Assassin's Code Page 19

  There was a stunned silence on the phone, and then Aunt Sallie whispered, “Oh my God!”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The Warehouse

  Baltimore, Maryland

  June 15, 2:26 a.m. EST

  “Wait,” said Bug, “what?”

  “Those pages,” said Circe. “I recognize them. They’re from an ancient codex called the Voynich manuscript. I’m sure of it.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Bug dubiously. “Rasouli seemed to think this was the Book of Shadows.”

  Circe shook her head. “You’re wrong, Bug. That’s the Voynich manuscript.”

  “What is the Voynich manuscript?” asked Rudy. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s an old ciphertext,” Circe said as she accessed a browser and went to one of the university research sites she subscribed to. In a few seconds a screen came up with THE VOYNICH MANUSCRIPT MYSTERY in bold letters. She went through the directory and pulled up several scans of individual pages. The pages were crammed with writing in a language none of them knew.

  Bug whistled.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” murmured Rudy.

  Circe pulled up more pages, and some of these had pictures. Plants, naked women, celestial diagrams. The drawings were primitive, but they were orderly—even if the sense of order was elusive. Then she found one that matched a page from Rasouli’s files.

  “See? I was right,” Circe said triumphantly. In a few minutes she matched seven of the nine pages, but then she frowned as she ran through every single page of the manuscript. “Wait … did I miss them?”

  “No,” said Bug. “The last two pages from Rasouli’s file aren’t in the Voynich thingee.”

  “Slow down,” begged Rudy. “What is this?”

  Circe took a breath. “The Voynich manuscript is a mysterious book that dates back to the fifteenth century. Radio carbon dating put it somewhere between 1404 to 1438 C.E., and from the materials used it’s believed that it was created in northern Italy, which was a very important and wealthy part of Europe at the time.”

  “Who wrote this book?” asked Rudy.

  “That’s just it,” said Circe, “no one knows who wrote it or why. It’s named after Wilfrid Voynich, a rare-book dealer from New York who discovered the book in 1912 during a buying trip to Villa Mondragone, near Rome. It was in a trunkful of rare texts. Voynich spent the rest of his life trying to decipher the language, but he never did. In fact no one ever has.”

  “Maybe it’s a fake language,” suggested Rudy.

  “Doubtful,” said Bug, peering at it. “It’s too orderly.”

  “Can we suppose for a moment that the two remaining pages from Rasouli’s file are from the other book, the Book of Shadows?” suggested Rudy. “If so, they’re clearly written in the same language. Maybe it’s a secret language, reserved for use by members of a society.”

  “Sure,” Circe agreed. “That’s the consensus of scholars of the book, but it is an incredibly complex language. In all there are one hundred and seventy thousand distinct glyphs, or written elements. About thirty of these glyphs are used repeatedly throughout the manuscript.”

  “An alphabet?” said Bug.

  “Probably, but no one has cracked it.”

  “Where is the book now?” asked Rudy. “And can we get it?”

  “It’s at Yale, in the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, but there’s no reason to get it. There are hundreds of Web sites devoted to the manuscript. Every page of it, including the covers, is available online.”

  Bug reached up to tap one of the pages on the screen. “Wait, isn’t that a signature? I can almost read it. Jacob something something.”

  “Jacobus de Tepenecz,” said Circe. “He wasn’t the author, though. More likely he owned it for a while. De Tepenecz was a seventeenth-century physician and an expert in medical plants. In 1608 he was summoned to Prague to treat Emperor Rudolf II who was suffering from severe depression and melancholia. Because of his success with the emperor, de Tepenecz was appointed Imperial Chief Distiller. Scholars believe that he was given the Voynich manuscript as either payment or as a gift by Rudolf, who was a collector of occult books and manuscripts of arcane sciences. The ownership of the book has a lot of gaps in it. We do know that when Voynich purchased it he found a letter tucked between its pages that had been written in 1665 by Dr. Johannes Marcus Marci of Bohemia, and in that letter Dr. Marci claimed that the book was written by Roger Bacon.”

  “Who was—?” prompted Rudy.

  “He was a Franciscan friar, philosopher, and alchemist in the thirteenth century. His nickname was ‘Doctor Mirabilis’—‘wonderful teacher.’ But … Bacon was likely born around 1220 C.E. He died in 1294, more than a century before the book was written.”

  “Unless he really could do miracles,” said Bug, but they ignored him.

  “What’s in the manuscript?” asked Rudy. “I see plants and diagrams…”

  “That’s just it,” answered Circe, “on the surface the book appears to be a codex of herbology. But here’s the kicker, while some of the plants in the book are recognizable, there are some plants that are either so badly drawn that they’re unrecognizable, or they are plants that are currently unknown to science. Aside from the herbal drawings, there are others, including a number of cosmological diagrams, some of them with suns, moons, and stars, suggestive of astronomy or astrology. There are the twelve zodiacal symbols, and each of these has thirty female figures arranged in two or more concentric bands. Most of the females are at least partly naked, and each holds what appears to be a labeled star or is shown with the star attached by what could be a tether or cord of some kind to either arm.” She took a breath. “And there are sections that show small naked women bathing in pools or tubs connected by an elaborate network of pipes, some of them clearly shaped like body organs. Some of the women wear crowns. Some pages look like complex formulae, but for what is anyone’s guess. In short, we don’t know what the book is about or why it was written.”

  Rudy said, “You called it a ciphertext rather than a codetext. What’s the difference? I thought a cipher was another name for code.”

  Circe shook her head. “A cipher is the result of encryption performed on plaintext using an algorithm. It’s mathematical. A code is simply a method used to transform a message into an obscured form. Like letter transposition or word-swapping. You decipher a code with a codebook that has the letters, words, or phrases that match the coded message. A cipher is much more complex, and it’s often the word people should be using when describing something that has been encrypted.”

  “I knew that,” Bug said quietly.

  “I didn’t,” said Rudy, “and I have no idea what you just said. What I want to know is what the Voynich manuscript is and how it relates to seven nuclear bombs.”

  Circe blew out her cheeks. “Scholars have spent the last century trying to decipher the manuscript. How that relates, or how it helps … is anyone’s guess.”

  Rudy stood and bent closer to the screens showing the two mystery pages. He looked back and forth between them, and then studied the Voynich pages. He grunted.

  “What?” asked Circe.

  “Well … I’m no handwriting expert,” he said slowly, “but I don’t think these other pages were written by the same person.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  On the Run

  Tehran, Iran

  June 15, 10:59 a.m.

  Mr. Church said run, so I ran.

  When Church is so rattled by something that he freaks at me on the phone, then my own scare-o-meter starts burying the needle. I ran like a son of a bitch and put a lot of gone between me and the death house.

  Three blocks away I cut down an alley behind an abandoned house. Once I was sure that the place was completely deserted, I broke in. Ghost was too weak to do much running, so I left him in the kitchen and quickly cleared the whole house. Six empty rooms, lots of junk, some bugs, a dead rat, and nothing else.

&nb
sp; There was no water, so we couldn’t stay long, but I needed more information from Church. He answered my call right away.

  “Are you somewhere safe?”

  I explained my location.

  “Very well. I’m retasking a satellite to try and track you. Echo Team is six hours out, and I’ve alerted Barrier as to the hit on their house.”

  “Good,” I said, “so now tell me why I ran away like a six-year-old from a party clown. Who the hell are these Red Knights?”

  “They are trained killers. Very, very tough.”

  “Yeah, well so am I.”

  “Captain Ledger,” he said quietly, “take your ego out of gear for a moment and look at this objectively, I—”

  “I am looking at it objectively,” I cut in, “but your lack of confidence is starting to piss me off.”

  “Get over it,” he said quietly and waited for another smart-mouth comment from me. I said nothing. After a moment, he continued. “The Red Knights are members of a brotherhood of assassins that emerged during the later Crusades. Over the centuries they have been tied to acts of murder, sabotage, and destruction that by today’s standards would be classified as terrorism. Very little is known about them, and much of what is recorded is questionable. History distorts reliable intel; and, much like the ninja of Japan, the knights themselves contributed to, edited, and distorted their own mythology.”

  “Gosh, where have I heard that before? Oh, yeah … your friend Hugo Vox. Are we saying that this is all his scheme?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Who runs these knights?”

  “Also unknown, though there are unsubstantiated rumors of a group called the Red Order, but so far we haven’t been able to put together a file on them. It’s even possible Red Order and Red Knights are interchangeable terms; that’s to be determined.”

  “Okay,” I said dubiously, “so why haven’t I heard of these Red Knights? If they’re political it sounds like something we should be handling. What do we know about them?”

  “About their organization? Next to nothing. About operatives like the one you encountered? We know bits and pieces, and none of it is good. Do not underestimate them and don’t waste time with a database search on them. The DMS has not crossed paths with them before this.” He paused. “I have.”

  “Crossed paths or crossed swords?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer that.

  “Did anyone tell you to run away?”

  “Captain—”

  “Tell me why I just ran away, Church. Sure, the knight at the hotel blindsided me and I had some trouble. I was unarmed then. Different story now; and now I’m going to be expecting the next one to be stronger and faster than the average psycho asshole with fangs. And, speaking of which, what’s with those goddamn fangs? Do they hire freaks? Are they implants of some kind, or is this some gene therapy bullshit?”

  “We don’t have time for a full briefing right now,” Church said. “Continue on to the CIA safe house and when you are safe and settled we’ll have a longer conversation. In the short term, I want you to be sensible of the degree of threat these knights represent. If you encounter another one, or even suspect that you are facing one of them, do not hesitate and do not give them a single chance. Escape if you can, and if that is not an option, do not allow yourself to be drawn into another hand-to-hand confrontation.”

  “Because—?”

  “Because it is unlikely you would survive it.”

  “Kiss my ass. I was starting to win that fight.”

  “From what you told me, Captain, the knight wanted information from you,” replied Church. “That opened a window of opportunity for you. If you are unfortunate enough to encounter another Red Knight, he’s likely to be less chatty. My recommendation stands: don’t engage them. The odds are not in your favor.”

  “Gee, Coach, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Mr. Church snorted. “You got lucky at the hotel, Captain. Don’t bank on your new girlfriend being on hand to save you next time.”

  I will rip your throat out and drink your life.

  “Jesus,” I said, “what are you trying to do here? Scare the hell out of me?”

  “If that’s what it takes to drive the point home,” said Church. “You haven’t faced anything like this before. If you encounter another Red Knight, I want you to avoid contact and flee, or failing that, to terminate him immediately and with extreme prejudice.”

  I bit down on a few of the things I would have liked to say to him.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I’m serious, Captain.”

  “Don’t worry, if I see another scary bad man I’ll run away screaming like a nine-year-old girl.”

  He sighed. “See that you do. Call me from the safe house.”

  The line went dead.

  I looked at the phone. “Kiss my ass,” I said again.

  But his words had made cold sweat break out all over my body.

  Interlude One

  Near the City of Acre

  May 17, 1191 C.E.

  A cold wind blew out of the desert, stirring the thousands of banners and flags that rose like a forest of silk above the camp. Hundreds of cooking fires set the night ablaze and the air was filled with laughter and songs and conversation. The fragile quiet of the night-time desert recoiled back from this rude intrusion, and overhead the stars seemed to turn shyly away from the firelight below.

  Sir Guy LaRoque sat astride his horse and watched as his king, Philip II, walked toward the command tent with a phalanx of advisors around him. The whole camp was on fire with excitement. The kings of Europe were coming to the Crusade. Philip was there first, as was only right, bringing eight thousand men in one hundred ships and enough provisions to mount a countersiege against Saladin. By June, Richard the Lionheart of England would be here, and more crusaders would flood into the Holy Land in his wake. After a weary siege and inconclusive battles, the tide was turning.

  The energy crackled like lightning in the air, and Sir Guy smiled. This was how it should be. This was what served God. Still smiling, Sir Guy tugged on the reins to turn his horse away from the camp, kicked it into a light canter, and set out into the darkest part of the surrounding desert. The standard-bearer, an old and trusted family servant, spurred his mount and followed. They rode in the general direction of the coast, but once there were hills between them and the camp, Sir Guy turned his horse away from the smell of salt water and headed toward the deep desert. A half an hour’s easy gallop brought them to an outcrop of rock that rose like a cathedral from the shifting sands. Sir Guy stopped on a ridge and ordered his companion to unfurl the white flag.

  After a full minute, a small light appeared at the base of the tall rock. A lamp was unshielded for a moment and then covered again. Sir Guy waited until this action was performed again, and again.

  “Stay here,” he told his servant. “Stay alert and sober.”

  With that, Sir Guy dismounted and walked down the sloping sand toward the rock. When he was ten yards away he called out in perfect Arabic.

  “As-salāmu ‘alaykum.”

  “Wa-laikum as-salâm,” replied a voice from within the featureless shadows at the foot of the rock. There was movement and the lamp was once more unshielded, revealing in its glow the thin and ascetic face of a bearded Saracen. Sir Guy went forward to meet the other man and they shook hands warmly.

  “Come, my friend,” said the Saracen, “I have food and a warm fire inside.”

  Together they passed beyond the tapestry and entered a cave which cut nearly to the heart of the towering rock. Inside, the cave was comfortable, furnished with a rug for the floor, pillows, a low brass tray piled high with cooked meats and dried fruits, and a tall pitcher of clean water.

  “You look well, Ibrahim,” said Sir Guy as he warmed his hands over the flame.

  Ibrahim al-Asiri was a tall thin man with a hawk nose that had been broken and badly set, giving him a villainous look that was at odds with his role as dipl
omat and counselor to Salāh-ed-Dīn Ayyūbi. Like Sir Guy, his counterpart in the politics of the wars here in the Holy Land, Ibrahim was a scholar, but, unlike the Frenchman, the Arab was also a mathematician of some note and the author of complex books on engineering, geometry, and algebra.

  While they ate, the two men picked up the thread of a conversation that had occupied them over many previous secret meetings.

  “I am taking the matter to a priest,” said Sir Guy. “One of the Hospitallers of my order. An old friend of the family. He is a wise and subtle man, and I think he will see the logic of our plan.”

  Ibrahim frowned. “What will happen if he does not agree with us? What will he do?”

  “Do?” laughed Sir Guy. “He would denounce me and I would be lucky to escape being publically whipped to death. My lands and fortune would be seized and I would be excommunicated.” The Frenchman waved a hand at the expression of alarm on Ibrahim’s face. “No, no, my friend, that’s what could happen, but I do not think that it will happen. I know this man.”

  “So far,” Ibrahim said, “this has all been nothing but an intellectual exercise, a discourse of a philosophical nature. Once you speak to this priest, it becomes something else.”

  “I know. With the first words I say to the priest it becomes treason and heresy.”

  They thought about that for several moments, each of them staring through the flickering fire at the future.

  “We could turn back,” suggested Ibrahim. “Now, I mean. We could finish our meal and you could ride back to your camp and I to mine, and we could never speak of this again.”

  “We could,” agreed Sir Guy.

  “If we do not, then we are irrevocably set on a course that will wash the world in blood and pain and destruction from now until the ending of time.”

  “Yes.”

  “We must be sure.”

  “I am sure,” said Sir Guy. “If you were not a heathen of a Saracen then we would drink wine together to seal the bargain.”

  “And if you were not an infidel deserving of a jackal’s death we would spit on our palms and shake upon it.”