The Voynich Cypher

by Russell Blake

  Just plain folks, really. Except that as he scratched at his face with a disposable razor, Michael wasn’t running the details of his morning’s client presentation or ad campaign through his head – rather, he was considering the minutiae of corporate espionage countermeasures, kidnapping or assault scenarios, wiretapping, and all the rest of the fun that comprised his world as a small-time private security provider for a few exclusive clients in the Big Apple.

  Michael Derrigan was a sole-proprietor with a few part-time consultants, whose expertise he drew upon when needed, and while the money was pretty good, it was far from great – but work was steady, and for the decade he’d been doing it, relatively uneventful. Compared to his prior stint with the Navy in the elite SEAL division, this was a walk in the park – he’d never had to shoot anyone on the job, and the few times one of his clients had gotten into serious trouble, he’d been able to put it to rest with a briefcase of hundreds and a broken nose.

  Lately, he’d been spending more time escorting trophy wives on shopping sprees or cleaning up after some Middle Eastern royalty’s son’s embarrassing behaviour at a nightspot than on any sort of real security work.

  Which was fine with Michael as long as the cash kept coming. He billed a grand per eight-hour day and had steady gigs that kept him busy three to four days a week, so while he certainly wasn’t building an empire, he had adequate walking around money to keep himself in a nice lifestyle. Some day, he was going to finish his great American novel, but for now, he was more focused on his daily grind, which this morning involved meeting some visiting businessmen at JFK and playing tour guide/concierge, hopefully keeping them out of jail, the morgue, or the papers for the three days they were in town.

  That wasn’t as easy as it sounded. These gentlemen were on a combination business/pleasure junket from Turkey and likely couldn’t wait to begin the boozing and whoring to which many of his international clients were inevitably drawn.

  Michael washed down an English muffin with an oversized cup of coffee and watched CNN to keep track of the world’s latest horrors and atrocities. The talking heads always seemed so earnest, and a part of him absently wondered whether they prayed every morning for a war to start, or a plane to crash, or a school bus full of children to be held hostage. Chewing the remains of his breakfast, he pondered what got someone interested in being a newscaster. Were they failed actors? Did they bomb Off-Broadway and this was their big break, or at least a steady pay check? Or was this their dream? Were there really children out there who didn’t want to be firemen or astronauts, but instead wanted to be pseudo-reporters reading earnestly from a teleprompter? He didn’t get it, but then again, there was a whole world of things Michael didn’t get.

  A story about a boat explosion at the mouth of the Hudson caught his attention, but after a few moments watching the vapid coverage his eyes drifted away from the screen and to his computer; he had no interest in listening to the perkily earnest reporter try to make an engine fire sound riveting.

  Michael checked the time and realized he was dawdling. Forcing himself into action, he assembled his daily inventory of necessities on his small dining room table – Blackberry, permit to carry, Glock with extra magazine, money clip with two grand in hundreds, driver’s license, PI license, business cards held together with a worn rubber band, and black Amex card in his company’s name. He ticked the items off his mental checklist by habit.

  All there, present and accounted for.

  Satisfied he hadn’t forgotten anything, he switched off the television and grabbed his gear, stuffing it into various and sundry pockets. Now properly equipped, he checked his appearance one last time in the full-length mirror by the front door; a vanity a long-departed aspiring model girlfriend had insisted upon as a requirement for regular feedback of her charms. Michael looked competent, alert, and completely average, which was exactly the effect he strove for. The loose cut of his hand-tailored gray suit hid the bulge from the shoulder holster. He was indistinguishable from the legions of nondescript businessmen thronging the streets of Manhattan.

  His pocket vibrated as he received the text message from Aldous, the 300-pound Haitian driver he used for these types of pickups, informing Michael that the car was rounding the corner and would be in front of his building within sixty seconds.

  Michael shut off the lights, double-locked the front door, and quickly descended the two flights of stairs to the street, humming to himself as he approached the waiting limo.

  Life was pretty good, all things considered. At least he wasn’t breaking up bar fights at four a.m. like some of his peers from the service did to make ends meet now they were private citizens again. If wearing a monkey suit and treating some wonk from a refinery in lower Killdickistan like a visiting head of state was what it took to pay the rent, hey, there were worse alternatives: he could be a pimp, or, God forbid, a lawyer.

  Michael smiled for the first time that day as he climbed into the passenger side of the long, black vehicle’s front cab. Aldous didn’t smile back. The big man obviously had a lot on his mind. Michael tried a cheerful ‘Hello’ but Aldous merely grunted ominously before gunning the car into mid-morning traffic.

  Welcome to the Big Apple.

  Black Flagged Excerpt

  A Novel By Steven Konkoly

  (c) 2011

  2:35 P.M.

  A few miles outside of Vizic, Serbia

  Marko Resja peered cautiously over the top of the jagged stone wall, scanning the lodge's distant front porch with powerful binoculars. Through the driving downpour, he counted four men, which was a good thing. With the entire external security team in one place, he should have no trouble approaching unseen.

  He lowered himself to the spongy, pine needle covered ground, and leaned back against a sharp granite chunk that formed part of the estate's perimeter wall. Created by haphazardly dumping large uneven rocks around the lodge on all sides, the utilitarian border marked the divide between hastily cleared land and the impenetrable Fruska Gora National Forest.

  Marko had arrived at the stone wall one hour earlier, hampered by the same relentless rainfall that had kept NATO aircraft at bay for more than a week. Concealed in the dense pine foliage behind the jagged barrier, he could hear the distant roar of high altitude jets through the unremitting storm. He guessed the NATO pilots were testing Belgrade's air defense network from a safe distance, impatient for the weather to clear over the northern Balkan Peninsula.

  He stared out into the wavering pine forest before turning his attention back to the lodge. The two-story, modern stone and beam structure looked sturdy enough to withstand an artillery attack. A similarly constructed, one-story garage stood between him and the house, partially obscuring his view of the main structure.

  SreckoHadzic, ruthless leader of the paramilitary Serbian Panther crime syndicate, had built the lodge for the sole purpose of hiding his brother, Pavle, from prying eyes. Rumors of NATO commando teams operating within Serbian borders had taken root among upper level leadership, raising paranoia to near panic levels, and Hadzic feared Pavle's capture more than his own at this point. Unfortunately for Hadzic, the Vizic compound was one of the worst kept secrets in Belgrade.

  He took one more look over the top of the wall, just to make sure all four men were still on the porch. He spotted the bright orange glow of cigarettes through the nearly impenetrable rain squall. He didn't expect any of them to emerge from their cozy shelter, but he had to keep in mind that these men were all current or former Serbian Special Operations types, and despite the overindulgences often associated with paramilitary security details, all of these men had been handpicked for their competence. Three more had accompanied Radovan Grahovac, Hadzic's Chief-of-Security, into the lodge to meet with Pavle.

  They had all arrived dressed in civilian clothes, which suggested that the crew might head north for a night of prostitutes and drinking along the banks of the Danube River in Novi Sad. Despite their casual dress, however, each man carried a
compact assault rifle, and a pistol. Under normal circumstances, this was not a crew he would cross. Today, Marko would make a notable exception.

  Satisfied that all four men were still in the same place, he picked up a long, thick black nylon duffel bag and ran to a position along the wall that was completely obscured from the porch by the garage. He knew from two previous reconnaissance trips that Radovan didn't stay more than ten minutes, which meant he was already running out of time.

  From his new vantage point, he glanced over the wall, and saw one of two dark blue Range Rovers that had arrived at Pavle's hideaway a few minutes ago, depositing Radovan and his heavily armed security detail. The other Range Rover was parked several meters behind the first, hidden from his view by the garage.

  He kneeled low and wrestled a Serbian-made light machine gun out of the soaked nylon bag, extending the weapon's foldable shoulder stock. He placed the weapon against the wall and reached back into the bag for one of two detachable ammunition drums. He swiftly attached one of the seventy-five round drums to the weapon and placed the second in a hip satchel.

  Beyond the high capacity ammunition drums, he had four standard thirty-round magazines velcroed into quick-access pouches on his combat vest, nestled among four stun grenades. He screwed a large silencer to the machine gun's barrel, and chambered a round with the weapon's charging lever. The final item he took from the bag was a gray, aluminum ice climbing axe, which he attached low on the side of his vest. He was ready.

  He gripped the sturdy assault weapon with his left hand and hopped over the rock wall, using his right hand for leverage. After splashing down in ankle-high mud, he slogged through the torrential rain to reach the left back corner of the garage. From that spot, he'd be able to see the four men leave the porch, which was critical to his plan.

  Marko arrived at the corner, careful not to expose himself. He checked all of his gear one more time, wishing he could check the computer and satellite phone in his waterproof backpack, but just as quickly dismissing the idea as last minute paranoia. He knew the electronics rig worked, and that it would give him a secure satellite connection for both the satellite phone and his computer. He had assembled and tested it nearly a dozen times within the last twenty-four hours. He might not even need it, but he wasn't about to take any chances, and neither was General Sanderson.

  The rain intensified for a minute, as sheets of water pummeled the side of the garage. Despite having been exposed to the frigid early spring rain for nearly two hours, he wasn't cold. Under his paramilitary camouflage outfit, he wore a waterproof, insulated one-piece jumpsuit. Certainly not standard issue for elite Serbian commandos, or even the most pampered members of Hadzic's paramilitary forces.

  Nothing in Marko's equipment load-out was standard Serbian issue, which distressed him, though it should have comforted him. As an American deep cover operative, he hadn't fired or handled a weapon less than twenty years old since his arrival in Serbia two years ago. The model he held in his hand came fresh off the Zastava Arms assembly line, compliments of General Sanderson, but it felt alien to him. Instinctively, he knew everything he carried was superior to the ancient hardware handed down to him by senior members of the Panthers, who passed their equipment down to make room for newer toys. Still, it felt strangely uncomfortable.

  He peeked around the corner of the garage and saw one of the men throw a lit cigarette out into the front yard. Another man talked excitedly into a small handheld radio and rapidly nodded his head. Showtime.

  Marko released the weapon's safety, and pulled a rain soaked black ski mask down over his head. He peered cautiously around the corner, watching the men scramble off the porch. When they vanished from his sight, he moved rapidly down the unobserved side of the garage to the front corner and risked another peek. Everything looked just like he had expected. The lead SUV was already loaded with Radovan and the three men who accompanied him inside the lodge. The four commandos from the porch jogged toward the rear SUV.

  He'd witnessed the same scene several dozen times before. Radovan always insisted that the team assigned to the rear vehicle wait for all of the members of the lead car to get situated. When he'd first seen this, he thought it might be for security reasons, but he’d learned firsthand that this was simply another one of Radovan's psychotic quirks. He also knew that all four members of the rear security team, anxious to get out of the rain, would be so preoccupied watching the lead SUV that he could engage them completely undetected.

  He pushed these thoughts aside, and instantly engaged a near trance-like mindset. He stepped out into the open and lowered his body into a tensed semi-crouch, aiming at the last man in the group. Through the Aimpoint sight, he placed the red dot on the man's upper back, just below the nape of his neck, and squeezed the trigger for a controlled burst. The weapon kicked considerably, but he kept it under control, and repeated the process for the remaining three guards. He sprinted for the back of the empty SUV and reached it before the last guard hit the ground. None of them had a chance to react. If anything, a couple of them might have felt a warm, chunky spray. Less than five seconds had elapsed.

  A quick glance back confirmed that all four members of Radovan's rear security team were dead, and Marko moved forward along the right side of the rear SUV, focused on Radovan's vehicle.

  Radovan sat impatiently in the front passenger seat of his Range Rover, listening to the rain hammering the truck's thick metal roof. He hated these trips, and absolutely despised handing their hard earned cash over to Hadzic's "gang-banger worshiping" brother, Pavle. Radovan was a committed ultra-nationalist, and had no tolerance for the newly arrived American "gangsta" music that had penetrated the Belgrade club scene. When Radovan hit the town, which he frequently did, Belgrade went hip-hop free. Nobody risked incurring the security chief's wrath.

  "Why the fuck are we not out of here already?" he yelled at the rain blurred windshield.

  Directly behind him, one of the commandos shifted uncomfortably. Here we go again. He turned his head back over his right shoulder, equally annoyed with his infantile boss, and the idiots in the other Range Rover. Through the wide back window of the Range Rover's gate, he noted a figure sliding down the right side of the rear SUV, but never had a chance to form much more of an impression about the situation. Several steel jacketed bullets ripped through his skull, and the cabin of the SUV erupted in chaos.

  Radovan was immediately hit by two of the bullets that passed unhindered through the commando's throat. One struck him in the upper left shoulder, where it stayed, and the other ricocheted off the metal head rest post, and grazed the right side of his neck. The windshield in front of Radovan crumbled from the second bullet, and he instinctively grabbed for the short-barreled assault rifle that rested between his right leg and the door. Before his hand completed the twelve-inch journey, the front passenger door erupted in a fusillade of torn plastic, metal fragments, and safety glass.

  His hand never touched the rifle. He felt incredible surges of pain at multiple points throughout his body, but remained conscious for a few seconds, vaguely aware that a figure moved across the front of the SUV, firing continuously into the vehicle. His head was violently snapped backward and to the left, leaving him with a view of a shattered body in the seat behind the driver. He tried to call out to the man, but couldn't form the words. He watched as a dark red stain splattered the bodyguard's window, and a red mist aerosolized the rear cargo compartment. This was the last thing Radovan would ever see.

  Against all odds, the driver, Jorji, survived the seemingly endless hail of bullets. He was hit several times, but knew that he was not critically wounded. When the first bullets passed through the car, Jorji twisted his body to the right, pressing down on the center console, trying to present the lowest possible target to his attackers. This was not the first time he had been attacked in a vehicle, and his previous experience kept him alive a little longer than the rest of the Range Rover's occupants.

  Several bullets pierced t
he back of his seat, and tore into the top left side of his body, causing mostly superficial damage, but shredding muscle and tendon from his left hip all the way up to his shoulder. The extensive muscle damage along his entire left side kept him locked in place over the center console, with his face nearly buried in Radovan's lap. No matter how hard he tried, he could not sit up, which was another reason that he was still alive.

  Marko dropped to the soaked gravel near the front left tire of the Range Rover and rolled over onto his left side, which gave him easy access to the hip satchel containing the second ammunition drum. The gun's barrel sizzled as the rain struck the dangerously overheated metal. A hundred thoughts and stimuli flashed through his brain, which were immediately prioritized and processed for his use. His trance reduced useless distractions like emotion, hesitation or fear, and enhanced his focus on the highly specialized skills required to survive.

  "Reload weapon" was at the very top of the list. His weapon wasn't empty, but he knew that seventy five rounds didn't last very long at the rate he had fired. In the flash of a synapse, "driver still alive" was also broadcasted, and his eyes narrowed. He had fired long bursts into each passenger as he moved counter-clock wise around the SUV. After targeting the rear right guard and Radovan, he fired a lengthy burst at the driver through the rear right door window. Marko knew the bullets had passed through the seat and connected with the driver, but the man's demise was not conclusive, and he knew it.

  He detached the drum magazine, and threw it out of the way. The second drum was out of the satchel and attached to the light machine gun in a blur of his hands. Marko popped up from the ground into a low crouch, keeping well below the window, and fired a sustained burst through the center of the front driver door.