CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Voynich manuscript: Described as a magical or scientific text, nearly every page contains botanical, figurative, and scientific drawings of a provincial but lively character, drawn in ink with vibrant washes in various shades of green, brown, yellow, blue, and red.
—Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University
British Museum
Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury
London
Roman Ardelean presented his credentials—Dr. Laurence Bruce’s credentials—to the security desk at the British Museum.
Dr. Bruce looked the part of the scholar—glasses, longish brown hair, a thick beard and mustache, and a rather ugly brown tweed suit. Radu had created a perfect legend, a full identity, education, history. They’d even gone so far as to publish papers on the various “manuscripts” Dr. Laurence Bruce studied.
Dr. Bruce’s published papers were computer-generated by a sophisticated AI program created by Radu. His program used modern language skills built into a hand-coded system designed specifically to do contextual analyses of rare manuscripts, cryptography, and history, then used the information to generate scholarly papers. The papers and their theories were as fake as a green sunset but real enough to fool the various places they’d successfully published. Bogus research was a well-known problem in the academic field, but Roman wasn’t worried. Radu would stay ahead of it. He was that brilliant.
Dr. Laurence Bruce had a moderately respected reputation, one built entirely online by Radu. He and Radu had been nothing if not thorough. They had contacts all over the world in antiquities departments in museums, universities, and private endeavors. Dr. Bruce was known for being a bit different but harmless, and smart enough. And no one doubted he was completely dedicated to the Voynich—indeed, he was passionate about it. When it was necessary to move in the open, Roman pulled on Dr. Bruce’s ugly tweed suit, pasted on a beard, and topped his head with a wig, letting it settle in until it fit him like a second skin.
And, of course, Dr. Laurence Bruce had made friends with Dr. Persy Wynn-Jones, as well as supposed experts on the Voynich, knowing one day those relationships would come in handy. And today, it had paid off.
He would soon see the lost quire and , touch them, read them. He was vibrating with excitement and thumbed a tablet onto his tongue to calm himself down as he was escorted to the elevator. He had himself well in hand when he reached Persy’s office. He’d visited three other times and saw Phyllis the moment he entered. Always with a large blond bun on the top of her head and a chain attached to her glasses around her neck. She was standing beside a filing cabinet, but Roman knew it was her immediately. Her beauty always surprised him, made him wonder how she’d ended up as the secretary to a crusty old man. Perhaps if he met her as Roman, he’d ask her, but Dr. Laurence Bruce was a man of few words, his brain always focused on some esoteric topic, unaware of those around him, particularly underlings. He knew she liked him, quite a surprise given how unprepossessing Dr. Laurence Bruce was. No matter, Dr. Bruce wasn’t one to think romantic thoughts about secretaries. Still, she might one day be useful, so he gave her a special hello and smile when she showed him into Persy’s office.
There stood Persy’s newest prodigy. Dr. Isabella Marin, young, dark hair, lean and fit, taller than average, and leaning over his ancient mahogany desk. Persy was always plucking the best students from the various universities to come work for him. And Persy did so love having handsome young people around.
He said, “Hello, I’m Dr. Laurence Bruce. Where is Dr. Wynn-Jones?”
She gave him a pleasant smile. “He’s been detained in a budget meeting, I’m afraid. I’m Dr. Isabella Marin.” She came around the desk and stuck out her hand. “And you are Dr. Bruce. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
He took her hand, found it soft and dry. “It’s lovely to meet you. Persy’s said great things about you.”
“He is very kind.”
He couldn’t help but stare at her. It wasn’t that she didn’t look like her photo or the video—she did—but in person she looked younger, no more than twenty-five years old. Again, he was struck by her dark skin and the eyes of the women from his family’s homeland. And her name, Marin, and so he said, “Are you Romanian?”
She cocked her head to one side. “I am. How did you know?”
“You have the look of a very good friend’s family. They are from Bucharest. Where were you born?”
“In Florida, but my mother is from Oradea. As I’m sure you know, Oradea used to belong to Hungary.”
He nodded and came closer, the handshake not enough. She smelled exotic, like spices, cloves and nutmeg, and up close, he could see her dark eyes had a ring of gold around the iris, very unique.
She was Romanian, and there was something about her that called to him on the most visceral level—and in that moment, Roman knew he had to have her blood, had to have it for Radu. Did it smell of cloves and nutmeg as well? Could she be the one? Would the coppery tang carry the special taint, the rare compound he’d been searching for?
He realized Isabella was still speaking about Oradea, a town he knew well.
He was pleased his voice didn’t shake. “Please tell me more, Dr. Marin.”
She cocked her head to the side, studying him. “My story isn’t all that unusual, Dr. Bruce. My mother immigrated to the United States from Romania before I was born. She met my father while she competed there. She was a gymnast, you see, Olympic level.
“When her career was over, she wanted to be an artist. But the government wanted her to train young gymnasts. She applied for asylum and got it.
“Sadly, I’m not coordinated like she was, nor do I have the necessary talent. To top it off, I’m much too tall for gymnastics. That’s my father’s fault. He was six foot four, and my mother was barely five feet. They always looked mismatched in photos, but they adored each other. I’ve lost them both. My father to a heart attack and my mother to cancer. I miss them.” Why had she said so much? It wasn’t like her.
“Now, enough about me. You’re here to see the Voynich pages I found. I have them laid out for you. Look, but please don’t touch. I’ll turn the pages as you need me to.”
No, no, he wanted more, he wanted to hear every memory she had of her mother and Romania, where she’d traveled—and more, had she lied at her press conference? Was she a twin? Could she read the Voynich? If so, why hadn’t she come forward years before? He wanted to grab her and haul her out of there despite Phyllis in the outer office, despite—No, no, not yet, but soon, very soon. Calm, calm. After all, it was his lucky day. The papers and a new bloodline. If only Drummond had died, he’d have won the trifecta.
“Oh, yes. The papers. Let me see.”
“We’ll start with the full quire, pages fifty-nine to sixty-four of the manuscript. I know you’re an expert on the Voynich, so I don’t have to explain the importance of this section.”
Was she lying?
“With page seventy-four, I believe I’m very close.”
And what did that mean? Maddening, she was maddening, and he knew she was hiding something, but what? Her spicy scent wafted to his nose as she bent and carefully, gently, turned a page. “These are from the astrological section, and as you can see, they are crowned with constellations.”
“These match no constellation I’ve ever seen.”
“I believe it’s Taurus.” She laid down the page on the desk, picked up another. “The long-lost page seventy-four. Someone cut it out, folded it into thirds, put it inside the quire, and stuck it in an original Marcus Aurelius, Meditations. Yes, the handwritten version.” Her lies came so easily now, after so much repetition. “A collector named Sweig had it. His collection was donated to us two months ago, and I found all of this while I was cataloging the collection. It was an incredible moment. I mean, you can still see the bast fiber threads on the linen support. That alone shouted at me. But when I saw the Voynichese, I knew what I had.”
. He couldn’t believe, yet he was standing there, actually looking at it. Words were difficult. “It—it’s incredible.”
“I know, right? We have the provenance of the Aurelius manuscript intact and verified. It originally came from the library of an Italian estate outside of Venice, Gradara Castle.” A bit of truth: she’d placed the pages there, a tribute, really, to Gradara, to whomever had drawn the picture of the castle. How many centuries ago?
“Gradara? Many a Voynich scholar have speculated the castle on page eighty-six might be Gradara. You know, the one with—”
She grinned. “Right, the one with the curved merlons. Yes. No one has ever known for certain which castle the drawing represented, but I’m certain it’s Gradara. It must have been added to the manuscript at least a century, maybe more, after the Voynich was originally penned. I like to picture a young prince looking through the manuscript, drawing the view outside his window. And I wonder if he was punished.” She laughed. “I know, I have a strange imagination.”
“More likely an imprisoned monk drew what he could see from his cell.”
“I like my imagining better—yours is much too dark.”
You have no idea how dark, or how true, my dear.
“Well, Dr. Marin, since you have all the insights, do you know who wrote the blasted thing?”
She leaned back against the desk, arms crossed over her chest. “No. Your guess is as good as mine. The castle drawing, though, has always looked like a doodle to me. Like someone was drawing a view, not putting it in the manuscript on purpose. Or maybe we’re all wrong, and it’s the signature of the writer.” She shrugged. “Another mystery surrounding the manuscript.”
Roman stared at . He had only a moment before she turned it over and gathered the loose pages very carefully together and slid them into a soft folder. He couldn’t wait to tell Radu, couldn’t wait to have the pages in his keeping.
“Make me a copy of these pages. I need to study them.”
Something in Dr. Bruce’s voice made gooseflesh rise on Isabella’s arms. His voice was too harsh, too intense, and he was standing too close, staring at her as if he was going to—what? She didn’t know, but she suddenly felt a bolt of fear and knew she didn’t want to be alone with him for another minute. Even if he was an expert and a friend of Persy’s, only an odd man, she still wanted to get away from him. Time to get him out of here. She straightened and closed the folder, took a step back.
Roman cursed to himself. He’d alarmed her, been too preemptory, sounded peculiar, obsessive. But he knew these pages were exactly what he needed—he knew it to his soul. He wanted desperately to touch them, to remove the protective casing and feel the gall ink under his fingers. There was blood in the ink, he was sure of it, mixed in with the berries. The blood of his ancestors, and their blood was calling, calling to him over endless expanse of time. He could almost hear their voices.
Roman could see her edging away, her beautiful face now set and pale. Had he said it aloud? His breath was coming faster. Her scent, her blood, the pages—get a hold of yourself!
He straightened, tried to look benign and a bit befuddled. “Forgive me, Dr. Marin. I’m overexcited by this incredible find. I would greatly like to study these pages. Perhaps I could lend my expertise, and together we could—”
Isabella shook her head. “I’m sorry, Dr. Bruce, but we’re not ready to free them into the wild just yet. No one is allowed to remove even the most simple facsimile of these papers from the museum. Not even me.”
“When will you go on your twin search?”
“I begin in earnest tomorrow.” Why had he asked? Again, she felt that tingling fear. Could he have stolen the manuscript? Could her plan have worked so quickly? No, surely not. He was simply an overeager scholar. Still, she hugged the folder to her chest. “Dr. Wynn-Jones asked me to show you the pages, Dr. Bruce, as a courtesy, but now I’m afraid I have to get back to work. Thank you for your interest. Good day.”
Roman pulled on his Dr. Laurence Bruce self again, all deprecating smiles, as unthreatening as a puppy. “It was wonderful for you to take the time, Dr. Marin, thank you. I’ll be keeping close tabs on you so I can share in your achievement when you publish. Congratulations.”
And he left the room.
Isabella stood frozen a moment, then calmed herself. She’d overreacted. She was walking a dangerous line and was going to see thieves and crooks in every face until the true criminal came for her. Still, she put the folder with the facsimile of the quires back into Persy’s safe, then grabbed her things. She wanted to leave, to clear her head.
“Phyllis, I’m going to head home early. I’ve overdone it today, I think, and I have a headache. Tell Persy I’ll see him bright and early tomorrow morning, will you?”
Phyllis wasn’t stupid. She saw something was wrong. Had Dr. Bruce said something? No, no, not possible. Dr. Bruce was a sweetheart, the prototypical absentminded scholar. She patted Isabella’s hand. “It’s been indeed a wild day for you. You deserve a nice dinner, maybe some champagne, too. Celebrate, Dr. Marin. You’re going to be even busier from here on out.”
“I hope so, Phyllis. See you later”—and she was out the door and racing up the stairs to her own office one floor above. She closed and locked her office door, opened her safe, much smaller and less grand than her boss’s, and from it, she lifted out the real pages wrapped in soft linen and put them carefully into her backpack. She hadn’t lied to Dr. Bruce. No one was supposed to take the quire from the museum. And as far as anyone knew, the originals were in Dr. Wynn-Jones’s safe. She couldn’t be separated from the pages.
She realized she did now have a headache. Too much stress and, yes, fear, all catching up with her. Still, she felt the remembered excitement of her very first press conference, remembered every fluent lie she’d told. It was probably online for all the world to see, and she was at center stage. And wasn’t that something? She thought of her mother, her small, delicate mother, who’d died only last year, the cancer taking her so very quickly. In her will, she’d requested Isabella to sell or donate everything she’d owned.
Except for the pages. And that’s where the precious quire and had really been hidden, not in the ridiculous British Museum but buried in her mother’s garden. She knew her mother hadn’t wanted her near the pages, but still, she’d obviously felt compelled to tell her daughter where she’d buried them. Why? So she could make up her own mind what to do with them.
Of course, after she’d dug up the pages, she understood everything. She was too late to steal the Voynich herself and reunite the pages—it had been stolen only one month before her mother had died. But she knew, deep where knowledge resided, that whoever had stolen the Voynich from the Beinecke would come for the rest of the pages. Eagerly. And so she’d set her plan into motion.
And when the thief came for the pages, as she knew he would, she would kill him. The pages were sacred, the Voynich was sacred. She would reunite the pages as she was meant to.
Now it was done. Surely the thief knew about the pages after the grand announcement today. All knew who she was.
But none knew she’d managed to buy a gun, no easy manner in England. She would be ready when he came.
She looked around carefully as she pedaled her bike out of the garage, but she didn’t see the man in glasses watching her from the shadows.