The original of the Voynich had long been on display at the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library of Yale University and was, in fact, the most popular document in the collection. It continued to be a subject of rabid fascination for many cryptologists, as it had been ever since it had been made public by Polish-born antique book dealer, Wilfred Voynich, in 1912. As with several of his colleagues, deciphering the Voynich had become a lifelong obsession for Twain; its pull was just as strong as when he was a young officer returning from the Korean War. His specialty had been code-breaking for the military, so it was almost inevitable that he would be drawn to the most notorious riddle in cryptography. But what had begun as a conviction that he’d be able to crack it in a matter of months gradually became a multi-decade odyssey of twists and false starts. He’d grown sadly accustomed to illusive progress transforming into dead-ends, with any forward movement ultimately resulting in him being slammed into a brick wall, no closer to a solution than at first.
Cross had formulated an interesting theory — one that Twain himself had considered before discarding as non-disprovable, and therefore useless as the basis of a scientific hypothesis, but he wanted to understand how an amateur like Cross had arrived at such a complicated and innovative conclusion. The level of reasoning required to reach it was significantly more advanced than anything he’d come across in recent memory. It had impressed him by virtue of its brash brilliance.
Ah, well, Twain thought. This Dr. Steven Cross was not even part of the formal cryptology community — he wasn’t a member of any of the professional organizations, and he’d never published; the call had been made primarily as a courtesy on Twain’s part — because he was in a good mood. A good mood indeed because today, after what he’d just acquired, the world would soon be turned on its head.
The Voynich Manuscript had never been closer to being deciphered — by him, Winston Twain — since its creation.
A noise made Twain turn — the back door to his garden study had swung open.
“Hello, who’s there?” Twain called out. “Natalie, is that you?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
He peered down the dark hall to the back porch and was about to dismiss his premonition when he detected motion at the edge of his awareness. Twain’s eyes widened in horror as a hulking figure stepped from behind an antique armoire.
“Good morning, Professor Twain,” the huge, hirsute man named Sia Amieri said, in a hoarse, heavily-accented whisper that was almost inaudible. “We need to talk.”
Twain’s pupils dilated to the size of pinheads.
He swallowed with difficulty — he knew what a visit from the menacing giant meant, and he understood instantly that this was going to be the last day of his life.
CHAPTER 4
Steven’s mind raced over the implications of a call from Professor Winston Twain. He’d forgotten about the letter he’d sent about his tentative theories on the possible origin of the Voynich Manuscript — a document that was a legend wrapped in an enigma. Steven had spent the better part of a year studying it, but had made no more progress than anyone else, which was to say, none at all. Over time, his interests had shifted elsewhere, and that period of mourning for his wife, interspersed with feverish efforts to untangle the manuscript’s puzzling code, had receded into a hazy memory.
Steven pulled down the road leading to the main terminal of the Scuola Paracadutismo Lucca, the parachuting academy that was his ultimate destination this morning. For its elaborate name, there wasn’t much to it. The total campus consisted of a very small hangar with a tiny office attached on the periphery of the airport. Several Pilatus PC6 single engine airplanes were taxiing toward the runway, while one plane — the plane he would be jumping out of — prepped for take-off. Steven killed the momentary twinge of fatalism in his mind that intruded when he saw it and resumed his former ruminations.
Winston Twain and the Voynich Manuscript.
Twain and the Voynich were practically synonymous in the cryptology community. The man was near-legendary in certain circles, considered equal parts savant and dreamer, due to his near-compulsive fixation on decrypting that which had stumped his peers for decades.
A bouncing young brunette in a short denim skirt and a pink tank top approached him as he wheeled to a stop in front of building. She brandished a clipboard and seemed to float with each step.
“Are you Dottore Cross?” the girl asked cheerfully in Italian, beaming a smile.
“Yes,” Steven replied in near-fluent Italian.
“We were waiting for you!”
“I got held up on the road.”
“Okay, no problem. But we have to hurry. We’re on a tight schedule.”
She led Steven directly to the airplane and introduced him to the pilot, Tomaso Caldieri, and his ‘jump-buddy’, Paolo. A third man, Giorgio, nodded silently from the rear of the plane.
“Sorry I’m late,” Steven said.
“No problem,” Tomaso assured him. He finished his pre-flight checklist and turned to regard Steven, who had climbed into the back of the plane and was hurriedly donning an orange jumpsuit Paolo had handed him. “Let’s do some flying, shall we?”
“And jumping,” Paolo chimed in.
They closed the transom door, and within a few seconds the engine sputtered to a start before leveling to a roaring hum. After a brief taxi, the little plane sped down the runway and was airborne.
“We’ll be at twelve thousand feet in about fifteen minutes,” Paolo said to Steven as they soared into the sky. He was already putting on his parachute and preparing Steven for his first tandem jump. Paolo briefly took him through the drill. He would harness himself to Steven and they’d skydive together, with Paolo manning the chute and Steven, presumably, enjoying the ride.
Steven was doing this for one reason: a desire to push the envelope and experience things he’d shied away from. Antonia had been a big believer in trying new things, and since her death, Steven had made it a point to schedule something that took him out of his comfort zone at least once every ninety days, as a tribute to her memory as well as a mechanism to force him out of the doldrums that had become his customary state since the accident. So far, he’d conquered scuba diving, had learned to rappel, had run a marathon, and acted as a mentor to several underprivileged kids in Florence. Today was skydiving.
“Don’t worry,” Paolo said, smiling. “Very rarely does anything go wrong.” Paolo had mistaken Steven’s silence as fear.
“That’s very comforting,” Steven said, as he snapped back to the present and fiddled with the harness around his chest and waist.
“Accidents are almost unheard of. The odds are very much in our favor,” Paolo said. It sounded almost like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to reassure Steven. “So here’s how this is going to work, Dr. Cross.”
“Call me Steven.”
“What’s going to happen, Steven, is in about two minutes, Giorgio here will slide the door open, and then Tomaso will give us a Go-Green on that light.” Paolo pointed to the small bulb above the door. “We’ll take a moment, and then it’s boom, out of the plane!”
“How long until we get to the ground?” Steven asked.
“Terminal velocity is between a hundred and twenty and two hundred miles per hour, give or take wind, drag and a few other things, but I’d say it will be about eight minutes. It also depends how long you want to freefall — how long we drop before I pull the chute.”
“I’ll leave that up to you.”
Paolo grinned, then turned Steven towards the door and harnessed himself to Steven’s back. Giorgio gave a thumbs up.