The Voynich Cypher (23 page)

Her tongue probing into his mouth had awakened a side of Steven that had been dead for over two years. He wasn’t sure he was ready for it to be roused in such an abrupt manner, but now that it was, he couldn’t stop thinking about it – when he wasn’t consumed with the puzzle of a lifetime and calculating how to escape execution by centuries-old secret societies or murderous billionaires.

The soft feel of her full, lush lips and urgent tongue, the scent of her dewy immediacy, the hard curves of her supple, pert, inviting–

Steven mentally shook himself.
That’s enough of that
. Mooning around like a high school boy with his first crush wouldn’t do either of them any good, and occupying his limited mental resources with fantasies of Natalie seductively peeling off her skin-tight jumpsuit to reveal her perfectly-sculpted nudity, tattoos heralding her passionate, wanton shamelessness…

Stop it. Now. Enough
.

The girl behind the counter, who was all of seventeen, regarded him oddly. Steven supposed she saw plenty of old perverts on the graveyard shift, but still, it made him feel grungy and lecherous. She slid the cardboard tray with two coffees and a bag of croissants across the counter to him with a look that clearly said she was afraid he’d pounce on her if she didn’t snatch her arm away.

Yes, he’d come a long way in the last forty-odd hours. Now he was scaring random females with his newfound Uncle Touchy leer.
Great
. Hard to add that to the resume.

He realized that his internal dialogue was veering into unexpected areas and attributed it to the fatigue and post-chase adrenaline crash. It had been a long time since he’d had to run from pursuers, and he’d almost forgotten how many inner resources it consumed.

Natalie had seemed almost unaffected by the day’s events, except for Frederick’s death, which Steven had watched her quickly digest and compartmentalize. He understood because he also dealt with grief and pain like that, especially during times of crisis. Getting bogged down in emotion was a luxury those on the run couldn’t afford and came at a cost that could be lethal if you hesitated at the wrong moment or missed a vital danger signal. He’d seen the pain in her eyes when she’d taken the gun from him in the taxi, but she’d quickly bucked up and done what was necessary. A rare trait in most people, much less a gorgeous young ingénue with sex appeal that wouldn’t quit.

Steven forced himself to swallow some of that compartmentalization medicine and stuffed his daydreams about Natalie’s charms behind a mental door, which he shut with commitment, if not enthusiasm.

He returned with his bounty and sat across from Natalie, who was staring at the silent computer screen as if to command it to complete its task through sheer force of will.

“Did it flash the decrypted message alert?” Steven asked, handing her the coffee.

“Will it do that?” she asked, eyeing him skeptically.

“Absolutely. Oh, wait. I never downloaded that update. Sorry.”

She fixed him with a quizzical stare. “Did you just make a funny?”

He couldn’t keep his composure, and just a hint of a smile flashed across his face.

“I’ve been told my sense of humor is one of my most endearing traits,” Steven tried.

“Don’t quit your day job.” Natalie shifted her gaze back to the screen. “When will you know that it’s finished?” she asked.

“Seriously? It will default to a screen that says processing complete. Very low-tech. Once that’s done, I’ll have a file with the contents organized into the three likeliest combinations of words, which I’ll need to translate. Although in my experience the top choice is usually the right one.”

Natalie emitted an impatient sigh and set the computer to one side. She tasted her coffee with a slurp.

“So what drives a young woman to become an FBI agent?” Steven asked, sipping his own coffee gratefully.

“Honestly? I got fascinated with the idea after seeing Silence of the Lambs, and one thing led to another,” she said.

He studied her serene expression. “Are you F-
ing
with me?”

A trace of amusement crossed her face at his choice of terms.

“Steven, trust me when I tell you that you’ll know when I’m ‘F-
ing
’ with you. And this ain’t it.”

He decided to let that ball go by without swinging at it.

“You joined the FBI because of a movie?”

“It’s more complicated than that, but that’s basically my story. I graduated from Duke University with honors in three years and decided on getting my JD in half the usual time. At some point during that whirlwind I saw the movie, and I thought, ‘That’s what I’d like to do.’ After I passed the bar, I applied to the Bureau, and they accepted me. The rest is history.”

“You’re an attorney, too?”

“Don’t hold that against me.”

“And you said you were with the FBI for five years?” Steven asked.

“Technically, six. But half the first year was training.”

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how old are you, Natalie?”

She hesitated. “Just turned thirty-one. I focused on financial crimes to start with, but quickly moved into specialized field work. The financial stuff was too boring. So I weaseled my way into becoming a mob specialist. Tracking hit men.”

“Why did you leave?” Steven asked.

“I’m not a good team player, and the FBI is all about teamwork and politics. That, and it’s still somewhat of a boy’s club, which makes it tough for a girl to get ahead – even though half their ads feature politically-correct, racially-and-gender-mixed models, the truth is it’s still mostly white men who run things. I loved the field work, but hated the political jockeying. So I quit after sewing up a huge case. They were sad to see me go – when I graduated from Quantico I was chosen to receive the Director’s Leadership award. I was one of their model success stories.” She took another taste of coffee. “I quit being a Special Agent two years ago and almost entered a convent to better serve the church. And in case you’re wondering, I’m still a virgin,” she confessed.

Steven’s mouth actually fell open at her nonchalant recitation. She smiled at him.

“
Now
I’m F-
ing
with you,” she said. She leaned over and picked up the sack and rooted around in the paper bag for a croissant.

The laptop beeped.

“I think that’s for you,” Natalie said.

Steven moved to her side and put the computer in his lap. He quickly pulled up a screen and opened a file.

“Let’s use your phone again. I need to translate these from Latin,” Steven said.

Natalie plugged it in the laptop and within a few seconds they were online. He fed in the data to a translation engine and saved the results.

They both peered at it on the screen.

“Huh?” Natalie exclaimed.

“I told you not to expect too much on this first go around.”

“What does it mean?”

“My job, such as it is, would be to find out.”

Steven scratched his head. The message didn’t make a lot of sense.

“From holy Januarius’ crypt, three paces from the olive harvester points the traveler to the path, five hands above the trinacrium.” Steven groaned. “I’m tired. Is it just me, or is this gibberish?”

“Remember the last one. On first blush it wasn’t obvious. Aren’t you going to run it through the computer and see what hits for likely locations? It worked with the basilica.”

“You’re right. Sorry. I’m just running low on steam,” Steven apologized. Suddenly he felt beat.

“Too bad we can’t use Moody’s apartment. But given the circumstances, seems like a poor idea,” Natalie observed.

“That’s an understatement.”

“Maybe we can get a room once it’s light out. It doesn’t have to be in Rome. Or we can take a train somewhere for a few hours and sleep onboard.”

“You know what? That’s not a bad idea. We can get first class seats to somewhere in Italy and catch up on our rest. And they have internet on board.” Steven brightened. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this requires a lot of mental focus, and when I’m exhausted…”

“No need to apologize. You’re not a young man. I completely understand,” she said in a neutral tone. Steven cocked an eyebrow. “I’m F-
ing
with you again,” Natalie deadpanned.

“I got that. Let’s go over and see what time the next train to anywhere leaves,” Steven said, closing the laptop. “We can run the search while we sleep.”

They proceeded to the ticket windows, where they were greeted by a surly man with a low patience threshold. After a few curt sentences back and forth, Steven was able to glean that the next train for Milan left in under two hours. He asked about other destinations, but the ticket vendor seemed annoyed at having to answer questions, and brusquely slid a laminated paper timetable under the window to them before resuming reading his magazine. Natalie gave the man a black look, which he cheerfully ignored.

“We might as well run the search while we wait,” Natalie said and held out her hand for the laptop. Steven handed it over and she plugged it into her phone again. They moved away from the ticket area, and Steven sat, typing in a series of commands – then the little computer began searching online for relevance.

“Train for Milan doesn’t leave till 6:15 a.m.. You mind if I get a little shut-eye while we wait?” Steven asked, more a statement than a question.

“Help yourself. If you can sleep on those plastic seats, you’re entitled to. There’s no way I can,” she complained.

“Right now I could sleep through a Metallica concert.”

They moved to a waiting area near the ticket window, and within a few moments, Steven’s head moved down toward his chest, and he was out.

Steven ran down a long hall roughly hewn from polished black stone. Obsidian, he realized, even as he registered the scrape of claws behind him. Something was gaining on him, and it had murder on its mind – he could smell an odor of death, of carnage, wafting over his shoulder, driving him on as he blindly raced down the dark passageway. Ahead in the distance a torch flickered smoky illumination, revealing an ancient wooden door; heavy, held together with rusting iron studs and brackets, its surface scarred by long vertical grooves. As he neared it, a part of his brain noted that the scores were symmetrical and could only have been left by razor-sharp talons.

His body slammed against the door, but it wouldn’t give. He grabbed the torch and spun around, waving it in front of him, the better to make out his stalker. The gleam of giant, wickedly serrated mandibles thrashing the air, drooling a thick, stinking mucous appeared out of the murky depths of the passage; a long spiked claw shot at him with lightning speed, as his eyes went wide with horror–

He was shaking.

Being shaken.

“Steven. Wake up. The computer’s done with its search.”

He groggily cracked one eye open, and then forced both wide, blinking from the glare of the overhead lights in the increasingly bustling terminal. He tried to focus on his watch. After a few seconds, he saw that he’d been asleep for just over an hour. His neck was stiff. He rolled his head cautiously, reaching up to rub the muscles at the top of his shoulders. Natalie ignored his plight and thrust the laptop at him.

“It’s finished,” she repeated.

“All right. Let’s see what we’ve got,” Steven said, taking it from her. “Huh. Not a whole hell of a lot. Although we do have a bit of luck. It’s obscure, but it’s really the only hit that makes sense. ‘Holy Januarius’. There is a Saint Januarius…”

“I’ve never heard of him. Then again, I’m not big on saints,” Natalie admitted.

“No reason you should have. I’ve never heard of him, either. Our biggest problem is that his remains are in Naples. On first take, we’d have to go there to find what amounts to his crypt. But that’s deceptive because a lot of these saints and popes were entombed elsewhere originally, and then later had their remains moved to their current resting places.” He performed a series of rapid keystrokes. “Ah. See? We search further, and while his remains aren’t in Rome, sure enough, there’s a reference to an obscure crypt that housed his corpse for a time in one of the Roman catacombs.”

“I hate catacombs.”

“Not many people get warm and fuzzy when it comes to underground burial chambers. But Rome has miles and miles of them. Most are located along the Appian Way – the original road that led into Rome and connected the Roman Empire. It was forbidden to bury anyone within the city walls, so the locals came up with a way around that by excavating massive tunnel complexes to house the dead just outside the gates. When the Christians were persecuted by the Romans, before Christianity became the state religion, they used the catacombs to hold secret worship ceremonies.” Steven paused, staring at the screen. “The only problem is that this one is closed to the public, and the location of the entrance is a secret. That, and I have no idea what the message means. But it’s the only hit on the terms that has any relevance.”

“Then we need to go there. Wherever it is, we need to find it and get in,” Natalie said excitedly.