Free The Voynich Cypher by Russell Blake Page A

who would carry out the most offensive tasks without question was valuable – something his early mentor, a captain in the Mukhabarat , had recognized immediately. Soon, word of his ruthlessness spread beyond the agency, and he became the most notorious killer it had ever spawned. But all the while, Amieri was plagued with guilt. Not for what he’d done, but for his enjoyment of it, which his childhood upbringing condemned. He’d been secretly relieved when he’d been arrested and sentenced to die – at least there would be an end to the madness. Then Dr. Frank had appeared; the only person who’d ever truly understood.
    Over the years, since what Amieri thought of as his salvation by the father he’d never had, he’d grown increasingly slavish to Frank and would have taken a bullet in the face for him. Frank’s appearance in his hour of need had been like that of an angel for Amieri, who was offered both a better life and a path to atonement.
    There is always punishment , Dr. Frank would tell him on occasion. If not corporal, then that of the soul.
    Amieri only hoped he would not cause his benefactor anger after what had happened with Professor Twain. Frank hadn’t negated the possibility of torturing Twain to extract information as to where the Scroll was – but neither had he tacitly endorsed the old man’s murder.
    The professor’s demise had taken him by surprise. Amieri was unaware of Twain’s health problems and had been shocked and alarmed when the old man had gone under. Amieri had barely gotten started interrogating Twain before he’d died, so Amieri could legitimately take the position that his death had been an accident. Frank had not been interested in discussing the details on the telephone – his instructions were simply to meet with Amieri under the Freedom Tower, and all would be discussed in short order.
    Amieri was not fearful of the slings and arrows of Frank’s anger.
    His greatest fear was that his surrogate father would be disappointed in how he had handled things.
    That would be the worst punishment Amieri could imagine.
     

     
    Four thousand feet above the Caspian Sea, a Hawker executive jet was on final approach to Mehrabad International Airport. There was slight turbulence, but this was to be expected in this flight vector; the updraft from the Caspian was notoriously churlish when it came to airplanes descending over its capricious waters. Dr. Morbius Frank, however, was accustomed to the bounce. His gaunt countenance didn’t look up from his Financial Times even as the plane lurched several times – his pilots were the best, and he had more pressing problems than nervousness over a spot of rough air.
    He was initially furious with Amieri about the old man’s death, but the big assassin was really just a child and had to be handled delicately. And perhaps it was his fault, at the end of the day, for not approaching Twain in person about the abrogation of their mutual agreement on Scroll ownership. Amieri had simply done what he did best – extracting the required information from those who were reluctant to be forthcoming.
     
    “I’m not angry with you, my son,” Frank had reassured Amieri from his home in London when Amieri had called from the hotel in Palm Springs where he had taken a room before meeting Twain.
    “He was sick, Doctor,” Amieri continued to insist. “I was not that harsh in my approach. There was no way of knowing he had an aneurism–”
    “I’m confident you were not overzealous. You always apply judicious pressure. I appreciate that. This was simply an unfortunate and unforeseeable complication.”
    “The Scroll was not there. I searched the place, top to bottom, without being too obvious. I know you didn’t want to leave any trace,” Amieri said. “It wasn’t in the house.”
    “We’ll find it,” Frank cajoled. “My suspicion is that the daughter has it. There’s no other explanation that makes sense. Twain was a virtual shut-in, and