Free The Voynich Cypher by Russell Blake

before finally speaking.
    “Steven Cross? Dr. Steven Cross?” she said in a voice that was soft as velvet, and discordant with the steel-girder edginess of her cyber-punk look.
    “Yes,” Steven said carefully. “But I have the feeling you know that already.”
    The corners of her mouth twitched, and then she smiled…though it was a troubled smile that didn’t convey friendliness as much as something else Steven could not immediately identify. Sadness ? Yes…sadness …
    “Very astute, Dr. Cross,” the woman said. She extended her hand. “My name is Natalie Twain.”
    Steven stuffed the baguettes under his left arm and extended his right hand. She grasped it with a strong yet feminine grip, Steven noted; again, incongruous to the rest of her demeanor. And then her name made him do a double-take.
    “Natalie Twain? Any relation to Professor Winston Twain?” he said, still shaking her hand.
    She nodded her head.
    “Professor Twain was my father.”
    “He called me a few days back, and my office team tried to track him down, but without success – he must have an unlisted number,” Steven said and then stopped. “Did you say Professor Twain was your father?”
    “Yes, Dr. Cross. Was.”
    Steven continued to stare.
    Natalie nodded, reading his unspoken query. “My father is dead,” she said quietly.
    Steven continued to take her in, and he could see her eyes, originally so piercing and uncompromising, were now softer in appearance…more vulnerable, somehow less impervious to scrutiny.
    “I’m sorry,” Steven said.
    “So am I,” Natalie said. “But not as sorry as I plan to make the people responsible.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Dr. Cross,” Natalie said softly. “My father’s death wasn’t an accident.”
    Steven was taken aback, but held Natalie’s stare.
    “Ms. Twain…I’m sorry to hear that, but I have to ask – why are we talking?”
    “Because, Dr. Cross,” Natalie said, “I believe you – and I – are both in very real danger. I need twenty minutes of your time. Please don’t say no. Your life may depend on it.”
     

CHAPTER 8
     
     
    Sia Amieri sat behind the wheel of a silver Lexus that had been provided to him by his mentor and employer, Dr. Morbius Frank. He gazed out at downtown Tehran, Iran, after a grueling travel session that had spanned from New York, to Los Angeles, to Palm Springs, then back to L.A., and a rather circuitous voyage home by way of Singapore, to Mehrabad International Airport.
    The car had been waiting for him in the lot where Frank had indicated, the keys handed to him by an eager attendant who treated Amieri as if he were a visiting dignitary. Amieri knew that his benefactor was greatly respected in Tehran, although Frank was a British citizen. His dealings with the regime included petroleum, international banking and arms, and Frank had access to the most rarified corridors of power. Frank had homes and offices in Tehran, England and Canada, and his influence seemed to be boundless.
    Amieri drove on Meraj Boulevard, heading for the Azadi Tower, where they were to meet. He took in the impressive piece of architecture, still half a mile away; the Tower, built entirely of white marble, thrust fourteen stories into the sky. Amieri was no stranger to the region, having been born and raised in Iraq, and having crossed into Iran many times on clandestine missions in his past – a brutal one spent as an interrogator and assassin under Saddam Hussein’s iron rule in Iraq, and then later as a freelance killer for anyone willing to meet his price. His benefactor had rescued him from certain execution at the hands of the new regime and offered him an alternative future to one that would be measured in hours before ending at the barrel of a pistol.
    Amieri had known since he was a teenager that there was something different about him, something wrong. He gravitated to the notorious Iraqi secret police because he enjoyed hurting others; a large young man