The Voynich Cypher

CHAPTER 7

Steven Cross secured the door to his flat and set out on his daily walk to his company’s offices. It was a gorgeous early summer morning in Florence; the streets were abuzz with pedestrians hurrying to work. Motor scooters roared down the narrow streets, their angry whining combining with the shouts of laborers unloading delivery vans double-parked with cheerful illegality along the sidewalks.

Steven had sold the converted farmhouse in Greve after Antonia’s accident — every moment there was too painful a reminder of a life cut disastrously short by an ugly trick of fate. After three months sitting virtually immobile in the living room, staring at his books and the stack of ancient parchments that were the only reason he hadn’t been in the car with Antonia, he’d decided to move somewhere new, where her ghost didn’t come to visit every morning and stay till he dozed off late at night. So he packed up his valuables and located a flat in downtown Florence that was sufficient to his needs, and listed the country home with a realtor. An American couple had jumped at the asking price, and soon the house was just a memory. Like so much of his life.

He stopped at his favorite bakery and bought two baguettes of rustic peasant bread, then moved down the block to the café that was his regular morning haunt while he scanned the paper. His Italian was excellent after five years in Italy, and he diligently practiced speaking and reading it at every opportunity. Languages had always come easily to him, although as he’d got older everything became a little harder.

Steven paid his bill and grabbed a second cup of coffee to go, then stepped out onto the sidewalk to continue his trek towards the office.

Only something wasn’t right. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he was getting the tingle at the back of his neck that was a sixth sense he’d developed while in the military — and it was rarely wrong. Impulsively, he turned a corner on a street that led away from his office and circled the block, adding five minutes to his journey. Well worth the extra time because his vague uneasiness had become a certainty.

Steven’s survival instincts were sounding an unmistakable alarm. He’d picked up a tail, a gray sedan shadowing him. He’d confirmed his suspicions through rudimentary tradecraft he’d picked up from films and books — he stopped at a shop window, ostensibly to study the merchandise on display, and watched in the reflection as the vehicle came to a stop fifty yards down the street. Why he was under surveillance by parties unknown was a mystery, but from past experience he knew this sort of thing was never good. Steven resumed his walk and the sedan followed at a discreet distance.

Whatever this was, Steven was now in full alert mode. In his past life he’d made powerful enemies, on Wall Street as well as with organized criminal elements, and while it was unlikely that after this many years he would have resumed being an active target, the possibility never entirely disappeared. He’d resigned himself long ago to the idea that there was always that chance.

This morning, as he walked from his apartment to his office, the notion that a vindictive foe from a past life was stalking him seemed remote, yet the vision of the stealthy vehicle told him he wasn’t being paranoid. Still, any kind of attack on him seemed unlikely. Not in the open like this, in a district filled with witnesses, and with too many variables that could compromise the success of a hit. The bad guys generally came after you when there was nobody around. He didn’t think things had changed much since his last adventure — his bullet scar was painful evidence that he had some small familiarity with how these things played out.

The street traffic thinned as he entered the less commercial section of Florence his offices occupied, and he abruptly turned into an alley on his right — a shortcut — glancing behind to see if the car was still dogging him. It wasn’t until he’d already committed to that course that he saw the far end of the alley was blocked by a low-slung delivery truck with its emergency blinkers on.

The mouth of the thoroughfare was suddenly filled by the sedan, which came to a halt after it turned the corner when the driver realized there was insufficient space to continue, owing to the way the street narrowed. Steven stopped and turned towards the darkened windshield — he couldn’t make anything out but the pale oval of the driver’s head. The car and Steven faced each other in a silent standoff.

Another moment passed. A kit of pigeons flapped up from behind four recycling crates and soared past the hood and then above it, disappearing into the sky. Feathers and dander created motes of dust in the morning sunlight that flooded into the mouth of the alley, casting a surreal, hazy effect around the stationary car. Trapped and unable to move forward any further, but lacking sufficient width for anyone to get out, the vehicle reversed until it reached a point where the doors had reasonable clearance. After a few moments, the front passenger door of the car swung open.

Here it comes, Steven thought.

To his surprise, the figure that exited the car was a woman. She didn’t bother closing the door — Steven could hear the dim beeping emanating from the vehicle. The sunbeams slanting down momentarily blurred most detail except her silhouette, but as she moved into the alley, he registered that she was young, with jet-black hair spiked in a euro-punk style. As she approached him, with a steady, measured gait reminiscent of a gymnast or a dancer, Steven could make out her face in more detail. She was strikingly beautiful. The glinting of her nose-piercing and the small tattoo of a broken heart below her left ear lent an air of the exotic — the pseudo-goth look definitely gave her an aura of freaky danger, which he supposed was the intent. She looked Slavic, with high, pronounced cheekbones. But perhaps her most striking feature was her eyes, which were a stunning violet. He’d never seen anyone with eyes that color, and he vaguely wondered if she was wearing contact lenses.

Steven automatically completed his threat assessment and didn’t register anything overt. Her hands were empty, and her outfit didn’t have a lot of hiding places for weapons — she wore a skin-tight black jumpsuit crafted from suede that left little to the imagination and calf-height black leather boots boasting four-inch heels. He calculated she was all of five foot three including the boots, and although the ensemble was stunning, it was hardly what he would have imagined as first choice for a morning assault using hand-to-hand combat.

Though there was an initial hardness to her gaze and demeanor, Steven realized it wasn’t an air of antagonism; rather, it was one of self-confidence. She stopped in front of him and appraised him with open curiosity before finally speaking.

“Steven Cross? Dr. Steven Cross?” she said in a voice that was soft as velvet, and discordant with the steel-girder edginess of her cyber-punk look.

“Yes,” Steven said carefully. “But I have the feeling you know that already.”

The corners of her mouth twitched, and then she smiled…though it was a troubled smile that didn’t convey friendliness as much as something else Steven could not immediately identify. Sadness? Yes…sadness…

“Very astute, Dr. Cross,” the woman said. She extended her hand. “My name is Natalie Twain.”

Steven stuffed the baguettes under his left arm and extended his right hand. She grasped it with a strong yet feminine grip, Steven noted; again, incongruous to the rest of her demeanor. And then her name made him do a double-take.

“Natalie Twain? Any relation to Professor Winston Twain?” he said, still shaking her hand.

She nodded her head.

“Professor Twain was my father.”

“He called me a few days back, and my office team tried to track him down, but without success — he must have an unlisted number,” Steven said and then stopped. “Did you say Professor Twain was your father?”

“Yes, Dr. Cross. Was.”

Steven continued to stare.

Natalie nodded, reading his unspoken query. “My father is dead,” she said quietly.

Steven continued to take her in, and he could see her eyes, originally so piercing and uncompromising, were now softer in appearance…more vulnerable, somehow less impervious to scrutiny.

“I’m sorry,” Steven said.

“So am I,” Natalie said. “But not as sorry as I plan to make the people responsible.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Dr. Cross,” Natalie said softly. “My father’s death wasn’t an accident.”

Steven was taken aback, but held Natalie’s stare.

“Ms. Twain…I’m sorry to hear that, but I have to ask — why are we talking?”

“Because, Dr. Cross,” Natalie said, “I believe you — and I — are both in very real danger. I need twenty minutes of your time. Please don’t say no. Your life may depend on it.”