The Voynich Cypher (8 page)

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.”

Sia Amieri sat behind the wheel of a silver Lexus that had been provided to him by his mentor and employer, Dr. Morbius Frank. He gazed out at downtown Tehran, Iran, after a grueling travel session that had spanned from New York, to Los Angeles, to Palm Springs, then back to L.A., and a rather circuitous voyage home by way of Singapore, to Mehrabad International Airport.

The car had been waiting for him in the lot where Frank had indicated, the keys handed to him by an eager attendant who treated Amieri as if he were a visiting dignitary. Amieri knew that his benefactor was greatly respected in Tehran, although Frank was a British citizen. His dealings with the regime included petroleum, international banking and arms, and Frank had access to the most rarified corridors of power. Frank had homes and offices in Tehran, England and Canada, and his influence seemed to be boundless.

Amieri drove on Meraj Boulevard, heading for the Azadi Tower, where they were to meet. He took in the impressive piece of architecture, still half a mile away; the Tower, built entirely of white marble, thrust fourteen stories into the sky. Amieri was no stranger to the region, having been born and raised in Iraq, and having crossed into Iran many times on clandestine missions in his past – a brutal one spent as an interrogator and assassin under Saddam Hussein’s iron rule in Iraq, and then later as a freelance killer for anyone willing to meet his price. His benefactor had rescued him from certain execution at the hands of the new regime and offered him an alternative future to one that would be measured in hours before ending at the barrel of a pistol.

Amieri had known since he was a teenager that there was something different about him, something wrong. He gravitated to the notorious Iraqi secret police because he enjoyed hurting others; a large young man who would carry out the most offensive tasks without question was valuable – something his early mentor, a captain in the
Mukhabarat
, had recognized immediately. Soon, word of his ruthlessness spread beyond the agency, and he became the most notorious killer it had ever spawned. But all the while, Amieri was plagued with guilt. Not for what he’d done, but for his enjoyment of it, which his childhood upbringing condemned. He’d been secretly relieved when he’d been arrested and sentenced to die – at least there would be an end to the madness. Then Dr. Frank had appeared; the only person who’d ever truly understood.

Over the years, since what Amieri thought of as his salvation by the father he’d never had, he’d grown increasingly slavish to Frank and would have taken a bullet in the face for him. Frank’s appearance in his hour of need had been like that of an angel for Amieri, who was offered both a better life and a path to atonement.

There is always punishment
, Dr. Frank would tell him on occasion.
If not corporal, then that of the soul.

Amieri only hoped he would not cause his benefactor anger after what had happened with Professor Twain. Frank hadn’t negated the possibility of torturing Twain to extract information as to where the Scroll was – but neither had he tacitly endorsed the old man’s murder.

The professor’s demise had taken him by surprise. Amieri was unaware of Twain’s health problems and had been shocked and alarmed when the old man had gone under. Amieri had barely gotten started interrogating Twain before he’d died, so Amieri could legitimately take the position that his death had been an accident. Frank had not been interested in discussing the details on the telephone – his instructions were simply to meet with Amieri under the Freedom Tower, and all would be discussed in short order.

Amieri was not fearful of the slings and arrows of Frank’s anger.

His greatest fear was that his surrogate father would be disappointed in how he had handled things.

That would be the worst punishment Amieri could imagine.

Four thousand feet above the Caspian Sea, a Hawker executive jet was on final approach to Mehrabad International Airport. There was slight turbulence, but this was to be expected in this flight vector; the updraft from the Caspian was notoriously churlish when it came to airplanes descending over its capricious waters. Dr. Morbius Frank, however, was accustomed to the bounce. His gaunt countenance didn’t look up from his
Financial Times
even as the plane lurched several times – his pilots were the best, and he had more pressing problems than nervousness over a spot of rough air.

He was initially furious with Amieri about the old man’s death, but the big assassin was really just a child and had to be handled delicately. And perhaps it was his fault, at the end of the day, for not approaching Twain in person about the abrogation of their mutual agreement on Scroll ownership. Amieri had simply done what he did best – extracting the required information from those who were reluctant to be forthcoming.

“I’m not angry with you, my son,” Frank had reassured Amieri from his home in London when Amieri had called from the hotel in Palm Springs where he had taken a room before meeting Twain.

“He was sick, Doctor,” Amieri continued to insist. “I was not that harsh in my approach. There was no way of knowing he had an aneurism–”

“I’m confident you were not overzealous. You always apply judicious pressure. I appreciate that. This was simply an unfortunate and unforeseeable complication.”

“The Scroll was not there. I searched the place, top to bottom, without being too obvious. I know you didn’t want to leave any trace,” Amieri said. “It wasn’t in the house.”

“We’ll find it,” Frank cajoled. “My suspicion is that the daughter has it. There’s no other explanation that makes sense. Twain was a virtual shut-in, and the only one he trusted was the girl. My investigators confirmed that he didn’t have any safety deposit boxes, but the daughter does, so it’s not difficult to see where she fits in this. I’m sure that when we find the girl, we find the Scroll.”

“Do we know where she is yet?” Amieri asked fervently. “Because once I get my hands on her–”

“We’re working on it. My network is handling this even as we speak,” Frank said. “I will share more once we meet in Tehran.”

That had been three days ago. He wished he could turn back the clock and confront Twain himself about the change in plans on the Scroll, but nobody got to do things over. Frank had been occupied by other matters – critical matters that demanded his attention and which would come to the fore once the Scroll was located and the translations from it were obtained. It was a shame things had rapidly gone from controllable to chaotic, but in the end he’d prevail. He always did.

Frank felt a renewed sense of confidence as the buildings of Tehran loomed below. His team was pulling out all the stops in their search. Twain’s daughter would be located. Of this, Frank was sure.

He just hoped that they would find her before the Order of the Holy Relic got to her first.

Steven opened the door to his offices for Natalie, fumbling with the baguettes and coffee while Natalie walked into the building, clutching a leather bag.

Gwen Peabody rose from her desk and briskly approached Steven, taking the bread from him and glancing at the new female arrival.

“Hullo,” Gwen chirped at her.

Natalie only offered a nod. Steven glanced around the red brick interior of the old building, which had been gutted and converted into a single large workspace. The section nearest the entrance housed a reception area and a group of computer stations, arranged in a semi-circle on the polished concrete floor and occupied by the other residents of the office. All three now turned to regard Steven.

“Hello, gang,” Steven said. He turned to Natalie. “Ms. Twain, I’d like you to meet Gwen Peabody; she’s my office manager and is responsible for anything that goes right in my life on a day-to-day basis.”

“Nice to meet you, Gwen,” Natalie said. “Natalie Twain.”

Gwen made the connection instantly. “Ah, immediate relative, I would guess, of Professor Winston Twain. His…daughter?” She appraised Natalie more closely. “Or granddaughter?”

“The very same. His daughter,” Natalie answered.

“He called our office the other day. How is your father?”

“At peace,” Natalie said cryptically.

“Professor Twain passed away a few days ago, Gwen,” Steven said softly, and then looked to his three other employees.

“Oh,” Gwen said, deflated, and at a momentary loss of words. “I’m…so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Natalie replied.

Steven turned to his team, who were watching him expectantly.

“Ben Walker, Will Donahue and Sophie Lipton,” he introduced.

Sophie, a stout black woman of twenty-six, whose fondness for Italian pastry was clearly evident, smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Pleased to meet you, Natalie.”

“Likewise,” Natalie replied good-naturedly.

Ben smiled and said, “We’re the tragically underpaid and perennially overworked elves who make the software work. I’m Ben, and that’s Will.” He nodded his head in the direction of Will, who was busily typing on his keypad even as he glanced at Natalie in acknowledgement. Ben was tall and lanky, even seated, and had a scar running from his forehead down to his lower lip. Will was thin and pale, with a three day growth of sparse beard, and iPod headphones blaring metal music in his ears.

“Nice to meet everyone,” Natalie said.

“Natalie, let’s step into my office; this way, please…” Steven moved ahead of her to a room at the far end of the cavernous work area.

Natalie strode behind him, still holding her soft leather satchel.

Gwen looked to Natalie. “May I take that for you?”

“Thank you, I’m fine,” Natalie said and then followed Steven into this office, closing the door behind them.

Natalie took a seat in front of Steven’s desk. For a moment there was only silence, as he reclined in his chair and sipped his coffee. Steven and Natalie regarded each other. Natalie’s gaze was impassive, inscrutable.

Steven put the cup to the side and folded his arms while leaning forward in his seat. “All right, Ms. Twain. You have my attention. Why is my life in danger, and how can I help you?”

Natalie lifted her satchel and placed it on Steven’s desk.

“Call me Natalie. Please.” She paused, appraising him, and then continued. “I – I’m not sure where to start, so I’ll just begin with my father’s death. I believe that he was murdered by a man named Morbius Frank. Dr. Morbius Frank. Does the name mean anything to you?” Natalie said.

Steven searched his mental rolodex, but nothing flipped in terms of recognition. “No. Should it?”

“He is, aside from being behind my father’s murder, a businessman. A businessman, adventurer, self-described archeologist and philanthropist, and a billionaire. A trust fund baby to an oil magnate dynasty – one of the largest in the United Kingdom.”

Steven nodded. “I don’t recognize the name, but I get the point. He’s rich and powerful…and you think he killed–”

“Two weeks ago, Frank funded an operation for my father to obtain a religious artifact which Frank had learned was intrinsic to the Voynich Manuscript. I
know
you recognize that.”