The Voynich Cypher (14 page)

“Not really. It’s all password protected, but anyone with some time and knowledge could get through that. Mostly just BS. Still, it’s annoying,” Steven groused.

“I’ll bet.”

“I’m going to send the program over and the document a little later. I don’t have internet access at my house. The bastards tore the jack out of the wall and stole the modem. God knows why. Anyway, call me when it’s done. Thanks, Gwen.”

The CD door popped open, signaling that it was finished. Steven logged off the computer and, surveying the damage to the flat once more, he decided there wasn’t a lot more he could do other than clean up. He powered down, pocketed the CD, and lifted the duffel over his shoulder. Glancing around a final time, he shook his head in disapproval at the mess. He would need at least a full day to get everything sorted and put back in place.
What a pain in the ass
.

He tromped down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk, preoccupied with new doubts about Natalie. Steven thought he was a good judge of character, but you never knew. He’d have to be on guard in case she had mischaracterized her involvement and had simply engineered circumstances to get him to decrypt the Scroll. It had been sheer luck he’d remembered a parchment with the labyrinth symbol on it, although there was no telling how many documents like it were in circulation. Could be only that one, or could be dozens.

He rounded the corner and approached the car, still parked in the same place. Steven was startled when the trunk popped open. Soundlessly interpreting the unspoken instruction, he tossed the duffel into the boot and closed it before moving to the rear door, which Natalie had swung ajar for him.

“Took you long enough,” she complained.

“Yeah, well, I had some odds and ends that needed tidying up,” he responded, watching her face closely for any sign of reaction. She looked at him blankly, obviously annoyed by his glib rejoinder. If she knew anything about the breakin, she was an Academy Award-level actress. He detected nothing but impatience to get going.

Steven regarded her exotic face, noting again in the close proximity that she smelled like a small slice of heaven. Whatever that was, it was a winner, he mused. Or maybe it had just been an awfully long time since…

Best not to go down that road.

“We need to get to a computer so I can check my e-mail and send the program to my office so they can hammer on it. Any ideas?” he asked.

“There’s an internet café up two blocks,” Frederick said. “We passed it earlier.”

Natalie gave Frederick a thumbs up. He pulled into traffic, which was now heavy from the evening rush hour.

Across the street, a whippet-thin man with heavy acne scars marring his hard-chiseled face murmured into a cell phone as he lit a cigarette and pretended to consider a pair of chocolate leather women’s riding boots in a shop window. He took in the car and the license plate, as well as the heavily-tinted windows and the way it rode low, and passed the information to his associate.

“I think it’s him. I trailed him from the flat. I wish we had some photos so we could be sure,” the man muttered into the mouthpiece between puffs.

“We’re trying to get access to the motor vehicle database for a license photo, but there’s nothing else I’ve been able to find. The man obviously isn’t much for social media. Pity. Facebook’s made everything easier…”

The man glanced around and then moved to the street as a motorcycle pulled to the curb. He tossed his smoke into the gutter and climbed on, and the driver gunned the engine before slamming it into gear and pulling into the clogged traffic a dozen car lengths from their quarry.

Steven and Natalie entered the internet café, which was filled with students and tourists, and approached the bored, heavily tattooed and pierced girl behind the shabby counter. Steven wondered what circus she was planning to join – with fluorescent blue hair, four nose-piercings, a chain of skulls inked around her neck, a perpetual sneer and an attitude that rivaled the most arrogant baristas in town, there was little chance of her winning the title of Miss Florence Congeniality. Italy invented dismissive annoyance, and it was practically a rite of passage to be shown just how little you mattered by a whole phalanx of shop workers and restaurant staff eager to make the point. Their hostess had taken the leitmotif to heart. In spades.

Steven negotiated for the use of a computer, and soon he’d verified that the dealer had sent him a scan of the ancient document. He opened the large file and studied it – there in the lower right-hand corner was the identical crest to the Scroll’s. There could be no mistake. He typed a rapid series of keystrokes, and in an instant the bits and bytes were winging their way to the office, along with the program to decrypt it. Once they had paid for their internet time, Steven held the door open for Natalie. Frederick had pulled the car around the block because there were no spaces. Natalie fiddled with her phone while clutching the satchel as they made their way back to the car. Steven leaned over to her and whispered in her ear.

“Don’t look back, but I think we’ve picked up a tail.”

Natalie’s expression didn’t change. She edged closer to him as she walked easily by his side.

“Should we duck into this café? It’ll buy us time and we can confirm it. I’ll call Frederick and ask him to go round the block and eyeball the exterior,” Natalie suggested, and then without waiting for an answer, dialed Frederick’s number. She murmured a few words of explanation into her phone and then palmed it.

They swung into the busy café and moved to the back of the long room, which featured faux bohemian décor, replete with black and white photos of beat poets adorning the walls. Jack Kerouac glared from one; Allen Ginsberg scowled from another. Steven felt as though he’d been transported to the late 50s-era Greenwich Village, which was oddly incongruent with modern Florence, yet the place was packed, and the din of animated conversation filled the air along with the rich aroma of coffee. Natalie’s phone chirped while Steven scanned the room as though looking for a table, his eyes darting to the front door and picture window seemingly as an afterthought.

Natalie hastily fielded the call and hung up.

“Looks like two men. Professional. Staked out on either side of the front entrance, roughly twenty yards apart. Frederick doesn’t think we’ll be able to shake them. Any ideas before I have him start shooting?”

Steven studied Natalie and realized she wasn’t joking.

He glanced around the back bar to the kitchen area and then grabbed her hand.

“Come on.”

They pushed through the stainless steel double doors, past several puzzled servers, and found themselves in a frenzied dishwashing area next to a bank of ovens. The supervisor approached them and fired off a burst of staccato Italian, demanding to know what they were doing. Steven, pretending to be a tourist, merely shrugged apologetically as his eyes scanned the back of the kitchen and landed on a corridor leading into the depths of the building. He peered down the hall and saw an exit door, no doubt the delivery entrance, and elbowed Natalie gently. He hoped those following him didn’t have a larger team than the two out front.

Steven glanced back over his shoulder in the direction of the dining room and saw a man struggling past the wait staff, the doors momentarily swung open by a woman carrying a tray filled with dirty cups. The irate kitchen manager made as if to physically remove them from his little kingdom, and Steven had to make a split decision.

“The back. Now. They’re coming,” he whispered, and Natalie ran towards the rear exit, Steven in tow. The dishwashing staff stopped what they were doing and stared as the odd couple raced for the garbage area.

Steven hit the door with his shoulder, wrenching the lever handle as he did so, and they spilled into a small alley. They heard a commotion from the kitchen behind them. Steven didn’t wait to confirm that it was their pursuer. He darted down the street and spied a large, centuries-old building under refurbishment, the rear entrance barred by a slab of flimsy particle board held in place with a chain. It looked like there was just enough room for them to get in. Steven gestured to Natalie, who hurriedly slipped through the opening. Steven quickly followed, and they found themselves in a dimly lit, gutted area undergoing renovation. The construction crew had long since gone home, and the only sounds were the rumble of traffic from the far end of the building where it faced onto a major boulevard. They hastily pushed past the hanging construction tarps and ladders towards the street noise, probing their way through a maze of half-finished rooms and halls cluttered with bags of plaster and wood planks.

A rattle echoed through the area as their pursuer struggled with the rear entrance. If they couldn’t find a way out they were trapped, and Steven resolved himself to a possible fight with adversaries of unknown competence, who could very well be armed.

“Be as quiet as possible. We need to find a way out the front,” Steven whispered.

They crept past a tall ladder and a rotary table-saw on a makeshift stand. Footsteps pounded from a distance. Natalie glanced at Steven’s profile – jaw set, eyes narrowed to slits as he focused on finding an exit.

An explosion of feathers startled them both as a sparrow sought escape, hurling itself against the tarps before disappearing into the cavernous darkened space above. Dim light from the waning dusk filtered through the broken windows, providing scant visibility. The footsteps slowed to a more cautious cadence, drawing closer.

Steven gestured to a spot ahead that was brighter, and the sound of cars grew louder as they made their approach. The footsteps behind them ceased. Steven cautiously picked up a three foot section of wood beam and motioned for Natalie to continue towards the opening. He remained behind, sliding his body into a recess in the wall, waiting for his stalkers to show themselves, his improvised club at the ready. After what seemed like an eternity, the crunching of plaster underfoot sounded from a few yards down the hall, and then a silhouette materialized in front of him.

The pursuer didn’t register the movement in time, and by the point he did, it was too late. The wood beam landed squarely on his head, dropping him instantly. Steven listened for evidence of another assailant but heard nothing. The other man must have stayed in place outside the café or had gone into another building.

Steven crouched and felt the man’s pulse, barely making out his shape in the darkness. The beat was weak and fluttering, but there. He’d live, although he’d feel like a piano had landed on him when he regained consciousness – Steven could just make out blood streaming down the side of the man’s head. He surveyed the surrounding floor and spotted two weapons his assailant had dropped – a square box and a pistol. He scooped them both up and soundlessly eased himself to where Natalie would be waiting.

When he arrived at the front entrance, also secured haphazardly with some wood and a cursory length of chain, she was nowhere to be found. Natalie had disappeared. He glanced down at the white plaster dust that coated everything and saw the distinctive outline of her boots leading out onto the street, beyond the barrier. He wondered whether he’d be able to make it through the space and then heard noise from somewhere in the building’s depths and resolved to try. It didn’t sound like he had a lot of time.

Steven barely squeezed through, emerging onto a busy sidewalk with pedestrians hurrying along, anxious to get home. He scanned the sidewalk but didn’t see Natalie.

Great
.

A horn honked, and Frederick slid to the curb next to him, the rear door swinging open before the car had completely stopped. Natalie’s distinctive aroma floated into his awareness even before he’d made it to the car, drawing him like a bear to honey.

He climbed in, pulling the pistol from where he’d concealed it under his shirt, and examined it.

“An air gun.” He cracked the breach and extracted a small, blue-feathered dart filled with a dark amber fluid. “Want to bet that’s knockout juice?”

She hefted the box he’d set on the seat. “This is a stun gun. Which makes sense – they want you alive so they can interrogate you. They’ll only kill you once they understand what you know,” Natalie reassured him.

Steven absorbed that. “What do we do now?”

“I think it’s safe to say that they’re on to you. Your home and office are off-limits. They must have made the car, so we’ll need to ditch it and get another one. Frederick can handle that. My vote is we go back to the villa, make dinner, and rinse the construction dust off while he deals with it. How long will it take for your office to run the decryption analysis?” Natalie asked.

“Should be done by morning, with any luck. But are you sure that these people can’t find you tonight?”

“You’re the one who picked up the tail, not me. The trip to the flat was a bad idea. I understand you needed to get the software, but everything in life has a risk, and the risk there was of you being followed. We knew that. And now we dealt with it, so other than the problem of us being confirmed together on a visual by our pursuers, we’re clean. But you can’t go anywhere near your usual haunts. Hopefully this was a wake-up call for you, and you realize I haven’t been overstating the danger.”

Steven listened to her calm, measured cadence, absent any trace of emotion, and nodded.

“I believe you.”

In the tranquility of the now deserted office, Sophie’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she set up the encryption software to perform the analysis on the file Dr. Cross had sent. She’d been a programmer for close to a decade, having been somewhat of a child prodigy, which had earned her a full scholarship to Stanford. Those had been heady times and had validated the many hours of sacrifice her mother had invested so she could pursue her interest in technology. A scholarship had been the crowning achievement of her life, and she’d graduated with a 4.0 average before going to work for Microsoft.

When she’d been recruited to work for Cross’s group it had been a no-brainer. Live in Florence, a location redolent of the exotic in a country she’d always dreamed of visiting, for the same salary as being another faceless cog in a corporate machine in Washington, where it rained constantly and costs were through the roof? No contest. Of course, there had been logistical issues to deal with, not the least of which was her mother, who had been fighting cancer for the last two years. She’d gone into remission after an aggressive course of chemotherapy, but her health had been precarious ever since, and Sophie was her sole means of support other than disability income and a meager Social Security allotment. They’d quickly burned through her mom’s savings over the course of the health battle, and Sophie had stepped in and bridged the shortfalls. But that had cost her dearly, and the expenses were still piling up, even with the health insurance. Her mother was now living with her in a two bedroom apartment, and Sophie’s life revolved around work and attending to her needs.