11:53pm
The only sound to be heard in the cavernous vessel that was Beinecke Library was a soft, compulsive clicking as the guard rapidly tapped his thumb on the top of the biro pen. Click click click…click click click
The guard had been keeping watch since 9:00pm and now, only just under three hours into his unbearably long nightshift, he was becoming restless. He had no television and no radio. He hadn't even brought a book from home to make the time pass more quickly. He pondered the thought of taking one of the books from the library's collection but none of them would have interested him in the slightest.
Plus, he wasn't willing to leave the comforting glow of his desk lamp. Everything beyond its light was cast in darkness. The guard gazed for some time but could not see anything. The darkness was whole, almost solid; blacker than the night outside; blacker than black itself. He shivered.
Click, click, click, click, click, click…
The guard heaved a great sigh, glanced down at his watch. The time was 11:58. The space between each tick seemed to be elongating, stretching with unusual elasticity. Picking up the silver biro from the desk, he amused himself by spinning it between his stubby fingers. When he tired of this, he resorted to clicking the pen furiously yet again, this time out of frustration. The nightshift, 4 days a week, nine to five, was a lot to take.
Click, click, click, click…he stopped suddenly, daring not to breathe. He had felt, for only a fraction of a moment, the darkness around him stir from the smallest sound. He remained as still as possible, straining to hear what might have been concealed within the consuming blackness. His brain racked through all the possibilities, very few of which made him feel better about the unnerving situation. It could have been one of the guards stationed elsewhere in the facility walking around, coming to speak with him. No, he thought, that can't be it. It was forbidden for security guards to leave their stations unmanned. If he was to be contacted it was to be by radio. Besides, none of the other guards would talk to him. Not without a good reason.
The sound came again, this time with greater clarity. It was like a rustle, the kind of sound clothing makes when dragged across the floor. It stopped almost at once.
The guard, trying to suppress his rattling breath, moved his hands every so slowly, as if not to disturb the air around him, to the holstered gun resting on his right thigh. Nice and easy, he thought, take it slow. His right hand enclosed the unusually cold weapon and was withdrawing it with great care, when the stagnant blackness shifted yet again and this time, it was less subtle.
The guard crashed to the hard library floor before he realised he had been attacked. He lay face down, barely conscious. His head throbbed with an excruciating pain, each pulse more agonizing than the last. It felt as though it were about to split in two. He tasted the coppery tang of blood. He had bitten through is tongue.
He felt (his eyes seemed to blinded with the pain) people around him, he wasn't sure how many. He heard, as if from on the other side of the world, a voice: cold and low, almost a whisper.
"Search him," it said.
The guard felt cold pairs of hands upon him, snatching at the still holstered gun and radio like ravenous snakes. He heard the items being dismantled and their useless parts thrown down the library floor, swallowed up by the dark.
"Turn him over."
The hands shot out again, seizing him roughly around his side and shoulders, flipping him onto his back. The guard let out a moan. It seemed as if rivers of fire were running from the laceration on his head all over his body, even to his very fingertips.
Lying face up, the mists that had been obscuring his vision thinned a little, enabling him to catch glimpses of his attackers. All but one stood outside the light of the lamp, which had been turned over on the desk when he had fallen. There were possibly five of them; they were no more than silent shapes in the darkness.
The man who had spoken towered above the guard. Close up, he could only the man's feet, on which he wore highly polished slip-ons, and legs, which appeared to be draped in a deep purple robe or cloak. The rest of him was lost to his height.
"In this library's possession," the man said softly, leaning forward slightly to "there is an important manuscript. The university has kept it safe for many years. Please send my sincere thanks to the head of school for me, that is, if you manage to survive the night." At this addition, the guard gaped wide-eyed at the towering man. Were they going to kill him?
The man continued, as quietly as ever: "I felt it was time to relieve the school of what rightfully belongs to me but I'm afraid neither me nor my men can find the precious item."
There was a deathly silence.
"Tell me where I might find the item and maybe Vahldamir will go a little easier on you tonight."
The guard did not know what to say. Manuscript? The library was full of manuscripts. "I…I…" he wheezed.
"You are a mere security guard who has not left any impression on his earth in his miserable lifetime. It would be quite easy for me to kill you right now. And your dignity won't be the only thingy not in tact," the stranger snapped suddenly, his words like broken glass, cutting across the guard's fearful babbling. "I would have forced the information out of someone of a little more authority and intelligence but security guards are all I could find. Luckily for you, and me, you are the last one alive." The voice then returned to its deadly, breathy whisper, "Now, I will ask you once more. Where is the Voynich Manuscript?"
They had come to steal the Voynich Manuscript? He knew little to nothing about it apart from the fact that it was written in an unbreakable code that had not been cracked since its discovery. As for its location, yes, it had been at the university for years but now…
"N-n-not here," he moaned finally, screwing up his eyes at the pain.
"I am aware of that," the man drawled lazily. "Where is it now? Who has it?"
The guard racked his brains, quite a task when his brains felt like they had been scrambled. He had been a security guard for four years now yet he rarely cared to listen to the happenings at the university. If only he had paid a little more attention. Then he vaguely remembered a French man. A professor. The Head of the linguistics department at the library. He knew the man by face but barely recalled a name.
"Plan-tard," the guard managed finally, inhaling with a gasp between the two syllables. He wished he could move. Lying there motionless like a statue on the ground only made the pain even more unbearable.
"Plantard." The man paused and then growled. "The man must have known we were coming." Then he said, this time to his followers, "It is a minor set back from our plans, but we must have that manuscript. We shall learn more about this Plantard, find him and take the manuscript from his dead body, should the foolish man prefer it that way."
There was a murmur among the shadowy figures. The guard began to quake uncontrollably. There was an air of finality, suggesting the interrogation was coming to an end. When that came, the guard had no idea whether he'd ever see that familiar golden sunrise he saw on every shift, giving him merciful indication that he could go home.
He then saw the tall man motion to a man in the shadows, who promptly stepped into the light. He was shorter, but unlike the first man, he had a body builder's physique. His muscles were accentuated by a tight white t-shirt, over which he wore a black commando jacket. His feet were clad with thick, sturdy army boots and his legs with black pants. He looked like the kind of man who could easily break you in two.
Lifting his head a little of the stone floor, the guard managed to see the second man's visage. The first things he noticed were the eyes beneath the head of cropped blonde hair. The right side was stone grey. The left was white as snow. The guard might have pitied the man, but in the present situation, he felt nothing but silent terror. The rest of the face reminded the guard of the features of an iron sculpture: hard, cold and expressionless.
"You have exhausted the very little amount of information you could give us," the tall man continued. "We have no further use for you. You may have got away with your pathetic life but rest assure you will not get away with the information you have heard tonight. Vladimir."
The second man, who the guard supposed was Vladamir, crouched beside him and withdrew a combat knife that had been hanging by his thigh. The guard had a horrible, hideous thought. Before he could object, or even plead, the arm of Vladamir shot out, holding the guard's mouth wide open in the kind of hold one might expect from a crustacean crushing bird.
"The tongue is a sharp tool for deceit, lies, blasphemy and tall tales. The problem therefore must be, shall we say, nipped in the bud. Thank you for you time, sir. My son will take care of you now" the tall man said with finality. He, along with the other four men, were about to leave when he added, without turning back to look, "Vladamir. Remember to turn him on his front again. If the loss of blood doesn't kill him, drowning in it will."