How could she have possibly figured her way to that? And only certain, unique twins could read it? And she was going to find the twins who could? Isabella Marin was lying, not everything she said, but enough. Why?
“I have found the key.” It was this missing page 74? It was written so a reader could figure it out? That was nonsense; she was absolutely lying. She finished with her plea to return the stolen manuscript so the pages would be reunited.
Reuniting the pages, that shook him to his core. How could she possibly know that? Had she truly found the missing pages by accident, or had that been a lie, too? Had she had them all along?
He’d been looking for the missing pages for years.
What game was she playing?
He read her bio on the British Museum website. She was from Florida, her B.S. in computer science from Yale, M.S. in science of information security from Yale, a Rhodes Scholar, she’d achieved her doctorate in cryptography at Oxford, and was now doing a supplemental year of research on ancient coded manuscripts at the British Museum, developing a new methodology to translate the texts. She’d been awarded several prestigious internships before this new position—translating runes on newly discovered sarsens in Sweden, interesting, but who cared? She loved to travel, blah, blah, blah. So she was smart, knew computers, and an American—the bio gave him nothing more.
He scrolled further and stopped cold at a photo, dated last year, of Isabella Marin accepting the Best Paper Award from the International Association for Cryptologic Research.
She was accepting the very award Roman himself had been awarded several years before, and that meant she was indeed an expert in cryptology. But it wasn’t the award that stunned him, it was something in her face. Yes, she was dark, beautiful, exotic—like the women from his homeland—but there was something more to her. What was going on here?
Roman walked to the large window in his office that looked over the Thames to the London Eye making its slow circle, and Parliament, shadowed in the darkening afternoon clouds. He thumbed an LSD tablet onto his tongue, waited a moment, then unboxed a disposable cell phone, added his encryption software, and made a call to the British Museum, a number he knew by heart. A pleasant female voice answered on the second ring. Never the first, always the second. Roman envisioned her there, long legs tucked under the desk, crossed at the ankle, her clear plastic umbrella sitting in the stand to her right and a cooling cup of tea on the desk in front of her.
“Dr. Wynn-Jones’s office, how may I help you?”
He slid seamlessly into his alter ego, his voice changed, became slightly higher, his speech more pedantic. “Hello, Phyllis. It’s Dr. Laurence Bruce. I need to speak to Persy, please.”
“Oh, hello, Dr. Bruce,” she said, her voice now infinitely warmer. “I—we’ve missed seeing you. How have you been? Both Dr. Wynn-Jones and I loved your piece in Anthropology Today last month—what a discovery. Hold for a moment, I’ll get him.”
Seconds later, Persy came on with a hearty, “Laurence! It’s been too long. How are you, my boy? Still ticking along on those John Dee diaries you discovered? Read your piece in AT, by the way. Phyllis couldn’t stop talking about it.”
“Thank you for the kind words. I am quite well. I hear you’ve had a bit of excitement today. Why didn’t you share with the rest of the class?”
“Oh-ho, you know how it goes. Close to the vest, make a big splash, get some extra funding. A real coup for the museum to have discovered a piece of the Voynich, especially after the original manuscript went missing last year. But you know all that already. The truth is, I wanted my brilliant young colleague to have a chance to shine. Tough to believe anyone could find those missing Voynich pages, but she did. Yes, yes, I’ll admit she tossed a bit of mysticism in there, what with the loose pages needing to be reunited with the manuscript, but it made for good drama.
“And yes, before you ask, they’ve been fully authenticated, by Hoag, that windbag, or we wouldn’t have announced otherwise. You need to watch the video of the announcement, you’ll find out everything. You’re actually the tenth call I’ve fielded in the past hour. My goodness, we even had a member of Parliament—I’m sure you’ve heard of her, Melinda St. Germaine, a former student of mine at Oxford—she and an FBI agent came in to see the pages this afternoon.”
Roman’s pulse jumped. An FBI agent? Could it be Drummond? No, that posturing nob was dead someone where on A14, his partner with him. But why hadn’t he heard yet from Radu? Not important at the moment—he kept his voice cool, disinterested.
“The FBI? It didn’t take them long to show up. I suppose after they bungled the case last year, when the Voynich was stolen, they need to make a good show of it. I wonder how they found out about the discovery beforehand.”
“Oh, this was nothing official. He and Melinda happened to be in the lobby when we called the press conference. Capital fellow, art history buff, here on vacation, ah, might be some interest there between him and Melinda. He was quite excited, quite excited indeed.”
“What was his name?”
“I’ll tell you, Laurence, I’ve heard so many names today I can’t keep them all straight. I do remember his name was the same as one of those sprawling big oil cities in Texas, but the day’s gotten away from me, so many things, so many calls. Exciting times, Laurence, exciting times.”
Roman stored this information away for later. He dropped his voice, made it low, conspiratorial. “I’d love to see the pages, Persy.”
“Of course, of course, and we’d love to have you. I’m sorry we weren’t able to arrange a private exhibit before the announcement, Laurence, truly I am. As I said, I wanted to give Dr. Marin a big splash, let her shine. And did she ever—shine, that is. All the reporters were eating out of her hand. When would you like to come by?”
“I’m already in London. I can’t spend all my time working. Came up to see the retrospective on”—he tapped the keyboard of his tablet and picked an exhibit at random—“Giacometti. At the Tate.”
“Oh, I had no idea you had an attraction to that modern trash I find so appalling and depressing. Ah, well, it’s something I’m sure I’ll never understand nor appreciate.”
This startled a real laugh out of Roman. “Man can’t sustain himself on antiquities alone, Persy. We must look ahead, as well as behind. I can be by in an hour.”
Persy said with a small laugh, “You know Phyllis will be ready for you.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
To the military, they are UAVs (Unmanned Aerial Vehicles) or RPAS (Remotely Piloted Aerial System). However, they are more commonly known as drones. Drones are used in situations where manned flight is considered too risky or difficult.
—BBC.com
Drummond House
Barton Street, Westminster
London
Nicholas and Mike were questioned by Penderley at Scotland Yard until the drone attack began to feel surreal to Mike, like it had happened to someone else, someone in a training film, perhaps. But after two hours of questions from Penderley and his minions, all she wanted was a glass of wine, maybe a hot shower to wash the rest of the glass out of her hair, maybe even change the Band-Aid on her neck, but she knew she had to hold it together a while longer.
It was another eon before Penderley released them, saying, “You two have really poked the gorilla this time. Shall I assign some men to stick close, Drummond?”
Nicholas turned this down, and they shook Penderley’s hand and those of his two inspectors. Ten minutes later, they climbed into his banged-up, well-photographed, debulleted Beemer and made good time to Nicholas’s house in Westminster. Mike spent the drive absently picking more glass out of her hair and straightening the temples of her glasses again, even though they didn’t need it. He reached over, patted her hand. “You feeling all right, Agent Caine?”
“Right as rain. Hmm, I never understood that saying.” She looked out the window. “Speaking of rain, any minute now.”
Nigel met them at
the door to Drummond House, tall, shoulders straight, immaculately dressed, and he wasn’t happy. He looked out to the BMW—the sides and roof littered with bullet holes, the windshield cracked, the side window shattered. Mike saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. He turned back to them, ushered them into the house, and gave them both one long look.
“Hi, Nigel,” Mike said. “We’re in one piece, don’t worry. Superintendent Penderley and his people have examined our heads for the last two hours.”
Nigel didn’t crack a smile. He said slowly, never looking away from her, “Master Nicholas said you’d been shot at. He did not say, however, that you were covered in blood and glass, looking like you’d been dropped into a war zone.”
“I’m fine, Nigel, really. It’s all on the surface, not like Nicholas’s poor Beemer.”
“No, Mike, you are anything but fine, and Master Harry will be here in an hour. You will go with Daisy. She’ll draw you a hot bath and help you get cleaned up. I will handle Master Nicholas.” To her surprise, Nigel took her hand, held it tightly for a moment. “I am so relieved you are both all right. I understand you shot down the drone that attacked you.”
“She did indeed, Nigel, and a brilliant job she did of it. When Daisy is through with her, I would appreciate your looking at her. She has a cut on the back of her head. No stitches necessary, but it does need cleaning.”
“Unnecessary. Daisy will tend to her nicely. Do as she tells you, Mike, and all will be well. Ah, yes, drinks will be served promptly at half six, dinner at seven.”
Once Mike and Daisy had disappeared down the second-floor hallway, Nicholas said to Nigel, “We will talk while you get me ready for my father.” He lowered his voice, “We don’t know what’s going on yet, but it isn’t good. I believe there are ears everywhere. We all have to take care now.”
Mike didn’t mind a bit being in Daisy’s very kind, competent hands. She was a woman about the age of the Gorgeous Rebecca, but there all comparisons ended. She was stout, her hair in crimped curls around her face, but like Mike’s mother, Daisy had a brilliant smile and lovely white teeth.
By six fifteen, Mike was dressed in her favorite little black dress, pressed by Daisy, her hair shiny and clean and free of glass. “No need for Mr. Nigel,” Daisy had said as she’d lightly touched an antibiotic on the cut and covered it with a Band-Aid, luckily hidden beneath her hair.
Daisy handed her the heels she’d packed with the dress and stood back. “Goodness, you’re a tall one. But it’s perfect you are, Ms. Mike.”
Perfect? Like that would ever happen, but still it sounded nice. Daisy left her sitting on a chaise longue, researching drones on her iPad. A ton of information, none of it particularly helpful. Ah, she found something else that was fascinating. She looked up at a soft knock on the door, then Nicholas stepped in. His hair was damp from his shower. As usual, he looked James Bond picture-perfect, tall, dark, garbed in an incredible black Armani jacket and pants that fit him to perfection. She wanted to kick him and jump him.
“Don’t tell me these came out of your carryall?”
“Well, no, Nigel picked them up yesterday, he told me.”
“On sale, I suppose?”
“He didn’t say.” He stepped back as she rose, looked her up and down. “You look as sharp as you did on our memorable night in Venice. But I do miss the boots with your black dress, not that the black heels don’t make your legs look a mile long—and give me ideas.”
She didn’t want to kick him now, only jump him.
He walked to her, lifted her hair. “Nice Band-Aid. No more shards in your hair?”
“All good. Daisy checked me out thoroughly.”
He leaned down, breathed in her hair. “Jasmine. You smell like my mother.” He grinned, tapped her chin. “You look lovely.”
She shook her head, cupped his face in her hand. “Nicholas, do we have to whisper when we meet your father downstairs?”
“No. I’ve taken care of things, at least for tonight. Don’t worry. My father is due in ten minutes. What are you reading?”
She shrugged. “A bit about drones, until this caught my eye. Interpol has an orange notice out for a killer operating in Europe. He’s a serial, Nicholas. They don’t normally get serial killers moving across the borders. They’re calling him Dracula, and that’s what caught my eye. Whoever it is, he is preying on Eastern Europeans mostly, lots of Romanians, in several countries. He has a rather horrific MO to match his nickname. He kills them with blunt-force trauma to the head, then exsanguinates them. There are even bite marks on their necks. The whole Dracula deal. Creepy.”
“Very creepy.”
She studied his face. “You already knew about this, didn’t you?”
“I believe I saw something from Interpol, yes.”
“When? You didn’t have time. You never sleep. I know, you’re the vampire they’re searching for.”
Nicholas said, “Not me, I never had a taste for blood. I can see this fascinates you, so why don’t you give Menard a call? I’m sure he’ll have all the inside scoop.”
“Yes, perhaps I will. It’s not every day you run into Dracula roaming free with his fangs out and bloodied. It’s nice having a friend in Interpol. Pierre’s like you, he never sleeps. Hey, maybe he’s the vampire.”
Nicholas laughed, then grew serious. “I spoke to Adam. He hasn’t had any luck identifying the drone from the assassination this morning. Penderley called to say he has nothing on the one you shot down, either. They’re taking it apart, piece by piece, but it’s not one of theirs, nor ours. A phantom drone.”
“Then it stands to reason someone has their own private arsenal.”
“Add that to the list of who’s selling—and buying—drones on the black market. And I’m still trying to figure out exactly how they knew where to find us, but I know someone’s listening to us. I scrambled the call with Adam, not to mention our plane has incredible defenses. Nigel swept the house for listening devices and found nothing. With any luck we can get an idea of what’s going on from my father at dinner. I think that’s why he agreed to dinner so quickly. He wanted privacy to talk.”
He found himself once again touching her shiny hair. She’d scared him today, again. He could still see her leaning out the shattered window, firing up at the drone. “I’m tired of seeing you bloody, Agent Caine.”
She laughed. “Me, too. I promise not to jump in front of a bullet unless I have to protect you. It’s what I promised your mother.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Harry Drummond arrived promptly at half six and immediately went to Mike, wrapped her in a tight bear hug, then turned to his son. “I’m so glad you’re both all right. We will get to the bottom of this, I swear it.” He studied Nicholas a moment, patted him on the back, then nodded. After his un-English show of affection, he accepted a Scotch from Nigel and toasted them.
Mike grinned at him and raised her glass of wine. She knew Nicholas would look very much like his father in thirty years, tall and straight, dark eyes burning with intelligence. And endless curiosity, like his son.
Harry looked around the long, narrow living room and slowly nodded. “I haven’t stayed here for a while, not since I signed Drummond House to you when you turned twenty-five. When I’m up, I stay at Clapton House. I like what you’ve done, Nicholas. Updated it to the new century, but not quite.” He pointed to the heavy golden draperies and the exquisite Regency marquetry table Nicholas’s mother had picked out years before. He nodded to the three Turner paintings on the opposite wall. “Old friends.”
He turned back to his son. “Do you have any idea who tried to kill you today?”
Directly to the point. Nicholas loved that about his father. “No, sir, we don’t. Nor do we know why or how they knew where to hit us. Which is almost as important as the attack itself. Drones are easily summoned, but I’m hard-pressed to think someone has been sitting outside Farrow-on-Gray simply waiting for us to leave. The attack felt much too coordinated. So we’re hoping yo
u can tell us what’s happening, Father. I know there’s more to this than we’ve been told.”
“I’m glad I had people in my office earlier and couldn’t talk, because if you’re correct, and there is an infiltration, I might have given too much away. We acted upon the intelligence you provided me this morning. Your computer genius, Adam, sent us some information as well. Sit down, and I’ll tell you what we know.”
Once settled, Harry said, “First, the drone you shot down, Michaela. I had it removed from Superintendent Penderley at Scotland Yard and brought to our forensic experts. They verified it isn’t registered to any legitimate company we’ve been able to trace. They believe it’s a prototype. Custom-made. Drones with these capabilities, and by that I mean weaponized drones, are a multimillion-dollar investment. Even if there’s only one, whoever’s behind these attacks is well funded.”
Mike said, “Nicholas and I believe there’s more than one drone.”
“I fear you are correct. Now, let me digress a moment. ISIS has more or less stopped recruiting young spies because of the time and cost to groom them. They now focus on the people with decision-making power in a government. They offer promises of money, freedom, power, honor, whatever they believe will work with a particular individual. They strike deals with them to allow their soldiers to cross borders. Italy, Austria, Sweden, Germany. It’s actually counterespionage at its finest.
“They are well funded, some believe by the Russians, others say leftovers from the failed overthrow of Assad. Either way, they’ve been successful, in my opinion, twice that we know of. First, Heinrich Hemmler. I’ve done some digging, found out Hemmler had a private meeting with an ISIS leader in Aleppo. Said leader is no longer with us, thanks to a U.S. drone strike. Obviously, Hemmler can’t confirm, but his secretary has admitted he set up the trip. Hemmler’s bank account was suddenly quite flush, as well.
The Sixth Day Page 10
