The Source

by Michael Cordy

  She smiled at them. 'Jambo, Samuel, Joshua.' Samuel and Joshua Jarimogi were twins, born with Aids. After a long struggle, their mother had died six months ago and, according to the doctors, it was inevitable that the boys would soon join her. Sister Chantal tried not to get too involved with the patients – over the long years she had seen too many die. But Samuel and Joshua were her favourites.

  'Can we play?' asked Samuel.

  Sister Chantal glanced at her case, then at the box. She should leave, before the mother superior or one of the other sisters challenged her, but her vigil was almost over and the euphoria she felt compelled her to do something reckless: a small act of rebellion after a lifetime of discipline, obedience, patience and self-sacrifice. 'Yes. Let's have a tea party.'

  She took the carved box and led the boys to the deserted kitchen. She put on the kettle and told them to fetch two cups and saucers. She opened the leather pouch and emptied most of its contents into the box, saving only the barest minimum for her final task; she was growing weak and would need her remaining strength to complete her vigil and pass on her burden. She had been forced to see so many die. What harm could this do now? She prepared the contents and tilted the box so they collected in one corner, shook half into one cup, half into the other, then poured in the boiling water. As she put the box down, Samuel reached for it, fascinated by the unusual carvings.

  'Can we have it?' he asked.

  Her first instinct was to take it back, but as she had no more need of it, she pocketed the leather pouch and nodded. 'Yes, Sam, you can share the box. But it's very old and very precious so take care of it.' She added sweet condensed milk to the cups and waited for the liquid to cool. 'Now drink your tea.'

  10

  Rome, three days later

  Breathing in the soothing fragrance of pine and orange trees, Marco Bazin looked down on the dome of St Peter's, rising above the dawn mist of the eternal city. At such an early hour the Aventine Hill was deserted and he enjoyed the illusion that he was alone in the world. Then a man appeared in the distance. Bazin recognized his gait instantly. As he braced himself for the encounter he pondered the irony of what had happened. In all his years as an assassin, la mano sinistra del diavolo had never failed in an assignment. Until three days ago, the one time he had been ordered not to harm anyone.

  Bazin cast his mind back to the night when the priest had visited him at his alpine retreat, then to his childhood and the hot, dusty courtyard of the old Jesuit orphanage in Naples. There had been no smell of fresh pine or oranges in that place, only the stench of sewers, sweat and fear. Half-brothers, born of the same whore, he and Leo had been each other's only friend, opposites bonded by a common need to belong and survive. His older, smarter, smaller half-brother had helped him with his studies, while he had protected Leo when the others had picked on him for his size and cleverness.

  Then they had left the orphanage and everything had changed.

  The Jesuits had always valued Leo's intellect. They had encouraged him to join the order and further his studies. The Church had become his salvation. Bazin, however, had hated the priests and they had had no time for his rough ways, so he had turned his back on the Church and joined the Camorra, the Neapolitan branch of that other Italian institution: the Mafia. Over the years the brothers' paths had diverged further, one becoming a powerful priest dedicated to saving souls, the other a feared assassin paid for taking lives.

  When Bazin had discovered he was dying, however, he had called the only person he knew who could save his soul. To his surprise, gratitude and shame, Leo had offered him a way to absolve himself of his sins. But now, as he watched Father General Leonardo Torino approach in the early-morning mist, Bazin knew he had failed him.

  Torino didn't smile or greet him, just tapped his watch. 'Let's keep this brief, Marco. I'm a busy man and I don't want my people to come looking for me.' He frowned. 'What happened in America? I thought you were meant to be good at this. The plan was to go in, get the information and leave, not to jeopardize Dr Kelly's work in case she hadn't finished it. I certainly didn't tell you to hurt anyone and get the police involved.'

  Bazin couldn't meet his eye. 'You told me they'd be away for three weeks, Leo.'

  'You will address me as "Father General".' He paused. 'They should have been away on holiday. The point is you were supposed to be discreet.'

  'I was, Father General. I covered my face and left no trace. The police will assume I fled before I had a chance to take much. If they'd been away like you said no one would've known I was even there. But I had to use force to escape – or you wouldn't have got what you wanted. In the end, I took a few valuables to make it look like a normal burglary.'

  For a while Torino said nothing, just glared at Bazin as he stared bleakly into the distance. 'You've disappointed me, Marco. Your journey to absolution has not begun well. But we can salvage something from this. If you got what I asked for.'

  Bazin reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a La Cie portable hard drive. 'Before I was interrupted, I downloaded most of the relevant folders you told me to look for.' He handed it to Torino. 'But not all of them.'

  'This better have what I want on it. I'll contact you when I need more.' Torino concealed the hard drive in his robes, turned abruptly and walked away.

  Bazin thought of what he had done to acquire what Torino had asked for. 'Are you sure this is what the Church wants, Father General?' he called after Torino. 'That this is how I'll gain absolution?'

  Torino stopped, and Bazin saw his shoulders tense as he turned.

  'You dare to question me?' he said, his face white with rage. 'If I want advice on killing, I'll come to you. But I'll be the judge of what the Church wants and needs.' He narrowed his eyes and stepped close enough for Bazin to smell mint and garlic on his breath. 'You begged for my help. Remember?' Before Bazin could answer, Torino had grabbed his half-brother's crotch.

  'What the fuck are you doing?' Bazin pulled at his wrist but Torino only gripped harder.

  'Listen to me, Marco. You demanded my help. Never forget that.' He squeezed. 'You know why God let the surgeons cut off one of your balls? Because they represent your two lives: the one you live now and the one you live beyond death. God took the first because of your past sins, and if you want to keep the remaining one, the one that represents your eternal future, you must follow Him – and His Church. God's got you by the balls, Marco. You said you wanted absolution. The question is: how much?'

  'I told you. I want it. I need it.'

  'In medieval England, when a man gave evidence in court, he didn't put a hand on the Bible. He held his testes. The word "testimony" comes from that practice. And as I hold your last precious one, Marco, know that this is God's testimony. We're on a crusade, the Church is fighting for its very existence and God demands you help His ministry by doing whatever's necessary.' He paused to let his words sink in. 'You no longer work for the Mafia. You're no longer la mano sinistra del diavolo, a base assassin who kills for money, but a crusader, a holy warrior, God's right hand wielding a cleansing sword against Rome's mortal enemies. From this day forward, whatever I tell you to do in His name is sanctioned, pure, righteous. You understand?'

  'Yes.'

  Bazin did understand. Despite the pain – or because of it – relief swamped him. Finally he had found his purpose and he would surrender to it. Torino was showing him the uncompromising path that led to redemption and he would follow it to the end, come what may.

  As if reading his mind, the Superior General released his grip. 'Are you prepared to do whatever I say the Church needs? However delicate? And will you pledge to help without asking questions?' 'Yes.'

  'If you tell anyone of this, the Church will disavow everything. I will disavow everything. You understand?'

  'I want only absolution, Father General.'

  'Then you must earn it.'

  11

  Back in his quarters, Torino plugged the drive into his laptop. As he examined the c
ontents, he felt little remorse for what had happened to Lauren Kelly and her husband. He had offered her the chance to collaborate and she had declined. Though he had not intended Bazin to harm the couple, it was vital that he learn what Lauren Kelly knew. Perversely, what had happened might even prove beneficial to the Church. With the woman silenced, it would be easier to protect the discovery outlined in the Voynich – assuming she had completed the translation. His greater concern was the Holy Father and others in the Curia. Until he had evidence, they would never condone what he was doing, especially his unholy alliance with Bazin.

  On screen, the computer files documented most of the successes and failures on Lauren Kelly's tortuous path to decoding the Voynich. He read how, with Elizabeth Quinn's help, she had quickly discounted a complex polyalphabetic cipher and used her impressive breadth of linguistic knowledge to deduce that the text was a posterior synthetic language based on two existing languages. Torino had learnt this much from her talk at Yale but now he had the details.

  Voynichese was apparently a hybrid of highly structured Latin and Mandarin Chinese, in which characters didn't just represent letters but whole words and phrases. The relevant letters of the Latin alphabet and the key Chinese symbols had then been transliterated into the unique characters used in the Voynich text, further disguising the blended language. Apart from this transliteration, however, the translated part of the manuscript contained no cipher. The use of Chinese tallied with Torino's research on Father Orlando Falcon. A favourite of Ignatius Loyola, Falcon had been sent on one of the first missions to China as a young Jesuit in the late 1540s.

  Torino already knew from the Inquisition Archives that the author had possessed a phenomenal intellect; it was one of the reasons the Church had taken his claims so seriously, and why he had been punished so severely. Torino was equally impressed, however, by the depth of Dr Kelly's scholarship, and the counterintuitive way in which she had burrowed into the author's brilliant mind to unlock his story.

  Or most of it.

  Scanning the files, Torino found her verbatim translation of the Voynich story. It was even more vivid and terrifying than the synopsis had been – but it didn't include the remaining astrological section. And there was no mention of Father Orlando's radix or 'source'. In one of her earlier files Kelly had written:

  From what I've learnt, I believe the final astrological section may contain a series of compass bearings, geographical landmarks and star signs. My creeping suspicion is that the more I discover the more I'll be forced to revise my assumptions about the document and its mysteries . . .

  What had she meant by that? Had she decided that the story was not an allegory but a chronicle of what its author had actually discovered? If so, had she since unravelled the final astrological section – and the map it might contain? It was tantalizingly inconclusive.

  Cursing Bazin for failing to complete his task, he searched the rest of the files, but found no clear evidence that Lauren Kelly had yet deciphered the final section. Perhaps it was in the files that Bazin had been unable to download before he was interrupted. If so, Torino must claim it for the Church.

  But how?

  He wanted to rush out and order Bazin back to check the rest of her computer. But the Kelly house was now a crime scene and possibly under surveillance. As the Superior General of the Jesuits, he couldn't afford to be incriminated. He would have to be patient and bide his time until the right moment presented itself. He didn't feel patient, though. He felt as if a clock was ticking, counting down the seconds until his beloved Church either fulfilled its rightful destiny as God's sole ministry on Earth, or disappeared, dismissed as an obsolete relic.

  12

  Three weeks later

  Death had brought them together. They had met at the funeral of a mutual friend in Boston, while he was at MIT and she was at Harvard. She had said later that she had taken an instant dislike to him, thought he was too physically confident, too sure of himself. Then they had begun to talk – really talk – and discovered that they had both recently lost a parent, she her father and he his mother.

  Death had bonded them.

  They agreed on little: she was religious and believed passionately in conservation, he was an atheist and had no qualms about working for Big Oil, but each loved the way the other thought. He also loved the nape of her neck and her smell. She loved his strength and the way he listened. Soon they loved each other. They joked that they were going to live for ever or die in the attempt. Nothing would separate them. Ever. If one got lost, the other would go to the ends of the Earth to find them.

  Now Ross found himself staring into the darkness, gripped by panic, unable to find his soulmate. Lauren was lost to him.

  Death threatened to separate them.

  'Ross, Ross, Ross.'

  His heart skipped. He could hear her calling to him in the dark. She was trapped and needed his help. He had to find her and do whatever was necessary to rescue her . . .

  'Ross.'

  A hand on his shoulder shook him gently.

  'Ross, wake up.'

  Ross opened his eyes, and when he saw her his first emotion was relief: it had been a nightmare. Lauren was fine. She was there.

  But it wasn't Lauren. It was her assistant, Zeb Quinn. The sickening sadness flooded back.

  'Ross, it's about three o'clock in the afternoon. I let you sleep for a few hours after lunch while I watched over Lauren. I'm off back to Yale now but your dad and Lauren's mum are coming up soon. Mr Greenbloom, the neurosurgeon, said he wants to talk with you all. You okay with that?'

  'Yes.' He rubbed his eyes and stood up beside Lauren's bed. He was wearing jeans and a faded sweatshirt. Dazed with sleep, he checked his watch. 'Thanks, Zeb. Thanks for everything.'

  'If you need me for anything – anything at all – call me. You got my cell number. Right?'

  'Right. Thanks.' Zeb left, and he went to the adjoining bathroom to splash his face with water. Three weeks had passed since the burglary and in that time he had aged visibly. His face was pale, his blue eyes were bloodshot and his hair – partially shaved where they had sutured a gash with twelve stitches – was flecked with new silver. The doctors said the hairline fracture on his skull was healing well and his dislocated shoulder had made a full recovery. But that was only half the story.

  Lauren's room in the Sacred Heart Hospital outside Bridgeport, Connecticut, was clean and bright. A large window looked out over Long Island Sound, and if he peered to the right he could just see the distant towers of Manhattan. Flowers and cards adorned the broad windowsill. Friends had showered him with messages, but those who had come to visit had been awkward, unsure how to respond to Lauren's injury. Ross was grateful that few had known of her pregnancy and now preferred to be left on his own; it was difficult enough to handle his own shock and grief without managing theirs. The exception had been Zeb Quinn. Though she and Ross had never been close, she had proved herself a true and practical friend.

  The two orchids on the sill were from Lauren's sisters, who lived abroad, one in London, the other in Sydney. They had flown in and stayed for two weeks to help and support their mother. In the last week they had gone home. One of the larger bouquets was from Xplore. After making the right sympathetic noises, Kovacs had told Ross that they wanted him back and were prepared to wait until he was ready to discuss terms. But right now Ross couldn't have given a damn about his career.

  Lauren's bed was in the middle of the room. She had been turned to prevent bedsores, and lay partially on her left side. Wires and tubes connected her to a bank of monitors and intravenous drips. A white tube extended from her trachea to a ventilator, whose rhythmic sound dominated the quiet room. The bandages had been removed from her head, and her blonde hair was growing back after the surgery. Her eyes were closed. She looked frail but beautiful, a sleeping princess. He fantasized that if he kissed her in just the right way he could wake her – and mend her broken body.

  As he gazed at her, he felt a surge
of irrational hatred for the Voynich manuscript. If she hadn't felt compelled to complete it, they would have been returning from their holiday now. Instead he had spent the last few weeks in Hell, rattling around in their empty house, which Lauren – and Lauren alone – had made into a home. Every detail in it reminded him of her and happier times. There was a suggestion that the intruder had been after her files, though there was no proof and no leads. The police had speculated about motive, but all they knew with any certainty was that Ross and Lauren had disturbed him and she had got in his way.