The Voynich Cypher

by Russell Blake

  Synthe had taken the train to the South of France to spend a week amongst the rich and beautiful before flying to Tel Aviv, where he’d been met by his new employer and briefed on his odd new assignment.

  Six years was a long time, and yet it seemed like yesterday.

  It wasn’t so much that killing Nassar had been memorable in any distinct way. Rather, it had been so mundane, so routine, it barely stood out from a host of other sanctions he’d carried out during his career.

  That’s why he’d had to commit the date to memory.

  Lest he completely forget, and Nassar became just one in a long blurred lineup of hateful faces whose last living impression had been Synthe’s icy stare.

  Synthe looked out of the window of the black Lincoln Town Car at the throngs of carefree pedestrians enjoying an early summer day in Tel Aviv. It had to be nice, living in the innocent world of the civilian. He sometimes wished he could rejoin it and then banished his daydreaming – what was the point? His life was what he’d made it, and there was no turning back, which was why he was now sitting in an armor-plated sedan taking him to a meeting with one of his current employer’s other operatives.

  Something serious had happened in the past week, and his superior was not happy.

  Synthe thought back to the meeting that had preceded his resignation from the Mossad, and his first encounter with the man known to him only as ‘The Sentinel’. Two weeks before he’d assassinated Nassar, Synthe had attended a meeting with this shadowy figure, who had approached him through a contact with another intelligence service. Synthe had been curious, based on the veiled suggestion that a highly-paid position was available to an operative with his experience, and had allowed the courtship to proceed from the seemingly chance discussion with his counterpart at an embassy cocktail party to a lunchtime meeting at a deserted coffee bar several miles from the city center.

  Synthe had arrived at the rendezvous at the small outdoor café at the agreed-upon time and had been greeted by a dignified older man in a perfectly-pressed Italian suit of expensive tailoring. They were the only ones in the small, walled courtyard of the establishment, and the disinterested waiter disappeared after bringing them their order of espresso.

  “I presume we can have this discussion in French, Colonel Synthe? I believe you’re fluent in the language?” the man asked in the Gallic tongue, obviously aware of Synthe’s linguistic capabilities.

  “That’s fine.” Synthe had always been a man of few words.

  “Or we can speak English, or Italian, or Russian. I understand you’re equally comfortable in these as well,” the man said, not so much a question as a statement.

  “Whatever. It is of no consequence. But I see you’ve done your homework,” Synthe acknowledged, willing to accede professional courtesy at what was obviously a thorough background check into a high-ranking Mossad asset – an organization that was notoriously tight-lipped about all aspects of its personnel.

  The older man smiled, a sort of dry grimace, his message of being able to access the most sacrosanct data in the Mossad efficiently delivered. He carefully lifted his little espresso cup to his lips and sipped before speaking.

  “We can dispense with social niceties. You’re a busy man, and so am I. I’m called the Sentinel – perhaps a bit melodramatic, however, it’s a formality which has been observed for a long time, and I’m not going to end the tradition now.”

  “The Sentinel. Okay, fair enough. What can I do for you, Mr. Sentinel?” Synthe asked, just a hint of humor in his voice.

  “The organization I represent has a position of considerable importance which has become vacant, and you were identified as being a potential candidate for filling it. The job is heading my group’s security force and overseeing all aspects of its operations. The irony is that even though it is a tremendously important position, your duties would be virtually non-existent. Your predecessors have literally never had to do anything but be prepared,” the Sentinel explained.

  “Interesting. A position with almost no work involved. Sounds intriguing,” Synthe said noncommittally.

  The Sentinel reached over the table, picked up Synthe’s untouched espresso and set the cup on the ledge next to them, along with his own. He leaned to one side, then placed a dark brown ostrich-skin briefcase on the table, turning it so the latches were facing Synthe.

  He nodded, indicating that Synthe should open it.

  Synthe did and studied the contents without reaction.

  “Two hundred fifty thousand dollars – six month’s pay. The position draws a five hundred thousand dollar a year salary,” the Sentinel stated flatly.

  The Mossad didn’t pay a fraction of that sort of money, even at its upper tier. This ‘Sentinel’ now had Synthe’s complete and total attention.

  “And what would I be expected to do for this generous stipend?” Synthe asked.

  “Wait,” the Sentinel responded.

  “Wait? That’s it? Wait for what?” Synthe’s usually unreadable composure slipped, just for an instant.

  The Sentinel knew Synthe was hooked. He slowly closed the valise and turned it back towards him. After methodically securing the latches, he placed it carefully by Synthe’s left leg before returning their coffee cups to their table. He studied Synthe’s face for several moments, and then nodded.

  “Wait for a moment I pray will never come. And participate in security planning for a holy object that is of considerable importance to my organization – an ancient group that is entrusted with the safekeeping of this relic,” the Sentinel explained.

  “I presume I’ll have to leave the Mossad if I choose to accept your offer,” Synthe observed.

  “That is correct. Your allegiance would need to be to our organization and no one else. You would have a month to decide how best to resign without revealing to anyone why you did. In return, you will have your position for life.”

  “I’ll need to understand who I’m working for. If I’m going to make a lifetime commitment, I want to understand the game and the players,” Synthe said.

  The Sentinel had agreed and proceeded to explain the details. Established in the sixteenth century, the Order of the Holy Relic was a clandestine offshoot of the Roman Catholic Church. Its mission was to ensure the protection of the Church’s most valuable secret, which was housed in an obscure location in southern England. The Order recruited its security force from outside of the Church, as it required skills that weren’t part of an ecclesiastic curriculum.

  “You don’t need to know more than this right now. If you accept my proposal, once you are no longer with the Mossad I will provide further information you’ll require to carry out your duties. Again, most of which will consist of waiting.”

  Synthe had already made up his mind. It was a no-brainer. Do nothing for a half mil a year?

  “I accept.”

  The Sentinel nodded again and finished his espresso. He pushed back his chair and rose, preparing to depart.

  “We will call upon you occasionally. Security matters that will demand your presence. This will consist of what will seem to be dreary meetings. Perhaps at another point down the line, you will be asked to perform somewhat more dramatically. I trust you’ll be up to the task.”

  “I shall wait for your call.”

  The Sentinel smiled tightly again, turned, and exited the courtyard, moving deliberately through the café before disappearing into the pedestrian traffic on the street outside.

  In the intervening six years, Gabriel Synthe had been called upon exactly three times – and these were for secret Order meetings in Paris, where one topic was always the focus of attention. The small, obsolete abbey in southern England. Though Synthe had been present at the meetings, he had never been required for anything more than to comment on the various security measures employed to secure the location.

  Following his resignation from the Mossad, Synthe’s existence had settled into a comfortable retirement as he collected his half million dollars a year
and waited for something to happen. He busied himself in the outside world by devoting himself to a small school he’d opened as an instructional facility for self-defense training, specifically: Krav Maga – the special brand of martial arts developed for the Israeli military.

  It had been a peaceful, if extraordinarily boring, six years. Synthe lived modestly, had saved most of his salary, and so was now relatively well-to-do, with his accumulated savings totaling well over two million dollars.

  But he’d gotten a panicked call a few days earlier from the Sentinel, who gave him the barest details and advised him to be ready for an in-person meeting. He was to rendezvous with Diego Luca in the parking lot of the Tel Aviv airport, on the north end of the terminal, near a sewage swamp which was notoriously odiferous, guaranteeing they would be the only ones in the area.

  As the car wove through traffic, a twinge of anxiety told him that this meeting with Luca would need to be handled very carefully.

  The unthinkable had happened. The Order’s precious sacred relic was gone, and Synthe was going to be required to lead the charge to recover it. He had never really believed that anyone could penetrate the security measures in place at the Abbey and make a grab for the Scroll. Given the agitation, and Diego Luca himself coming to Tel Aviv for a rendezvous, apparently Synthe had called that one wrong. That rarely happened.

  But he wasn’t sure exactly what the Order expected him to do about it now.

  Synthe glanced at his watch once again.

  He was early for the meet.

  CHAPTER 6

  As Deputy Grand Commander to the PauperesCommilitones Christi Templique Solomonici – the Knights Templar – Diego Luca was the last in a long line of men who bore their hidden duty throughout their life, serving silently and with unquestioning loyalty. As the second most powerful officer in that shadow organization, he was responsible for the administration of a group which, supposedly, had expired centuries before; he was a ghost, a rumor in the hushed halls of the Church, a murmur at the highest levels of the Masonic order. It was common knowledge that the Knights Templar had met with extinction in the Middle Ages, and Luca was chartered with ensuring that history was never disturbed with even a hint of their continued operation.

  The Templars had existed in secret after their public dismantling and persecution in 1312, when the few surviving members loyal to Pope Clement V agreed to become the clandestine arm of the Church. The order had aroused considerable resentment because of its power and financial success, so this newly created group would remain hidden, carrying out its duties in obscurity rather than in the public’s eye. Rumors would occasionally circulate of Templars in action, but they were always quickly hushed-up by the Church – which got to write the history books. Within a hundred years the Templars became nothing more than a legend, and from that point to the present, they would remain a shadow group that answered only to the Pope.

  Beyond coordinating their affairs, Luca’s duties also included working in tandem with the Order of the Holy Relic, which, as tradition demanded, had to be afforded the greatest respect and reverence. Why, Luca could not really say – but that had been the multi-century edict handed down to those who had risen to the ultimate levels of authority. It had been that way forever, and there were some tenets one never questioned.

  But centuries of calm had been overturned during the last few days. The Chamber Room at the Abbey had been breached and the Scroll had been stolen. The perpetrators remained unknown, although just today, the name of Professor Winston Twain had surfaced through the repentant, albeit forced, confession of a wayward member of the Order. That would have ordinarily been sufficient for Luca to mobilize resources; however, almost as soon as they’d discovered the professor’s identity, they’d been alerted that he was dead.

  That brought them to a standstill – impotent – during the greatest crisis the Order had ever encountered. Which was why Luca was now in a car on his way to a meeting with Colonel Gabriel Synthe, a man who he disliked on principle. Synthe was an atheist and believed in nothing, as far as Luca could tell. That absence of faith made him a loose cannon. If you believed in nothing, then you were the center of the universe in your own mind – a state of affairs that was anathema to the beliefs Luca had devoted his life to protecting and nurturing.

  A man without belief in God, or conviction in a supernatural realm outside of his own scope of understanding, was a danger. A man who operated on rogue solipsism, who negotiated through life as a virtual narcissist, could therefore only be motivated by the coarsest of principles.

  Diego Luca sighed as he sat in the back of his limousine. His driver, Brother Misto, navigated silently to the meeting destination. The phone in the center console of the back seat warbled.

  Luca picked it up. “Yes, sir,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  The voice that responded was deep; soothing, but forceful. Luca recognized it as the Religious Protector, His Beatitude Metropolitan Justinian – the head of the Knights Templar worldwide.

  “I assume we have little progress,” the Religious Protector stated without rancor.

  “That is correct, sir. The traitor wasn’t in good health, and he didn’t provide any real information before he slipped into a coma, beyond his interaction with Professor Twain.”

  “I understand from the transcript that he did have some things to say – they just didn’t make any sense,” His Beatitude observed.

  “Yes. If you’ve read it, you know all about the gibberish. ‘Eyes are upon you’ and ‘beware Rosenkreuz and Loyola’. I think the poor man was trying to throw out anything he could think of to shield himself from blame. I can’t see how the Rosicrucians have any hand in this, nor the Jesuits.”

  There was a beat as the voice on the other end of the line made a humming sound.

  “Perhaps. I’m calling to underscore that it’s critical that you and Colonel Synthe cooperate completely with each other, my son. You are aware of the importance of the Scroll, but you do not know its full significance.”

  “Your eminence has never seen fit to include me in this confidentiality,” Luca said.

  “Not you, nor others of your rank and stature before you – you shouldn’t take it personally,” the voice said consolingly. “But the Scroll must be recovered, and obstacles to that recovery must be surmounted at all costs.”

  “Understood. I’ll work with Colonel Synthe closely until the matter is resolved,” Luca said – perhaps too forcefully, he thought.

  “Keep me advised.”

  That was the second telephone conversation that the Religious Protector and Luca had conducted in the past few days. It was unprecedented.

  Luca knew precious little about the Holy Scroll, even after the briefing that followed his promotion to his rank in the Templars. The sum of his knowledge could fit in a thimble – that it was sacred, that the Order was to protect it at all costs, and that it was part and parcel to the Voynich Manuscript. He was also aware that the language of the Voynich was regarded as an important and yet unsolved puzzle at the highest level of the Church, but he didn’t know why.

  Regardless, he had his marching orders, and he would do what needed to be done. Luca was sixty years old, possessed of piercing blue eyes and a powerful build running to fat. He considered himself a principled individual, erring towards pragmatism.

  As they approached their venue, Luca stared ahead at the car Synthe had arrived in and prepared himself for the dialogue to come.

  “This is fine, Brother,” Luca said to his driver.

  The limousine came to a halt. Luca got out. Synthe was smoking a cigarette and lounging against his own vehicle, his expression wary as he watched Luca approach him. Perhaps he, too, is leery of this meeting, Luca thought.

  The Grand Commander stopped a few feet in front of Synthe, and both men sized each other up.

  “Good to see you again, Colonel,” Luca said.

  “Yes, you too,” Synthe said.

  A moment of silence
hung in the air before Luca spoke again.

  “Have you been apprised of the nature of this meeting, Colonel?” Luca asked.

  “Other than the loss of the relic, not a thing,” Synthe said, tossing his cigarette away and standing to his full height of over six feet, no longer lounging. “I assume I’m here to kill someone.”

  Israeli humor, Luca surmised.

  “Not exactly,” Luca said. “I’ll bring you up to date on what’s transpired so far.”

  Luca relayed briefly what they’d gleaned about the theft of the Scroll and the ongoing investigation of possible perpetrators, including the recently deceased professor.

  “Then it’s worse than expected. We don’t have much to go on,” Synthe said. “Was Twain murdered, or was his death coincidental to these events?”

  “Unknown at this time,” Luca admitted. “We do know that he has a daughter, but where she might be…” Luca shrugged. “We’re trying to find her.”

  Synthe considered this. “And the purpose for my presence here is?”

  “To alert you that, as of now, every waking moment needs to be directed to recovering the Scroll. This unfortunate event took place on your watch. It’s time to earn the substantial pay you’ve been collecting. You have a suitable background for this sort of investigation – I don’t. But hopefully, together we can figure out who has the Scroll and recover it before any damage can be done,” Luca concluded.

  Synthe stood in silence, wondering what had been set in motion.

  “I’ll be available twenty-four-seven to assist in whatever way you need.”

  “Perfect. I’ll brief you on the steps we’re taking now that we know Twain is dead. Time is of the essence on this,” Luca advised and motioned for Synthe to join him in the limousine.