'The Voynich?'
'The document that Father Orlando Falcon wrote while imprisoned by the Inquisition more than four centuries ago. The same Devil's book that the Church, especially the three men who held our positions at the time, denounced as the dangerous ramblings of a possessed man. The translation is almost identical to Falcon's original testimony recorded in the Inquisition Archives. It would appear that the text he wrote all those centuries ago was a coded language that has only now been understood. Why would Father Orlando have bothered to invent a complex language if his story was a lie, a heresy?'
'You walk in dangerous territory, Father General,' counselled the pope.
'Now is not the time to tread carefully, Your Holiness. Now is the time to be bold. If this miraculous Garden of God exists it has massive implications for the Church.'
'But it can't exist,' Cardinal Prefect Vasari said, reaching for Falcon's testimony. 'Father Orlando claimed, essentially, to have discovered the Garden of Eden in a primitive jungle, in the midst of savages. Eden can't have been in the New World among heathens. And his strange creatures and bizarre plants are far removed from any description in the Bible. He tried to rewrite Genesis, for heaven's sake.'
Torino nodded. 'If it exists, though, its power could restore the Holy Mother Church's standing in the world.'
'It can't,' insisted the Cardinal Prefect. 'It goes against doctrine, undermines the scriptures and threatens the Church.'
'All the more reason why we can't allow anyone else to find it,' countered Torino. He turned to the pope. 'Holy Father, many people currently believe that the Voynich records a harmless myth. But if they knew it had been written by the sole survivor of a mission to find Eldorado, a Jesuit priest who was tortured because of what he claimed to have discovered, then it would, at the very least, embarrass the Church. At worst, it might encourage others to find this garden. Its existence might undermine the Bible and our doctrine. It could erode the Church's already declining relevance. Think about the miraculous healing powers Falcon claimed for his garden. Who needs the Church if people no longer fear death or disease?'
He raised a finger. 'But if we found it, we could mould it to fit our doctrine and bring glory to Rome. We could claim its power as our own. The Holy Mother Church would no longer need to seek out miracles as proof of God's hand on earth. She would control them. Rome would again be a dominant force in the world.'
'Why are you so sure this place exists?' the pontiff asked.
'Because Orlando Falcon wrote directions to his garden in a separate notebook, which, unfortunately, is now in the possession of an atheist, Dr Ross Kelly, the husband of the academic who deciphered the Voynich. Dr Kelly is a geologist and has already flown to Peru to search for the garden.'
'What?' The pope and the Cardinal Prefect sat forward.
'Of course, he may find nothing, but what if he does discover something?'
Torino briefed them on all he knew, omitting any reference to Bazin. He had always kept his assassin half-brother secret and now was not the time to reveal their relationship. He explained that Lauren Kelly had translated the Voynich manuscript, except for one key section, which she believed contained a map. She had been injured in a burglary, jeopardizing publication of a complete translation. He had subsequently approached her husband and gained his verbal agreement to see her notes. 'But the nun changed his mind.'
'What nun?'
'A Sister Chantal. She visited Dr Kelly and convinced him that Falcon's garden wasn't a fantasy and might contain a cure for his wife. She gave him Father Orlando's notebook.'
'How did she get hold of it? Who is this Sister Chantal?'
Torino reached into his box file. He took out a letter and a small carved box. 'A few days ago my office received this request from one of our Aids hospices in Uganda. They want the Institute of Miracles to investigate an apparent intervention. Two of their terminal patients, twin boys, have been cured simultaneously and spontaneously. On the same day, one of the nuns disappeared from the hospice. When questioned, the boys claimed that she had made them tea, using something from this box.' He handed it to the pope. 'Look at the carving.'
'I see flowers.'
'They're not ordinary flowers. You'll see flowers like that in only one place: the Voynich Cipher Manuscript.'
Silence.
'According to our research, the sister who disappeared had been with the hospice for twelve years, and two other hospices before that, but her order has no record of her earlier life. None. Her name? Sister Chantal.' The two men remained silent but Torino had their complete attention. 'All we know with certainty is that she's linked to Father Orlando and the Voynich. Whoever this mysterious rebel nun is, Dr Ross Kelly now has the notebook containing the directions, and is already searching for the garden to find a cure for his wife.'
He powered up his laptop, turned the screen towards them and played scenes of Ross Kelly in his comatose wife's hospital room: explaining that the garden revealed in Lauren's translation of the Voynich might hold a cure for her; telling her that they were going to find the garden; kissing her goodbye and asking for her blessing.
'How did you get this?' demanded Vasari.
'I have an ally, a servant of the Church, who keeps me informed.'
The Holy Father frowned. 'You have someone spying on Dr Kelly?'
'I prefer to see it as watching and listening. He wants only to serve the Church, as we all do.'
'Take care you do nothing to shame Rome, Father General,' said the pope.
'I'd never do anything to harm the Holy Mother Church, but if Kelly finds this garden and tells the world of its existence, he could destroy Rome.'
Vasari leant forward. 'You really think the geologist will find a miracle cure for his wife?'
'I fear he'll find a great deal more than that.'
'Like what?'
Torino narrowed his eyes. 'The miracle of creation. The scientific answer to the Book of Genesis.' He turned again to the pope. 'Holy Father, six months ago you announced the Holy Mother Church's revised position on evolution. You rejected Darwin's theory and embraced intelligent design. You enshrined in doctrine the Roman Catholic Church's belief that God, not evolution, is behind the creation and development of life.'
'Yes.'
'In the Inquisition Archives, Father Orlando spoke of something he called the radix, the source. In the garden its brilliance attracted the gold-hunting conquistadors and got them killed. Falcon was vague about what exactly it was, but he claimed it was the power behind the miraculous garden.'
'Your point is?'
'On the video, Kelly mentioned a theory – a hypothesis – to explain scientifically how Father Orlando's miraculous garden could exist,' Torino said. 'Kelly's theory is even bolder than the one Father Orlando dared in his blasphemous testimony: that this Garden of God and its source might be the origin of all life on earth. Forget Darwin and evolution. If Kelly finds this garden, he won't just be able to save his wife, demonstrating that miracles are independent of any church, he might also be able to show where, when and how life began on earth. He may be able to prove scientifically the theory of evolution – make it fact. Our doctrine will be in shreds. Religion relies on mystery, on faith. These revelations will render the Church as we know it, and all of us, redundant.'
The horror on the pope's face was almost comical but Torino didn't laugh. 'So what do you suggest we do?' demanded the pontiff.
'We turn the threat into an opportunity. We find the garden first and control it.'
'How?'
Torino had considered every option: from kidnapping the nun to stealing the book to threatening Ross Kelly. But he couldn't tell the pope any of this. So he lied: 'My scholars have managed to translate most of the final section of the manuscript. It gives directions to the garden and, with your blessing, I intend to seek it myself.'
'But you have duties.'
'None greater than this. I will set aside two months. No more. I have already arranged f
or Father Xavier Alonso to fulfil my responsibilities in that time.'
'You intend to race the geologist to the garden?'
'Yes.'
'Let's say you find it,' said Vasari. 'What do we do with it?'
Torino reached into his box file and pulled out three copies of the same document. He handed one to each man and kept the last for himself. 'These are a list of options, depending on what is found.' He smiled as he watched them read the bullet points. Their fear had been replaced with excitement. 'As you can see, the opportunities are limitless. So long as we manage everything carefully.'
The pope's pale eyes locked on to Torino's. 'I demand only one thing, Father General. Regardless of what you find, I as the Holy Father must see and hear nothing that contravenes doctrine. Doctrine must be sacrosanct. I must not be put in a position where I have to deny anything. Papal infallibility cannot be compromised. You understand?'
'Perfectly. I assure you that if the garden exists it will bring only glory to you and the Holy Mother Church.'
The pope nodded slowly. 'Good. How do we control this place? Surely, it will belong to whichever government owns the land.'
Torino smiled. 'The Cardinal Prefect has already supplied an excellent solution to that.'
Vasari raised an eyebrow. 'I have?'
'Yes. Your brilliant plan to bolster our presence in the world by founding a second Vatican state in the southern hemisphere.'
Vasari understood immediately. 'You can claim to be searching for the ideal location to build the Vatican of the New World. Even if Falcon's garden doesn't exist and you find nothing, the Church won't suffer. We've nothing to lose.'
'And everything to gain,' said the pope, slowly. 'If you do find something we can incorporate it into the new Vatican and legally claim it as our own.' Torino remained silent, letting them own the plan. The pope turned to Vasari, who shrugged and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Then the pontiff levelled his unblinking gaze on Torino. 'Take whoever and whatever you need. Do whatever's necessary, but keep us briefed. And be careful, Father General.'
'I understand, Your Holiness.'
'Go then,' said the Holy Father. 'Do God's work.'
26
Cajamarca, the next day
Ross, Zeb and Sister Chantal spent the night in the Hotel El Ingenio, the best in Cajamarca. Since they would soon be roughing it in the jungle Ross had decided they should enjoy the comforts of civilization while they could. After a surprisingly good night's sleep, he showered and dressed in jeans, T-shirt and a light fleece: the morning temperature was cool but forecast to hit the low seventies, with humidity in the eighties. After breakfast, he and the others walked into the town centre in search of a guide.
They didn't have to look far. Outside the hotel they were approached by a man sharpening a huge knife on a leather belt. 'You want guide? My name is Chico,' he informed them proudly, grinning and exposing toothless gums. Before Ross or the others could reply, Chico was tapping his razor-sharp knife on Ross's shoulder and reassuring him he could take them anywhere so long as they put down a deposit of ten thousand US dollars and signed a blood chit absolving him of responsibility should they be murdered, raped, kidnapped, imprisoned or go missing. He closed his compelling sales pitch by boasting that he had only lost two gringos in the last few years.
Ross and the others declined four times, but had to walk a whole two blocks before the man got the message and went in search of other prey.
Despite being steeped in history, set in the spectacular Andean cloud forests, and surrounded by the magnificent ruins of ancient pre-Incan cities, Cajamarca didn't boast many tourists. It was too far north of the popular trail and its world-famous sites: Machu Picchu, Cuzco and Lake Titicaca. Nevertheless Cajamarca still had its fair share of tour companies. After a frustrating day spent in most of them, they ended up in Amazonas Tours.
'Are you haqueros?' The man with the bad suit and worse teeth spoke loud enough for everyone in Amazonas Tours to hear.
Ross gestured to his companions sitting alongside him: the frail Sister Chantal in her olive fleece and pressed khakis, the red-haired, fresh-faced Zeb in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. 'Do we look like grave robbers?'
'Are you gold hunters?'
'No.'
'Are you oil prospectors?'
Ross shook his head.
The man from Amazonas Tours scratched his head. 'Then why do you want to explore outside the usual tourist areas and national parks? The Amazon is a dangerous place. People who leave the known trails get lost and are never seen again.'
'That's why we need an escort.'
The man frowned. 'It's not just the danger to you. This area is full of ruins and graves, and in the past people plundered our treasures. The government has made laws to protect our culture. If you want to go outside the designated tourist areas you will need a permit. Amazonas Tours can arrange one within four to six weeks.'
Ross glanced up at the ceiling fan, exasperated. He was sitting before one of three desks in the open-plan office. The others were busy with tourists and a queue of four people was waiting by the large window, which overlooked the gardens of Cajamarca's scruffily elegant Plaza de Armas, the town square where Pizarro's men had slaughtered the Incas and captured the Emperor Atahualpa all those centuries ago. 'I don't see the problem. We just want to hire some equipment, transportation and a guide to help us navigate the cloud forest, the river and the rainforest.'
'But, señor, you don't know where you want to go. How can a guide help you?' He lowered his voice marginally. 'Unless you are haqueros and you have an illegal map.'
'We're not haqueros.'
'Then why do you need to go outside—'
Ross didn't let him finish. He stood up and shook the man's hand. 'Thank you, Señor Hidalgo, you've been a great help.'
As he led the other two out of the office, he brushed past a dapper man in a safari suit.
'God, this place is so bureaucratic,' said Zeb, as they emerged into the late-afternoon sun bathing the square. 'Perhaps we should use an unofficial guide.'
Ross groaned.
'That's the fourth tour company who've told us we can't go off the beaten track without permits,' Zeb said. 'They want to know what we're looking for.'
'Which we can't tell them,' said Ross, 'so we need to agree on a cover story. It seems they don't like grave robbers or treasure hunters, so I suggest we're oil prospectors.'
'I'd much rather be a treasure hunter,' said Zeb. 'Sounds way more romantic.' She turned to Sister Chantal. 'You said you'd been here before. What did you do?'
'It was a long, long time ago. I was younger and things were very different.'
I bet, thought Ross. He reached into his rucksack and took out a small palmtop computer, complete with geological maps and a global-positioning satellite system. 'We could follow the directions ourselves,' he said. 'Stock up on provisions and equipment, hire a car to the river, then a boat from there.'
'Do you even know what provisions and equipment to take? Or how much? What about when we're in the middle of the jungle?' said Zeb. 'Do you have any experience of surviving out there?'
'Some,' said Ross, miserably aware that a few weeks ago he and Lauren had planned to be caving in the jungles of Borneo – before she'd learnt she was pregnant and before . . . 'I know the basics – how to hang a hammock and net to protect us from insects, and I know most of the dangers, like the fer-de-lance.'
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