The venetian code, p.8
The Venetian Code, page 8
Male eligere, peribitis
Reperio proximo numero per ordinem et electionem tuam
Ye who passes must solve the riddle of the Door
To choose wisely, then ye shall enter
To choose poorly, then ye shall perish
Find the next number in the sequence and make your choice
In between doors two and three were a series of numbers, all in Roman numerals.
II IX III I VIII IV III VI V VIII ?
Novikov read the numbers out loud. “Two, nine, three, one, eight, four, three, six, five, seven . . . and a missing number—a number we have to determine that, I assume, corresponds with one of the numbers carved into the doors—from one to four.”
Though Novikov prided himself on having a high intellect, his spatial thinking had its limitations. Though he could read puzzles and unravel their mysteries, anything containing numeric values had always been a challenge to him, a blind spot.
After translating the Latin phrase to his team, Novikov said, “To continue, we must choose the right door. To choose the correct door, then we must choose the correct number. If we choose the wrong door—I’m assuming from the translation—that the outcome will not be a satisfactory one.” After studying the string of numbers on the wall between doors two and three, he said, “We need to figure out the sequence and determine if the correct number at the end is one, two, three, or four.”
2 9 3 1 8 4 3 6 5 7 ?
Novikov continued to shake his head. Nothing was coming to him. He saw the numbers, but he could not identify a logical outcome. Eventually, he looked at the last three numbers—6, 5, 7. The numeric syntax was out of sequence, he considered. Instead of 6, 5, 7, it should have been 5, 6, 7. Since there aren’t eight doors but four, he concluded that the proper sequence was 4, 5, 6, 7, with 4 representing the fourth door.
“The fourth door,” the oligarch finally whispered. “It has to be the fourth door. It makes sense. It’s sequential to the last three numbers, though the arrangement is off, I’m assuming, to mask the obvious.” And then: “Mr. Rabinovitch, if you would be so kind to choose a member of your team to examine the fourth doorway.”
Rabinovitch wasted no time as he pointed to a man by the name of Morozov. He was a man of strong build and squared features, a powerful adversary should anyone contest him. Acknowledging the gesture with a confirming nod, Morozov went to the fourth door and examined the seams surrounding it. There was no knob or lever, which told him that access to whatever lay beyond the door was to push against the cobblestone. Expecting the door to weigh a massive amount, he was surprised that a mere push with his palm opened the doorway, which was perfectly balanced so that a minimal amount of force was necessary. The sound of stone grating against stone sounded as though something heavy was being dragged across the floor, Morozov stood inside the doorway. Through his NVG monocular, the channel appeared to be endless.
“What do you see?” Rabinovitch asked him.
“Nothing. Just a long hallway.”
“Check it out,” ordered Rabinovitch.
Morozov stepped into the corridor with his gun constantly being directed to all points of the compass—up, down, east and west.
Nothing.
He moved on, and slowly, with the radar of his sixth sense fully functional. With every step forward he could sense heightening danger, a menace, something that went unseen but was waiting in shadows.
He stopped.
For as far as he could see through his NVG device, he saw nothing but ankle-deep water. Still, the feeling of menace lingered like a heavy pall.
He pressed on.
Slowly.
As his footfalls splashed lightly through the water, he happened to step on something that gave beneath him, a slight downward shift. Then there was the sound of something behind the walls, the movement of pullies and weights. When the muted noise stopped, the cobblestone walls began to close in from his left and right. Like the walls of a vise, the walls started to pinch Morozov. When he tried to push against them, he found the action futile, so he dropped his weapon and started to race for the open doorway that led to his teammates. His feet splashed wildly as the water slowed his pace. He cried out and extended his hand.
The walls were closing, his space thinning.
The chamber appeared to be the light at the end of the tunnel, so far away.
He stretched his hand.
He cried out.
The walls.
Closing.
The area became claustrophobically thin as his shoulders were squeezed together. Air was forced out of his lungs. His ribs began to snap.
The walls continued to close.
The doorway—right there—right in front of him.
Morozov continued to reach, to strive, the walls squeezing.
The body becoming mortar and paste.
One last reach, one last effort to safety.
In the end, with salvation an arm’s length away, Morozov’s hand and forearm poked out from the pinching walls and into the chamber, his hand appearing limp and beckoning at the same time.
Everyone inside the Chamber of Doors appeared numb, especially Novikov, who was sure that he had decided the riddle correctly.
“Apparently,” Rabinovitch opened, “you chose incorrectly and now I’m down a man.” Then he pinned Novikov with a laser stare. “I don’t care if you’re funding this operation or not. I’m taking full command. If you want to assist in the analysis, then you do it with the mutual agreement of team members.” Then Rabinovitch turned to his big man, Vladimir, someone Novikov considered to be a mental dullard when he was a savant when it came to understanding the arrangement of numerals.
Reading the inscribed numbers in the cobblestone, Vladimir first cocked his head to one side and then the other, as though examining the numerals from different angles would aid in his search for a hidden pattern. Apparently, he found one in the sequence 2 9 3 1 8 4 3 6 5 7 ?
“This is not a single sequence of numbers,” said Vladimir. “It’s two.” He pointed his finger at the numbers and said. “The first sequence is two-three-four-five. The second sequence is nine, eighteen, and thirty-six, the numbers doubling. The seven and the question mark at the end is a combined number. Since the numbers double in the second sequence—nine, eighteen, and thirty-six—then the last number, when doubled from thirty-six, becomes seventy-two. Since the seven is already there, then we add the number two to the seven to finish the sequence. Now we have nine, eighteen, thirty-six . . . and seventy-two. The sequence is now complete. The number is two. It's the second door, not the fourth.”
Rabinovitch looked at Novikov, who maintained a neutral look. Then to Vladimir. “I trust you, so go ahead. The honor’s yours.”
Vladimir went to the doorway and gave it a mild shove. The door, also perfectly balanced, opened easily. Inside, the walls were made of packed earth, not cobblestone, though the water remained ankle-deep. Taking the initial leap of faith by stepping into the corridor, Vladimir Pushkin had chosen well.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Vatican Knights found themselves in the same quandary of navigating through the subterranean tunnels without a map to guide them. Though the information they had directed them to the Tomb of St. Mark, everything beyond that point was a true scavenger hunt. Down here, where the channels appeared to run endlessly in every possible direction, even the monsignors were hard-pressed to get their bearings. In ankle-deep water and earth-packed tunnels, everything appeared to look the same after a while.
“We are running blind,” Kimball commented. Then to Monsignor Calidonna, he asked, “Is there nothing, anything, to get us back on the beaten path?”
“I’m afraid that neither the manuscript nor the maps provided any details beyond the Tomb of St. Mark. I’m sorry.”
Kimball, who nibbled on his lower lip, could find no indication of Novikov’s team since the ankle-deep water masked any trace of their footfalls.
After notching grooves into the earth-packed walls to assure that they had not circled around to return to the same channel, the Vatican Knights moved on. They went east, and then south beneath a canal that led to the Bridge of Sighs. Water dripped copiously—in some places—from above, which gave reason for concern of a ceiling collapse.
Eventually and after many turns, they came upon a chamber with a cobblestone wall. Extending from the cobblestone was an arm. And the man attached to it had been pinched by the vise-like walls.
Kimball went to examine the appendage; the forearm and hand were the only parts of the victim that remained whole. On his wrist was a small tattoo that specified the Spetsnaz unit he once served in, the 14th Special Purpose Brigade.
Kimball nodded. “Novikov all right. I’m guessing he chose the wrong door.” Kimball quickly pointed to the second door. “And then he chose the correct one.”
Monsignors Russo and Calidonna were reading the Latin inscription above the doors. But it was Calidonna who read them out loud. “Vos qui transitis problema lanua solvere debetis. Elige sapienter. Tunc intrabis Male eligere. Peribitis Reperio proximo numero per ordinem et electionem tuam.” Then he translated Latin into English. “Ye who passes must solve the riddle of the Door. To choose wisely, then ye shall enter. To choose poorly, then ye shall perish. Find the next number in the sequence and make your choice.” After reading the sequence of numbers given on the wall between doors two and three, he said, “A numerical riddle. Perhaps one of many, I’m afraid.”
“How difficult?” Kimball asked him.
Monsignor Calidonna pointed at the arm hanging listlessly from the wall. “Difficult enough.”
Monsignor Russo sloshed his way through the water to read the Latin verse. Then he looked at the sequence of numbers. “In this pattern,” he said, “I do not see an answer that comes to me readily. I can translate Latin. I can read symbols and interpret their meanings. But this—” He cut himself off as he waved at the numbers dismissively. “I have no eye for such puzzlements.”
Monsignor Calidonna agreed. “I have little by way of reasoning through such enigmas myself.” He turned to Kimball. “We’re symbologists and code breakers. If these gateways offer passage to the treasure in the same puzzling manner, I don’t know how effective Monsignor Russo and I will be from this point forward.”
“Look, I get that symbolism and code breaking is a language in itself, a form of hieroglyphics, maybe, that spells out an answer to something.” He pointed to the Roman numeral sequence against the wall. “The way I see it, it might not be relatable to the symbols or codes listed in the manuscript, but these are still puzzles that we can rationalize through.”
The monsignors listened and nodded. Numbers and their relationship to all things were a universal language.
And then from Monsignor Calidonna. “You’re right. Perhaps my voice and the voice of Monsignor Russo are that of frightened men who now see that the way forward is not only going to be a dangerous one but one of great difficulty.” He pointed to the arm extending from the wall.
“You’ll both be safe with us,” Kimball told him. And then to bolster their waning confidence, he added, “I promise.”
With the second door having been opened as though in invitation, the Vatican Knights, along with the monsignors, entered and disappeared deep inside the shadows.
The hunt for the Templar treasure and the Cup of Miracles went on.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Command Center of Vatican Intelligence
Vatican City
While Father Auciello was at rest, Father Essex, co-director of Vatican Intelligence, was manning the helm of the command center. He stood on the upper tier that overlooked the nerve center of intelligence gathering. On the opposing wall was a huge monitor broken up into grids showing trouble spots around the globe—namely the Middle East, Africa, and Ukraine.
On the southwest portion of the screen was nothing but snow and static. It was also a live feed from Kimball Hayden’s team in Venice.
“Is there nothing you can do?” he asked the console tech who was doing everything in his power to reconnect with the unit.
After several tries, the tech said, “Nothing. We have no means to communicate with the Vatican Knights or obtain a live feed from their helmet cams. Wherever they are beneath the canals, they’re in too deep to receive a signal.” Easing back in his chair and away from the console, the tech turned his attention on Father Essex, and added, “We’re blind and so are they. If something happens to them, we’ll never know. No one knew that these tunnels existed beneath the city or under the canals.”
“Keep trying.”
“I’ve done everything in my power and then some. There’s nothing more I can do.”
Father Essex pursed his lips as he stared at the snowy screen. With so many unknowns such as how deep the channels went or for how long, or if the support system in the tunnel had weakened over the centuries and was about to collapse, Father Essex could not help but feel that the Vatican Knights may soon find themselves entombed, never to be seen again.
He continued to stare at the screen hoping to catch a glimpse of an image, of anything, something that would give him hope.
All he saw was a monitor filled with white static.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Venice, Italy
Ivan Novikov always prided himself on his intellect, even narcissistic by believing that he was in a league of his own. But to be shown up by someone he considered to be a dullard was causing him to stew inside. The Russian, Vladimir, appeared to operate with the absent mind of a machine, always watching from vacant eyes or speaking with utterances that sounded no more than savage grunts.
As the unit moved through corridor after corridor with one looking as much as the other, they marked their trail by scoring grooves into the dirt-packed walls. Only once did they err by circumnavigating back to a tunnel they had previously taken. This time, instead of taking a left turn as they did before, they took the right-side corridor which led them to a three-pronged fork in the system—the left, right, and middle. Above the bullet-shaped archways were three symbols. Etched over the opening on the left was a lamb, above the middle a candle, and over the right archway a burning pyre. Engraved on a stone plate was a verse written in Latin.
Vita mea metiri potest horis, consumendo servio.
Tenuis, sum, velox, Pinguis, tardus sum. Ventus inimicus meus est.
Quld?
My life can be measured in hours, I serve by being devoured.
Thin, I am quick. Fat, I am slow. Wind is my foe.
What am I?
Novikov narrowed his eyes as he slowly read the verse out loud. Then he examined the figures above the dark openings: the lamb, the candle, and the pyre. Through deductive reasoning, he figured that the life of a sacrificial lamb could be measured in hours before being devoured. Being thin or fat can either speed or slow down physical mechanics; therefore, that left ‘wind is my foe.’ Cocking his head trying to apply that part of the stanza to the lamb, he couldn’t. Why would the wind be a foe to the lamb? Then he moved on to the image of the candle and thought, A candle melts within hours; faster if it’s thin, slower if it’s thick. But doesn’t the breath of the wind give the flame life? So, he moved on to the third image, the burning pyre. A pyre can burn for hours; quickly if the pyre is small, slower if it’s a bonfire. And, like the candle, would not the wind provide the pyre the breath to give life to the flames? The lamb was out since the word ‘wind’ had no direct relationship to the image, meaning that the first opened arch was not the way. That left the candle and the pyre, archways two and three.
“You need help?” Rabinovitch asked him.
“No,” Novikov answered. “I have narrowed it down to two doorways. It’s actually an easy puzzle that requires deductive reasoning.”
The candle. The pyre. Both possess flames that respond to the wind. The question now became, which would benefit the least if the wind was fire’s enemy. And it was suddenly clear: strong winds often push flames across a landscape, devouring everything in its path instead of being devoured. The candle, on the other hand, with a simple blow, is easily extinguished. Therefore, through the process of inferential reasoning, the answer was the candle.
“It’s two,” Novikov said with confidence. “The way to the treasure is by taking the middle opening.”
“Are you sure? The last time you deciphered a verse one of my men got killed.”
“I’m positive. In fact, why not have Vladimir confirm my findings.”
As soon as Rabinovitch turned to the big man, Vladimir was already nodding and shrugging. Verbal puzzles were not his strength, only those that contained numerals. Riddles like these only served to confuse him.
“What’s the matter?” Novikov asked. “Does your savant have a blind spot?”
“I’d be careful, Mr. Novikov, at how you speak to Vladimir. He’s a man who is quick of temper and someone who can steal your life away in less than five seconds.”
Novikov could feel his holstered weapon by his side. Vladimir might have a deadly skillset, but Novikov was a skilled marksman who could draw his weapon, fire a lethal round into Vladimir, and quickly holster his sidearm long before Vladimir hit the ground.
Novikov gave a one-sided smile that spoke of conceit and arrogance. If Vladimir Pushkin wanted a challenge, he thought, he would be more than willing to face off with the elite operative.
“Just offering a little insight to the strength and weaknesses of your man, that’s all.”
“You mean, like the weakness you have in unraveling numeric puzzles.”
Novikov’s smile slowly melted away. Rabinovitch was getting on his nerves. Though it was always admiral to stick up for the members of your team, it was never acceptable to do so when the dig was directed at Novikov since his ego was a fragile one.
“Perhaps, Mr. Rabinovitch, you should take the first step into the center archway. In fact, I insist.”
