The Voynich Cypher

CHAPTER 1

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.