his back had its own agenda. And the monkey needed its medicine. No medicine, and the withdrawals would come, and perhaps worse, the dreams — the recollection of Sabrina, fun and filled with life, and then the crumpled heap of lifeless flesh next to a car door, the victim of half a second’s carelessness in a lifetime of perfectly-timed events.

Whatever it took, he wanted to avoid the dreams.

Dreams of Sabrina, glaring accusingly at him with only half a face.