The Source - Michael Cordy [17]
He reached for his notes and felt again the bitter frustration he had experienced when Dr Kelly had refused to collaborate with him on completing her research. Apparently she would take a three-week vacation, then finish the translation. He powered up his laptop. The Internet was infested with individuals and communities obsessed with unravelling the manuscript's secrets. Any Google search of 'Voynich' threw up thousands of websites, forums and chat rooms dedicated to the document. Most were hosted by crackpots, amateur sleuths, writers and researchers selling their own particular theory about it. When the Beinecke homepage appeared on screen he clicked on Voynich Synopsis, laid the Inquisition Archives document next to the screen and again compared the story in both sources. The parallels were uncanny.
Despite the still-enciphered astrological section, the translation was a towering achievement. There had been some journalists at the Beinecke, but he was surprised and relieved that she had chosen to reveal her findings in an obscure open lecture on linguistics rather than a full-blown press conference. Then he reminded himself that Dr Lauren Kelly hadn't yet proved what she had accomplished. In academic terms, until she completed the translation and published her findings in full, her work would be classed only as a theory – one in a long line. 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.