In Tongues of the Dead (9 page)

“Keep this phone on and do not stray far. I will contact you very shortly. Do you have a vehicle?”

“We rented one at the airport.”

“Thank you.” And the cardinal hung up.

Maury pushed end and dropped the phone into his suitcase.

“And how is the old fart today?” Jeremy asked, grinning.

“He's great. He sends his love.”

“Let me guess — he said for us to just sit around with our fingers up our asses until he calls again.”

Maury shrugged. “What else?”

“Fine.” Jeremy stood up. “I think I'm starting to stink. I need the cream — you got some there?”

Maury dug around in his suitcase and pulled out what looked like a large bottle of shampoo. He handed it to Jeremy who headed into the bathroom. Maury called after him, “Let me know when you're almost done and I'll put the stuff on your back.”

“Thank you, sweetie,” came the singsong reply.

Maury shoved the suitcase to one side, dropped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, barely listening to Jeremy whistling in the bathroom. His eye patch dug into his forehead, and he
pulled on it to relieve the pressure. He'd only started wearing it recently, because his eye had become infected. Then it rotted out. Maury felt as if things were getting worse and worse.

He marveled at his younger brother's ability not to take anything seriously. All of life was a game to Jeremy. He didn't worry about the long-term; he didn't worry about the church's control over them. Maury did. He wanted out, even if it meant the end of them both. He just wanted out.

What really bothered him was that he and his brother had never had a choice. No one had ever asked them if this was the life they wanted. The church had capitalized on their vulnerability when they were young, and never gave them a choice.

That was going to end — Maury would make sure of it. This trip to Connecticut was the last time they traveled anywhere for the great Cardinal Espinosa.

Jeremy didn't know, but almost a month ago Maury had confronted the cardinal. He had shown up, unannounced, in the office of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith and demanded a meeting. He knew the cardinal wouldn't refuse — he couldn't risk a scene.

Maury demanded that the church release him and his brother. The cardinal had smiled and nodded.

“Stop fuckin' grinning at me,” Maury demanded. “Living like animals with our bodies falling apart is no laughing matter.”

“My son,” Espinosa said. “You misunderstand. Your life has been a tremendous gift. Every second you continue to breathe is a miracle.”

“It's no goddamn miracle to me.”

The cardinal winced at the sacrilege, especially in his office. “Please don't take the Lord's name in vain.”

“Why?” Maury raged. “We are God-damned, aren't we? You told me yourself many times.”

The cardinal spoke slowly, patiently, as though talking to a child. “You are forsaken. Both you and your brother are born in the line of Nephilim. That is true.”

“And only you can keep us alive with your potions and medications. I know that. But I want out.”

Espinosa raised an eyebrow. “Out? My son, I know you feel you have suffered a lifetime of pain, but I assure you that you have been spared a suffering you couldn't imagine. I smile only because I knew you would be in my office to request this thing. I knew you would come to me.”

“Then give us our medication and let us go. No more missions.”

“It is not my release that you seek. You must pray for God to welcome you back. It is the heavenly Father who has declared your lineage an abomination.”

“To be quite honest, your Eminence, I don't give a fuck about God's opinion.”

The cardinal sucked in a breath. “Not in His house. You will not profane in His house again.”

They glared at one another.

Finally, Espinosa spoke. “There will be one more mission. The last and most important one.”

“One more?”

“Yes,” Espinosa said. “Wait for me to contact you, then complete this one last task. After that you will be free.”

“No more missions?” Maury asked.

The cardinal smiled and nodded.

And this is it
, Maury thought. The last mission.

Father McCallum stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His face was streaked with red from the panic of his dream. He splashed cold water against his skin and gave a heavy sigh. He had to meet the man who would take over the investigation of the Voynich manuscript.

Worse yet, he would have to admit that the Voynich manuscript was gone.

Stolen.

“Under my watch,” he whispered. “I'm so sorry.”

He pressed a towel to his face and then headed down the stairs. He tugged at his beard slightly, hoping to compose himself mentally and physically.

He found Evelyn near the bottom of the staircase standing in the kitchen with a tall, bronze-skinned man who looked like he was in his mid- to late thirties. Father McCallum had wondered if the Vatican would send an old cardinal from a local diocese. This man looked so ordinary, and wasn't even wearing a priestly collar. Maybe he wasn't the Vatican representative.

“Hello,” he said tentatively.

Benicio smiled. “Mr. McCallum? My name is Dr. Benicio Valori.”

“Doctor,” he said, and nodded, still unsure.

“Oh, a doctor,” Evelyn blurted breathlessly. “How wonderful.”

“My training is in clinical psychology. I'm not a medical doctor,” Benicio offered.

“How lovely,” Evelyn shot right back. It was obvious she didn't realize there was a difference between a medical doctor and a psychologist. “That must be so rewarding.”

Dr. Benicio Valori nodded. “It has its moments.”

Father McCallum felt beads of sweat on his forehead. He didn't have the strength to endure small talk. “What can I do for you, Dr. Valori?”

Evelyn frowned. He realized his abruptness had surprised her, and he tried to smile.

Benicio smiled, too. “Business, actually. We share some acquaintances, and I've come with a number of matters to discuss.”

“Library business, no doubt,” Evelyn said. “Mr. McCallum is an important person at Yale.”

“
Si
, he is indeed,” Benicio agreed.

“Evelyn,” the priest said. “I shouldn't want to bore you with our business. Shall I invite Dr. Valori upstairs to my flat?”

“You may do whatever you like,” she answered. “But I'm going to put on some tea and bring out my special gingersnaps.” She turned to the counter and pulled off a colorful cookie jar.

“Please don't go to any trouble,” Benicio said.

“It's proper,” she said. “Besides, I need to head out. I'm meeting Henry at the mall after his doctor's appointment. So I'm going to go. I'll put the water on but leave Ronnie to get the tea ready.” She filled a kettle from the tap and set it on a burner before turning to Benicio.

Dr. Benicio Valori took her hand and gave it a quick kiss. “It was an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Evelyn giggled and blushed. “Oh, you really are a gentleman. It was quite wonderful to meet you, too.” She turned to Father McCallum. “You must invite Dr. Valori over more often.”

There was a moment of silence after they heard the front door close behind Evelyn, then Benicio put his hand out. “Allow me to reintroduce myself. I'm Father Benicio Valori. I work with the cdf and was sent here by Cardinal Espinosa.”

Father McCallum shook his hand. “Father Ronald McCallum. Pleasure to meet you.” He motioned to the small kitchen table, and both men sat.

“So you're not a doctor?” McCallum asked.

“I am — I graduated from Columbia with a doctorate in clinical psychology. I joined the church right after graduation.”

“Are you an investigator?” The older priest knew investigators were the Vatican's religious police and went around the world investigating church-related matters. It was never a pleasant experience to have one show up at a parish.

“Yes, I've been assigned in that capacity ever since I was ordained,” Valori said.

“Your accent sounds Italian,” McCallum suggested.

“I was born in Sicily but my family moved to the U.S. when I was a teenager.”

Father McCallum watched the younger man, not sure what to think of him. Benicio's face was difficult to read. Just then the kettle began to whistle. He stood and moved to the stove.

“So you've been stationed at the Yale library for some time?” Benicio asked.

“The Beinecke Rare Books collection. Yes. Quite some time. A good twenty years.” He dropped tea bags into two mugs and filled them with hot water before returning with them to the table.

“Wow, that's quite a commitment.”

“It is,” the older man agreed. “But I love it. It wasn't what I expected after entering the priesthood, but I do love it. I could see where scholarship might even have been my vocational path if I hadn't entered the church.”

“That's great,” Benicio replied. “And now you've finally got something to report on, eh?”

McCallum frowned, noticeably troubled.

“What is it, Father?” Benicio asked gently.

“It's the reason you're here. The Voynich manuscript. It was stolen.”

“So it is the Voynich,” Benicio said.

McCallum looked up. “You didn't know you were coming about the manuscript? They didn't tell you? They didn't tell you
that I'd found someone who can read it?”

Benicio shook his head. “I wasn't in a good place for a briefing. The church mentioned you were watching over a manuscript. I thought it was probably the Voynich. I was told you'd fill me in when I got here.”

“I can try.”

“Did you tell the church about the theft yet?”

“I haven't had a chance.”

“How was it stolen?”

The older priest shook his head in disbelief. “Someone just kind of walked in and took it.”

“Walked in?”

“Yes, the security tapes show a man going to the Voynich display case but then he just sort of drops down, and next thing, the Voynich is gone.”

“And the person?”

“It was a security guard. Someone who worked at the Beinecke.”

“And they can't find this man?”

Father McCallum sighed. “They found him, all right — his body was left in front of the display case. Sort of decomposed, or something.”

“
Non capisco
. I'm not following this. Maybe we should back up. I know a little about the physical manuscript, but why don't you assume I know nothing and walk me through this thing.”

The older priest settled back on the wooden kitchen chair. “An American antiques dealer named Wilfrid Voynich discovered the manuscript in 1912. He found it in Villa Mondragone, near Rome, among a large number of ancient manuscripts owned by the occupant of the villa. The Jesuit College inherited all the papers when they took over the villa.”

“
Si
,” Benicio said. “I know the Villa Mondragone. It is still used for conferences and special events. I was recently at a retreat there.”

“I've heard it's a magnificent building.”

“Beautiful. But
scusi
— go on with your story.”

“Wilfrid Voynich discovered the manuscript when he was examining the volumes at the Mondragone. He immediately thought he had something special, something unique, even though the book was written in a language Voynich didn't recognize. He took it to the United States and made copies, which he distributed widely, hoping someone could identify the language. He sent it to linguistic experts, historical scholars, theologians, everyone he could think of.”

“And no one could read it?” Benicio asked.

McCallum nodded. “No one had a clue. Even then, people said it was a hoax. One scholar said it was a book of meaningless gibberish. But Voynich kept searching. After he died and the book changed hands, people continued to search for the truth of it. But no one has ever decoded a single word.”

Benicio smiled. “An entire book written in a language we can't figure out, even with all the computers and decryption technology these days.”

“It is a fantastic story. Even more interesting is that linguistic analysis of the manuscript shows it has all the features and characteristics of a real language. In other words, it isn't gibberish. The words have an order and rhythm that suggest a real language.”

Benicio shook his head. “Wow.”

“Voynich's wife inherited the manuscript when he died, and before she died she left it to a dear friend, who had once worked for her husband. The new owner sold the manuscript — already known as the Voynich — to H.P. Kraus, a book dealer, for about twenty-four thousand dollars. Kraus was convinced the book was valuable and he harbored great expectations of its sale but was met with skepticism and disinterest. It seemed the general public had written the manuscript off as a hoax. As a result, Kraus finally gave up and donated the Voynich manuscript to Yale in 1969. Shortly after the donation, the Vatican sent a representative to work in the Beinecke Library.”

“Does anyone else know about the Vatican's interest?” Benicio asked.

“It seems not, even though it's no secret that the Vatican once possessed the book.”

“I hadn't heard this part. The Vatican used to own the Voynich? Not just the monks at Mondragone?”

“The Vatican used to own it. Kraus purchased the manuscript in about 1963, then set about researching it so he could place a value on it. At some point he met a representative of the Vatican library, a Monsignor José Ruysschaert, and discreetly inquired about the Voynich. Ruysschaert fully believed the book was in the possession of the Vatican. Kraus, crafty soul that he was, asked to have a look. Ruysschaert went to the inner vaults but returned empty-handed. This was no surprise to Kraus, who told Ruysschaert
he
had the manuscript. Apparently, the Vatican had lost track of it in the distant past. Kraus made no secret about the church gaffe, but the Vatican played it down.”