There was no doubt in Torino's mind, however, that her translation was accurate.
Understandably, she assumed that the fantastical story was an allegorical fantasy, but the Church's hierarchy had once viewed it as a blasphemous attempt to rewrite Genesis and a threat to everything they stood for. Their ruthless response proved nothing, but it raised a question. Why had Father Orlando Falcon not only created the incredibly complex Voynich but endured torture and a hideous death rather than recant his story if it was fiction?
Might his miraculous garden exist?
Torino stood, stretched his tired muscles and limped to the open window. As a child at the orphanage, he had been small, conscientious and clever, the priests' favourite but an easy target for the other boys. One particularly vicious beating had crushed his sciatic nerve, permanently disabling him.
As he breathed in the evening air, the mighty dome of St Peter's before him, he was convinced that God had entrusted him with unravelling the enigma of Falcon's garden. He thought again of Dr Lauren Kelly and frowned. By refusing to collaborate on the final section she had shown she was no friend of the Church. A sudden notion chilled him. What if she had already deciphered the final section and it not only explained Falcon's mysterious radix but was also a map? What if she planned to publish the complete translation and prove the existence of Falcon's garden by revealing its location?
The implications for the Holy Mother Church – to which he owed everything – were unthinkable. Forget Galileo. Forget Darwin. If the garden existed, it could bestow supreme power on his beloved church. Or destroy it in an instant.
He considered sharing his fears with the Holy Father, or the Cardinal Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, but both were unimaginative old men. They would laugh at his theory or not understand it – either way they would do nothing. Apart from their plans to found a second Vatican state in the southern hemisphere, they were taking no radical new steps to promote and protect the Church's waning influence in the world. He would need more evidence before he involved them. He had to find out what Lauren Kelly knew and her intentions.
As he limped back to his desk his eyes focused on the photograph of himself as a child. He checked his watch. The time difference was in his favour. He rummaged through his papers until he found an anonymous card with a phone number on it. He hesitated for a moment, knowing he was about to cross a line, then reminded himself that these were desperate times and, to serve and protect God's Church, he must use whatever resources presented themselves. Indeed, the Lord Himself might have engineered this unorthodox opportunity. He picked up the phone beside his bed and dialled.
A voice answered on the third ring. 'Yes?'
He stared at the larger boy in the photograph. 'Marco,' he said.
'Leo, thank God. I've been waiting-'
Torino's eyes moved to the file on the bed. 'Is your treatment over?'
'Yes.'
'Do you still want absolution?'
A sharp intake of breath. 'Yes.'
'You're prepared to do any penance for the Church?'
'Anything.'
'Good.' Torino told himself again that this was the right course of action. 'I think it's time the left hand of the Devil became the right hand of God.'
8
Six days later It was almost midnight when Ross turned the Mercedes into the driveway of their Darien home. The long weekend in Vermont had been Lauren's idea, consolation for postponing their holiday and celebration of her pregnancy and the Voynich. He had been looking forward more than he'd realized to getting away from everything so the long weekend now seemed a poor substitute for the planned three weeks in the Far East.
As the car slowed, Lauren leant across to kiss his cheek. 'Thanks, Ross, I had a lovely time.'
'So did I. It could have been longer, though.' He flashed a lopsided smile. 'Say, about three weeks.'
She laughed. 'Stop trying to make me feel guilty. I know you're disappointed, but the insurance covered the cost. We haven't lost any money.'
'You know it's not about the money,' he said. 'This was planned months ago, and we haven't had a real holiday together for years.'
She raised an eyebrow. 'That's because you were always too busy with your work.'
'Touche.' It was ironic that when he had time on his hands Lauren had a deadline to meet. 'But you've been working on the manuscript for more than seven years. What difference will three weeks make?'
'All the difference between being the first to complete it and letting someone else get there ahead of me. I'm so close, but the last section isn't like the rest. It's more difficult.' As he parked she put her hand on his. 'I'll make a deal with you. I'll still be able to fly in two months and we'll take our holiday then, whether I've cracked the manuscript or not.'
He smiled at her, thinking how much he loved her. 'Sure. But by then I'll probably be up to my eyeballs in a new job.'
'Fine by me.' She placed his hand on her belly. 'Pretty soon we're going to have another mouth to feed.'
Ross got out of the car and pulled their bags from the back seat. He opened the front door, turned on the lights and followed Lauren into the hallway. 'I'm sorry for giving you a hard time. I guess I'm feeling-'
But she wasn't listening to him. She was looking up at the darkened landing. 'You heard that?' she whispered.
'What?' He put the bags down on the polished cedar floor and moved to the foot of the stairs. 'Where?'
'In my office. I thought I heard something.'
He hadn't. He walked quietly up the stairs.
She followed him to the top, put a hand on his arm. 'Why don't we just call nine one one?'
'Because it's probably nothing. Wait here. I'll check it out.'
He walked across the landing to the door on the left: the smallest bedroom of five, which Lauren used for her work. He had the study. He stood by the closed door and listened, but heard nothing. He relaxed, turned back to his wife and shook his head.
'Be careful,' she mouthed.
He smiled at her and she smiled back.
He turned the knob, opened the door and sensed that something was wrong. He heard Lauren hiss: 'Don't go in, Ross. I always lock the door. Someone must be in there.'
Then his world exploded.
A force slammed the door back on him, smashing into his face, throwing him backwards on to the landing, his head striking the balustrade. Blood clouded his vision and through it he saw a masked figure towering over him. A weaker man would have been knocked out, but Ross dragged himself up, turned to his wife, standing frozen at the head of the stairs, and yelled, 'Run, Lauren! Run!' The intruder lashed out with his heel, catching Ross hard in the temple.
Lauren ran, but as Ross lapsed towards unconsciousness, he saw that she wasn't running away but towards him. 'Leave him alone!' she shouted.
The figure stepped over Ross and made for the stairs, Lauren in his path. Vision blurred, Ross reached up and grabbed the intruder's trouser leg, exposing a thick scar above the right ankle. The man barrelled past him, shoving Lauren against the balustrade with such force that the rail broke and she plummeted to the floor of the hall below. There was a thud and a sickening crack. Then she was silent. The last sound Ross heard before darkness claimed him was the click of the front door closing.
