“Someone’s saying the bomb went off outside the train, which is good luck for us.”
Harry said, “Outside the train? Was the bomb beside the tracks, like an IED?”
“No, what I’m hearing is it was dropped onto the train.”
“Hey, we have a witness, a videographer, can you believe it? The photos are being uploaded right now. He says he saw something fly over the train, then it exploded. He has it all on film. He was doing a promotional video shoot for Eurostar. Here it comes.”
The multiple screens coalesced into a single view of the handsome white-and-yellow sloped nose of the train, flashing into view and then out of it, then an earthshaking blast; the camera wobbled and the train screeched as it flew off the tracks and came to rest on its side. Harry watched, mesmerized, as the video replayed again and again, slowed down frame by frame until, finally, a small black object could be seen entering the frame and making contact with the train.
“There it is,” he said. “Enhance and enlarge.”
Ian stood next to Harry, watching the video loop over and over again, the bomb going off in slow motion, the top of the train coming apart and blowing metal out of the frame.
He said, stunned, “Someone dropped a bomb on it from above. How is that possible?”
Nicholas stepped into the room and caught his father’s eye. “A drone. That’s how.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
My falcon now is sharp and passing empty, and till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, for then she never looks upon her lure.
—William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew
Dawson Place
Notting Hill, London
Isabella was humming as she put the finishing touches on her face—there, a bit of red lipstick—and shut off the light in the bathroom the very moment the doorbell rang. Perfect timing. Gil was always prompt, bless him. He’d been gone for a week on a shoot, and she couldn’t wait to see him. Though why he was ringing the bell was beyond her. This was his place, too.
She hurried to the door, flung it open.
“Hello, sexy lady.”
She saw the flowers in his hand, the bottle of wine tucked under his arm, and grinned.
“My arms were full. I couldn’t get my key out.”
“Get in here so I can hug you. Now.”
“You get one press conference and suddenly you rule the world. Grab my suitcase, and I’m all yours.”
When she got the flowers, the wine, and his suitcase out of the way, she threw herself into his arms. She loved his kisses, and this kiss, she thought, he smelled of the sea. It was hard to pull herself away, but she did, finally, knowing the lipstick was already gone, and she wondered why she’d bothered in the first place.
She reached for the wine, but he put the flowers in her hands instead.
“You take care of these. I’ll handle the wine.”
“How was the trip?”
“Long. Remind me not to get a wild hair to go deep-sea fishing again anytime soon. Those guys are nuts, but man, I got some photos that are going to blow your mind. I’m telling you, babe, these are National Geographic worthy. I’ll upload during dinner, so you can see them in real time before I start the edits. There are some pretty awesome shots.”
He popped the SD card into the computer, and the photos began uploading. She joined him at the desk.
“This is going to take a while.” Gil started playing with her hair, brushing it back off her face, and kissed her again, slowly. “Whatever you have in the oven smells terrific, but if you don’t mind—”
“It’s chicken tetrazzini, the oven is already on warm, and it will keep just fine.”
* * *
An hour later, the tetrazzini finally made it to the table. They toasted each other and drank. “Perfect, absolutely perfect. What more can I ask? We made love, we’re about to eat my amazing tetrazzini. A perfect end to the day.”
He looked oddly excited, almost hyper, which wasn’t like him. “Gil, when do you have to ship out again? Don’t tell me it’s tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, no, I’m here for at least two weeks. I have some things I want to do.” He looked away, toward the door, and she felt a jolt, a strange disconnect. What was he thinking? What was going on here?
He pushed his plate away.
“Isabella, I—”
The doorbell rang.
Gil waved toward it. “Ignore that. I want to talk to you. I missed you, Isabella, so much. I don’t want to be apart from you like this ever again.”
Her smile probably lit up the whole room, maybe even the block. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I want to make things official. You’re everything I have ever wanted. You’re, well, you’re everything to me. You make me so happy.”
The doorbell dinged again, and he looked at his watch. He cursed, unusual for him. “They’re early.”
“Who’s early? Gil, what’s going on?”
Gil dropped to one knee, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a diamond ring that glittered and winked in the light.
Isabella gasped, then dropped down next to him, threw her arms around him.
“Yes!”
Gil started to laugh. “I didn’t ask you yet.”
“So ask already,” she said, nuzzling into his chest. He did smell of the sea, and hope, and vanilla and something cedar, and of her and them, and she was never going to forget this moment, never going to forget how his beard tickled her cheek.
Gil put a hand under her chin, drew her face up so she could see his eyes. He whispered, “Will you marry me? Because I want to marry you, Isabella.”
“Yes, I will marry you.”
He kissed her, a contract sealed, then put the ring on her finger. It was a perfect fit, he’d borrowed one of her rings a month ago to make sure the size was going to be right. He was so happy he thought he might burst, and Isabella was moving her hand this way and that in the light to make the diamond sparkle.
The door rang again.
Laughing now, Gil shouted, “Okay, okay, I’m coming.”
“You probably have some weird mariachi band out there, ready to burst in and serenade us, don’t you?”
“Not exactly, no. This particular moment was meant for us alone.” He kissed her on the nose and went to the door. “But now—”
He flung open the door. He hadn’t hired a mariachi band but a photographer to show them photos of the engagement from the video camera he’d stashed in the kitchen, then take a few more for posterity. He’d been planning this for weeks. The photographer was early, but who cared?
But it wasn’t the photographer on the other side of the door. He didn’t recognize the man standing there—tall and swarthy with round gold glasses, a brown beard, and sandy-brown hair. But Isabella put her hand on Gil’s back and said, “Dr. Bruce? What are you doing here?”
Roman Ardelean had flowers in his hands and a wide, welcoming smile on his face. He took in the scene—the candles, the dinner dishes on the table, the flowers in their blue vase. His smile faded. “I wasn’t expecting you to have company.”
Gil stuck out a hand. “Gil Brooks. I’m Isabella’s fiancé. Well, her fiancé since two minutes ago.”
If she could, she’d slam the door in his face. Whatever did this disturbing man want? She said, trying to hide the distaste she felt, “Gil, this is Dr. Bruce, a Voynich scholar and friends with Persy. We met yesterday at the museum. Is there something I can help you with, Dr. Bruce?”
Even though she made no move to invite him in, tension bled into the room. Gil’s back straightened. “We were just finishing dinner, or we’d invite you in. Surely you can discuss this tomorrow. We’re having a bit of a celebration.”
Bruce’s voice was formal and remote. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Yes, since I see you’re very busy now, we can certainly discuss the issue tomorrow at the museum. Before I go, I’d love a glass of water, if you wouldn’t mind. I have a long trip home.” He shook his umbrella to ma
ke the point, scattering water on her foyer floor.
Isabella didn’t want him in her apartment, didn’t want him anywhere near her, ever again, but Gil said, “Sure, it’s in the kitchen. Come with me.”
Without hesitation, Bruce was through the door and heading to the kitchen as if he knew exactly where it was. But this man wasn’t supposed to even know where she lived, much less how her flat was laid out. Something was wrong. She shut the front door and followed the men.
She caught sight of a glitter, and after another glance and a smile at her left hand, walked down the hallway. Spring, they’d be married in the spring. She wished her mother were still alive. She’d like Gil.
There was a loud grunt from the kitchen. She rounded the corner, but her mind couldn’t catch up with what she was seeing. Gil, on the floor, blood on his neck. Dr. Bruce standing over him, a manic grin on his face, blood on the lenses of his glasses. She was rooted to the spot, staring at Gil’s pale face. He wasn’t moving, his lips bubbling with a froth of red, eyes already staring. She yelled, “No!” and then Dr. Bruce struck her cheek, and she went down hard on her back, something sticky running down her face. She registered that he’d struck her—but then Gil, no, not Gil. She saw Dr. Bruce standing over her, a horrible smile cracking his face in two, before the darkness took her.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Drummond House
Barton Street, Westminster
London
Mike and Ben snacked on the nuts and crackers Nigel had brought them and watched the news about the train bombing while waiting for Nicholas to come home.
She popped an almond, chewed, then, “Ben, it’s nuts, no pun intended. All these murders and now a terrorist attack on a Eurostar? Do we know yet if it was heading for the Chunnel?”
“Yep, it was.”
“What in heaven’s name is going on?” She hit her knee, winced.
Ben drank down some of his ale. “Don’t jump the gun, Mike. They haven’t said it was terror-related.”
“What else could it be?”
The dining room door opened, and Nicholas and Adam came in the room. “It’s not a terrorist attack, not ISIS or Al-Qaeda, anyway.”
“Then what is it?” But Mike knew what had happened even before Nicholas said, “A drone. Watch this. We’ve managed to keep it from the media, though I don’t know how long we have before it leaks.”
He set his laptop on the table and showed them the feed. Mike was amazed at the precision of the drone strike.
“Bombed by a drone,” she said, shaking her head. “No, not terrorism. It’s more of the same, all part of an insane script.”
“Script? Interesting you’d say that. And this train bombing is a splashy attack, draws everyone’s attention.”
Adam grabbed a handful of pistachios, out of the shell, so he couldn’t resist. “Are you saying all the murders, the computer glitches, and now the train bombing, these attacks are all tied together?”
Nicholas said, “I’m assuming there was someone on that train who was a specific target, someone who has ties to Donovan, Hemmler, Alexander, and Vittorini. We’re waiting on the manifests. Two people have died, tourists from Australia. No one related to the government. But I don’t understand, it’s always been one victim at a time, but now? A whole train of innocent people?”
Mike felt numb. “Maybe it’s a different message.”
Adam said, “Tell her the good news.”
“Good is a relative term. We’re all up late tonight. The hard drives of the victims’ personal computers are in. Let’s have some dinner and get started. We have to find a link between the murders, and find out who was being targeted on that train.” He looked at Mike. “If there was a specific target on that train.”
Mike shrugged. “Let’s go to Vittorini. We know she was running arms through the Govan Shipyards, maybe those are the bread crumbs we need.”
* * *
It was three in the morning when Mike saw it. She sat up, scratched her head, pushed her glasses up her nose, and shouted “Eureka!”
Tired, blurry eyes stared at her. Nicholas asked, “Eureka? Does this have something to do with the water level in the tub?”
“No, no, I have it. I’ve found the link between them. And you aren’t going to like it.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Ambition is to the mind what the cap is to the falcon; It blinds us first, and then compels us to tower by reason of our blindness.
—Charles Caleb Colton, Lacon
Gradara Castle
Near Venice, Italy
1812
All knew the march to the Russian border would be long and hard, but there was excitement in the ranks, thoughts of pillage in this strange land, of killing heathens and those fierce warriors called Cossacks.
General Barclay de Tolly and General Bagration had planned to stop this fine day for provisioning in northern Italy. Napoléon was given hospitality at a grand castle with views of the Adriatic. It was called Gradara, old and wealthy and filled with treasures Napoléon would not take, for the master was an ally.
It was at Gradara Napoléon read the courier’s message from the front. He walked to the ramparts, gazed beyond, to the Adriatic Sea, a beautiful sight, opened the message, and smiled. Czar Alexander was mobilizing two of his armies to meet them. He said aloud, his words blown away by the wind, “Let him bring every cursed soldier in his lands, it matters not. I will prevail. I will burn Moscow to the ground and dance in its ashes and blood.”
He was still smiling when he walked back into the great hall of Gradara. He drank and dined on fresh pheasant and newly butchered boar, listened to his generals boast of the destruction they would visit upon the Russian upstarts.
At last, Napoléon struck his knife against the wooden table and shouted, “I wish no more talk of war this night. Entertain me.”
The generals glanced at one another, brows raised, not knowing what to do. Suddenly, an old man appeared and walked forward to stand before the emperor. “I am Gradara’s bard.”
Napoléon looked him up and down. “Look at you, your hair’s as white as snow, your beard nearly touches your bony knees, and your eyes are filmed to near blindness. You are so old, how can you remember a single song? A single tale?”
The old man said in a strong, firm voice, “Ah, but I do, sire, I have a grand tale for you.”
Napoléon nodded to one of his generals, who threw the old man several coins. “I do not wish to hear the usual swill of a fair damsel and a valiant warrior, bard. I want something dark, something to make my belly tight. I will give you another coin if you please me.”
The old man nodded and began, his voice strong and loud, reaching every corner of the great hall. “Sire, what I will tell you is true. It is about two brothers who lived not the normal life span allotted to most men, but for hundreds of years, perhaps more. They lived here, in this very castle, for a time.
“The brothers were born on the same night, arms linked together, in a shared caul. From birth, one was strong, and one was weak. The strong one loved his brother very much and would do anything for him, carrying him to the woods, saving the finest bits of meat from their suppers for him.
“One day, the strong brother went into the woods to hunt, hoping to kill something to please his brother when a great storm blew up. He was separated from his friends, forced to light a fire under a great oak tree and cook a squirrel from his game bag.
“A great falcon came down from the skies and ripped the dead squirrel from his hand. The brother called after the bird, ‘Please don’t go. I’m lost and hungry. I’ll share the squirrel with you.’
“And the great bird wheeled around and returned, dropping the squirrel at his feet. True to his word, he cut the squirrel in half, giving the bird the slightly larger piece. It was then the brother realized he could hear the bird’s thoughts.
“ ‘Thank you for your kindness. I will share one with you, as well. I know of a cure for your brother. Spill my bloo
d in a cup and give it to him to drink at the full of the moon.’
“The brother drew back, horrified. ‘I cannot kill you. You shared your meal with me.’
“The falcon thought to him, ‘You must trust me. Bring me back to your home, and when the time is nigh, spill my blood. Your brother will drink and be cured.’
“The falcon showed the brother the way home. And remained, a friend to both brothers, and they could hear the falcon’s thoughts, the falcon theirs.
“Moon cycle after moon cycle passed without the brother honoring his promise. Finally, on the third full moon, the bird thought to him, ‘You must kill me this night, or the cure will no longer work.’
“The weak brother, who by this time was barely able to move, heard the falcon. ‘Please, no, Brother. I do not want to lose our friend.’
“But the stronger had promised, and he knew his brother would die if he didn’t. So, when the moon was full, the falcon presented his neck, and the brother sliced it open, catching the ruby blood in a pewter cup. He gave the drink to his brother. He drank it down. The two brothers mourned the bird, buried it, and slept. In the morning, the weak brother was strong.
“He bowed to his brother. ‘I have long wanted a human body to live in. Thank you.’ And the stronger brother saw that his brother’s eyes now glowed red. And he realized his brother had spoken in the falcon’s strange tongue.
“ ‘What do you mean? What evil is this, to possess the body of a bird, and now of my brother?’
“ ‘A priest banished me into the body of a falcon many years ago. I did not sleep, and blood was my only succor. Ah, it feels good to walk again.’ He left the castle but returned a few hours later. He showed the brother a sheaf of strange pages. ‘Now, I need your help.’
“The stronger brother had no choice but to comply, for he still loved his brother, though he knew this was unnatural and wrong.
“ ‘You must bring me a virgin before nightfall. I must drink her blood. Only then will I have the strength to live through the night.’