The Voynich Cypher

CHAPTER 17

“Why Rome?” Natalie asked.

“That’s what pops up with ninety-six percent certainty as the likely location described in the parchment. Specifically, the Basilica of San Clemente. One of the most ornate churches in Rome. Among its most noteworthy features is that it’s built on top of a fourth-century basilica that acts as a pseudo-basement, which is itself built over a first-century Roman home, complete with pagan worship room. And it has several noteworthy examples of art, one of which is of St. Alexis. I’ve heard of it, but I need to do some more research. Does your phone get internet access? Can we access the web while we’re on the road — plug the computer through the cell phone?” Steven asked.

Natalie nodded. “That will work. Although you can surf using just the phone.”

“Screen’s too small or I’d take you up on it.” He closed the laptop and quickly readied it for departure. “This way, I can read up on San Clemente while we’re en route. I don’t see any more reason to stick around here.”

He carried his bag out to the car, where Frederick stood, expressionless, near the sedan. The trunk popped open, Frederick having pushed a button on the key fob. Steven carefully placed his duffle beside Natalie’s bags. Another smaller suitcase sat to the side, presumably containing Frederick’s gear.

In a now familiar ritual, Natalie slid into the back seat, and Steven followed. The trip to Rome would take three to four hours, depending on traffic.

Once they were underway, Steven connected the laptop to the web and began searching for everything he could find on the old church. There was precious little to go on. The site was only a few blocks from the Roman Coliseum and appeared to be impenetrable, with bars on every window and security lighting and razor wire running across all roof areas. Steven shared this with her. Natalie retrieved her phone from the laptop and made a hushed call. She murmured for a few minutes and then terminated the discussion and plugged Steven back in.

“Who was that?” Steven asked.

“You’ll see. I have some contacts in Rome. They’ll work on finding someone who can help us with the basilica.”

Steven assessed her blank face, which betrayed nothing.

“You seem to have an extraordinarily developed network, Natalie. I’m surprised.”

“I’ve traveled in some interesting circles. You aren’t wanted by Interpol for any reason, are you?” she replied.

“No. Why?”

“The man I called is very innovative and can arrange for virtually anything, but he’s naturally suspicious, so you can expect that you’ll have a background check run that’s far more thorough than what I did. If you’re an international criminal, that wouldn’t be so good,” Natalie explained.

“What does he do, this innovative friend of yours?”

“This and that. Doesn’t like to broadcast exactly who he works for, but I think it’s safe to say he’s no stranger to alphabet agencies.”

Steven processed that. “And he can help us? Do you trust him?”

“Absolutely. We have history,” she declared, and left it at that.

Natalie was proving to be increasingly surprising: she didn’t flinch at violence and had contacts with the CIA or someone similar. He wanted to probe more, but sensed this wasn’t the time, so returned to his research while the car sped down the freeway.

The church’s lower levels were only discovered in 1857, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Whether the author of the parchment had known about it in the mid-1400s had little to do with whether that knowledge had died with him. History was filled with gaps, and Rome’s was no different. Once the middle-level basilica had been rediscovered, the order of Irish Dominicans, who were the facility’s caretakers since 1667, had excavated it, along with the first-century building beneath it.

At the time of the parchment’s authorship, the basilica had been under the stewardship of monks from Milan, who were of a newly created order — the Augustinian Congregation of St. Ambrose. If the author had been a monk in that order, it would explain why the mystery was hidden in the middle level. That a secret passage had been crafted to access the hidden church-beneath-a-church didn’t particularly surprise Steven. That period of history was filled with intrigue and persecutions, so prudent clergy trusted no one and kept their own counsel. And that the knowledge had somehow been forgotten over the centuries was consistent with the original monks being displaced by the Dominican monks from Ireland — who would have been regarded by the Italians as not-to-be-trusted, unwelcome interlopers.

Steven couldn’t imagine what might be hidden in the basilica, or whether whatever it was had withstood the elements and ravages of time for over five centuries. He didn’t want to discourage Natalie, but he knew the chances were far from good. Still, they’d do whatever was necessary to eliminate any doubts. He could tell Natalie would never quit — she reminded Steven of himself in that regard. She was determined.

Most of the websites were regurgitations of the same information, drawn from a few books as well as from the site’s official web page. Steven quickly exhausted the online resources and was soon back to square one. He’d need to make sense out of the cryptic message, but couldn’t see any way to do so until he was inside. Hopefully he’d see something that made it relevant, because as of now, he was at a dead-end.

Halfway to Rome, Natalie’s cell chirped an incoming call. Steven had downloaded all the websites that were of interest, so didn’t need the web any longer. Natalie unplugged the laptop cable and answered. After a brief discussion, she gave Steven an okay sign and disconnected.

“We’ll be doing a tour of the facility today and then meeting with my friend’s contact. He says we can trust the man with anything. We should be in Rome within two more hours, tops, so we can do the tour this afternoon, then meet with him after, at five. And he set up an apartment for us near the church,” Natalie reported.

“Wow. You don’t waste time.”

“I don’t think we have any time to waste. We have no idea what our opposition is up to, so we have to assume the worst. Don’t you agree?”

“I think we’re probably safe, for now. Nobody has the parchment but me. So we should be fine from here, as long as we don’t telegraph our moves or do something stupid,” Steven reasoned.

“I agree. But I want to move fast. A high-velocity target’s harder to hit,” Natalie said dryly.

Steven couldn’t disagree. The lady had a point.

When they arrived in Rome, Frederick drove them directly to the Basilica of San Clemente and dropped them off at the end of the block. After an hour wait in line, their tour began, and the group was herded through the present-day basilica. Natalie and Steven listened as the bored guide recited the details of the building in a tone that indicated he’d rather be anywhere on earth besides leading the tour. After a perfunctory period in the upper church, they descended to the middle level — the fourth century structure that had been excavated to the point where the original layout was evident. They moved along with the rest of the group, and Natalie quietly tugged on Steven’s sleeve when they passed into the main hall and were greeted by frescoes and mosaics, one of which was: ‘The Legend of St. Alexis’.

“That has to be the Alexis the parchment refers to,” Steven said.

They inspected the surrounding area but saw nothing promising — no crosses, and a large area of the floor was cordoned off where it had collapsed into the lower level.

“Maybe there’s another Alexis in here?” Natalie whispered.

“Possibly. We’ll know in a few minutes when the tour ends. Or maybe the cross is long gone. That was one of my fears,” Steven murmured back to her.

Natalie swung slowly around, estimating mentally where six paces would be in all directions, and saw nothing. Not on the ceiling or floor, or on the walls. There was no crucifix.

“What do we do?” she asked.

“Keep your eyes open. Let’s look on the other side of the wall, in the left gallery. Maybe there’s a cross in there.”

They obediently followed the throng into the farthest gallery, where there was a hole in the floor with a barricade around it. The gallery contained more art, but again, no crosses. The tour meandered in the middle for a few more minutes and then made its way to the lower level of the site, with its first-century Mithraic worshipping chamber and a host of small apartment-like cubicles. Natalie was fidgety and anxious to leave — the tour couldn’t end soon enough for her once they’d finished with the middle level.

As they returned to the main floor the crowd quickly dispersed, and Natalie and Steven found themselves on the sidewalk, debating their options.

“We need to get inside when nobody’s around and do a real search,” Natalie immediately advanced.

“That would be great, but how? And not to be a pessimist, but there’s the very real chance that whatever used to be there, assuming this is the right place and I didn’t miss something with my software, hasn’t been there for eons. In which case the Scroll might as well be on broadcast TV because there’s no hope of decoding it.”

“I understand, but we have to try. I’m going to see what our contact can do for us. It shouldn’t be that hard to get in. Money buys a lot of cooperation,” Natalie observed.

They walked two blocks to a small café. Natalie had made a call en route. Ten minutes after sitting down and ordering, a balding, stylishly dressed olive-complexioned man in his fifties approached them, smoothing his moustache and straightening his collar as he did so. His blue blazer and gray slacks lent him an air of aristocracy, as did his aloof bearing.

He caught their eye and moved to them.

“Ah, you must be my meeting! Welcome, welcome. Is this your first visit to Rome?” he greeted in good English. “My name is Daniel Franchesso. Danny to my friends.”

Natalie shook his hand and gestured to a seat.

Steven shook hands perfunctorily. “A pleasure. It’s our first time.”

Danny ordered a double espresso and prattled about the glories of Rome until the waitress brought his coffee and departed. He fished out a package of cigarettes and offered them to Steven and Natalie, who declined. He shrugged and returned them to his pocket.

“Filthy habit, and it will kill me, but I can’t help myself. Now, how may I be of assistance? Our mutual friend indicated I was to do whatever I could,” Danny told them.

“We need to get into the Basilica of San Clemente, after hours. We’d like some time in the middle level without being disturbed,” Natalie explained.

Danny’s eyebrows arched, but that was his only reaction. He didn’t ask why. “Oh. I thought you were going to ask for something easy, like an audience with the Pope.” He smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. “A joke, of course.” Danny gave them a look that was anything but funny.

“Can you do this?” Natalie asked.

“I don’t see why not. I’ll need to spread around a little money, and there will probably be conditions, but in Rome, anything can be done if one is flexible…and generous,” Danny assured them. “I have your phone number. Let me do some exploration and see what I can come up with. In the meantime, here’s the key to the apartment. Your friend, David, said you can use the safe house for as long as you need it.”

Danny slid a key wrapped in a piece of paper with an address scrawled across it to Natalie. She nodded and took it, tucking it into her purse.

“Whatever cash you need to get us into the church, consider it approved.” Natalie eyed him. “Our presence here is not to be discussed, with anyone. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely. I don’t even know who you are. But whoever, I never saw you. Si?” Danny quipped.

“I’m glad we can rely on your discretion. Please call when you have something for us. We’re available twenty-four hours a day,” Natalie finished.

Danny swallowed the last of his coffee before pushing back from the little table and rising. “I’ll be in touch. Enjoy your stay,” he said and then turned, walking away as if without a care in the world.

Steven and Natalie exchanged glances.

“What do you think?” Natalie asked.

“Who’s David?” Steven countered.

“The friend I told you about. His real name is Moody, but he uses different field names. In Italy, he’s David.” She paused. “What do you make of Danny?”

“Seems on the level, but smarmy. Maybe that’s good. I don’t trust him, but then again, I don’t trust anyone right now. As long as he doesn’t know anything more than we’re a mystery couple looking for a midnight rendezvous in the church, we should be fine.” Steven stopped. “Although I think it’s a rotten idea to stay at the apartment he’s lined up. That’s one of the weak links in this.”

“I trust Moody implicitly, Steven. We’ve been through a lot together.”

“Maybe, but we don’t know Danny from a taxi driver. Even if your Moody is pure as driven snow, if Danny isn’t, for any reason, we lose. I think I’d rather make my own arrangements. Call it an insurance policy,” Steven advised.

Natalie mulled over his point.

“Maybe you’re right. Let’s find someplace else.”