The Sixth Day Page 11

  “I suspect he was trying to stage a quiet coup in the German government. With the chancellor gone, he could easily call for an election, install himself in her place. To what end? If he’s been meeting with ISIS leaders, I think we can agree he was giving them something in return for his new position. No idea what, we’ll need to look closer.

  “As for Chapman Donovan, he helped broker the cease-fire in ’98. He was a good man, aboveboard, as far as we know, and so rich I can’t imagine he’d want more. No idea why he would be targeted.”

  He looked at each of them. “Worse, we have no idea who killed these two people.”

  Harry took a sip of his drink, eyed his son and Michaela. Such a beauty she was and completely unaware of it, not unlike his incredible wife. And, as his father said, she was a right sharp little whip. He couldn’t call her Mike, couldn’t even think of her as Mike, the name of a bullyboy at school who’d once made his life a misery until his father had told him to kick the little blighter’s arse, which he had. He looked to his son. “Nicholas, one more thing. Since someone managed to overhear your conversation this morning, it seems clear we’ve been compromised.”

  “Yes, we believe so, sir. And whoever’s infiltrated your systems can read your emails, your notes, listen to your phone calls. The question is, has the intrusion happened from outside, or inside MI5?”

  Harry nodded. “Look at all the people around us, those with the money and ability to pull off such a massive intrusion, those with a motive. A drone carrying a poison, shooting it into the victim’s neck, and I wonder, why kill in such a flamboyant manner?”

  Everyone thought about this, then Nicholas said, “Would you be willing to let Adam and me have a crack at it?”

  Harry said simply, “Yes.”

  And there it was, Nicholas realized. His father had complete faith in him and his skills. He prayed neither he nor Adam would fail him.

  Nigel came into the room. “Master Nicholas, Master Harry, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have guests.”

  Nicholas said, “Guests? Who? We aren’t expecting anyone. Father?”

  “I’m not, no.”

  Nigel merely smiled and left. He returned moments later with Agent Ben Houston and Melinda St. Germaine.

  He looked at Nicholas. “Shall I have two more places set for dinner?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Nicholas grinned at Ben. “I was wondering when you and Melinda would cross our path. You will stay to dinner, of course. Melinda, you know my father, and this is my partner, Agent Mike Caine, New York FBI.”

  Harry hugged Melinda, kissed her cheek. “I am so very sorry about your mother, Melinda. Her death hit us all very hard.”

  “Thank you. I—it’s difficult.”

  “How ever did you meet an FBI agent from New York?”

  “A very long story, sir.”

  Harry turned to the young man whose hair was nearly the exact shade of red as Melinda’s. He looked bright, fit, all in all, a nice-looking young man. “I recognized your name. You’re part of my son’s and Michaela’s Covert Eyes, aren’t you?”

  Ben nodded. “Yes, but this trip wasn’t business. I’m here on vacation.”

  “I hope Melinda is showing you all the tourist sites.”

  Ben considered saying he hadn’t come to London to see the Tower of London but to hook up with a member of Parliament, but he thought better of it. “Well, sir, there hasn’t been that much time as of yet and . . .” He stalled.

  Melinda grinned, curse her, and said, “Ben is Covert Eyes’ resident art historian, isn’t that right, Ben?”

  “Ah, yes, that’s perfectly correct.”

  “I’ve been taking him to all the museums this week. This morning we were at the British Museum.” A lie here, the truth there, a little of each.

  Ben lit up. “Melinda set it up, without telling me, a big surprise. It was a press conference, given by a cryptologist at the museum who’d happened to find missing pages from the Voynich manuscript buried in among the archives. She said quite a lot—” He looked over at Melinda. “I don’t think my MP here believed she was on the up-and-up entirely.”

  “No, I didn’t, but that’s neither here nor there.”

  Ben squeezed her shoulder, couldn’t help himself. “Well, Melinda knows the director of the antiquities department, Dr. Wynn-Jones, so we were able to see the discovered quire and the long-lost page seventy-four. It was remarkable.”

  Melinda added, “Dr. Wynn-Jones was a teacher of mine. Believe me, he was thrilled to show off this astonishing discovery to Ben, a big honcho FBI agent from New York. Nicholas, why are you frowning?”

  “Well, there’s something odd about this. Ben, you were in on the investigation when the Voynich was stolen from the Beinecke last year, right?”

  “Yes, I was. We were unable to discover the thief—well, actually, we didn’t find out anything useful. The case, of course, remains open. At the press conference today, the professor who found the missing quire and page seventy-four begged the thief to come forward, to reunite the pages to the manuscript.” Ben added, “Now I think about it, maybe you’re right, Melinda. It is very odd this young cryptologist just happened upon these missing pages. I think I should see where Dr. Isabella Marin was last year when the Voynich was stolen.”

  Mike said, “You have a beautifully devious mind, Ben, I’ve always thought so, and to see it in action—”

  “Yes,” Melinda said, her voice complacent, “he does have quite an astounding brain, doesn’t he?”

  Nicholas said, “Yes, absolutely astounding and I’d like to put it to good use, if you can find the time, Ben. And if you’re willing to do some work on your vacation.”

  “We need your help, Ben,” Mike said.

  Melinda said, “We come over to say hello, and now you want to work him to the bone on his first vacation in too long a time?”

  Ben, whose eyes had already begun to shine, smiled down at her. “Not quite to the bone. Sure, Nicholas, Mike, what’s going on?”

  Melinda held up a hand, her mother’s ruby ring on her index finger. “If you want Ben, you have to include me, as well. We are both on vacation, and we are a matched set. No, don’t you dare shake your head, Nicholas. I helped you solve two serious crimes only weeks ago.”

  Nicholas’s head was still shaking. “No, Melinda, not this time.”

  Mike said, “Nicholas, can I speak to you privately for a moment?” He followed her into the hall. “What’s the matter?”

  “Listen, I think Melinda could be of serious use. She has connections, she knows people, she has influence, she operates in a different sphere than we do, than your father does. More brains on the problem, Nicholas. Let’s bring her in, have her help us from a different angle.”

  “My father will never allow it.”

  “I disagree. She’s outside of MI5 but still a part of the government. Plus, she’s in all the major intelligence briefings anyway, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Nicholas, if England’s highest communications are compromised, we need someone on the outside whose aren’t.”

  She’d hit him with a brilliant stroke of logic. He folded his tent. “All right, I’ll ask, but I think it’s a moot point. My father is a spy at heart. He’s going to want to keep this as close to the vest as possible.”

  “Let’s go ask him and see.”

  When they went back into the living room, Ben, Melinda, and Harry were speaking, their heads together. Harry looked up and said, “I’ve been telling them what’s going on, from the assassinations to the drone attack on you two this morning to MI5 and MI6 being compromised. I believe Melinda is uniquely positioned to be of service to us. She’s agreed to help, and I’ve accepted.”

  Who knew your father could surprise you?

  Melinda said, “This is incredible. I’ll do whatever I can to help end this situation.”

  Mike asked, “Infiltration or leak, Melinda?”

  “Infiltration,
without a doubt.” She shuddered. “And it makes it all the more dangerous.”

  Harry said, “But we are the British government and have much higher security standards than average. Plus, as far as I know, we’ve avoided being hit with any malware attacks. When the WannaCry attack happened, we doubled our security, layered in new programs to assure our firewalls would hold.”

  “New programs from where, Father?”

  “Radulov Industries, of course. Roman Ardelean himself was in the office last week setting it up. I’m confident no one else can get in and get any information.”

  Mike whistled. “There’s no doubt Radulov is the best cybersecurity firm in the world. I doubt there is a computer in the world that doesn’t have some form of Radulov software on it, primarily MATRIX. Even so, the hackers behind WannaCry managed to get through. What did Mr. Ardelean have to say about his systems being hacked?”

  “Roman suspected the entire ransomware attack was based in human error,” Harry said. “He claims his software systems and security firewalls are impenetrable from hackers—if used properly. There’s the caveat—he can’t control what happens once the end user has his MATRIX operating system on their machines. He pointed out the industries and companies who were affected by this latest attack hadn’t updated to the current version of the MATRIX operating system, leaving themselves open to attack.”

  Mike said, “I know MATRIX releases weekly updates to stay on top of any and all threats. But here’s the question: Even if someone inside opened something they shouldn’t have, the antivirus programs should have kicked in. Yet they didn’t.”

  Harry said, “But after a thorough check, Roman couldn’t find any evidence of an intrusion. And of course, we are religious about our updates.”

  Mike watched Nicholas drum his fingers on the coffee table, knew he was writing some code in his head. For his visit to MI5 tomorrow?

  Melinda asked, “If MI5 and MI6 were infiltrated, wouldn’t it stand to reason other branches of Her Majesty’s government have been compromised, as well? And Parliament?”

  Nicholas stopped his phantom typing, rubbed his thumb in the dent of his chin. “Possible, yes. Father, when Adam and I come to your offices to do a full break-in assessment, we’ll make certain you’re now as safe as possible. I think it would be helpful to have the great man himself there again to run us through the setup. Perhaps Adam and I will see something he’s missed.”

  Harry looked up to see Nigel at the door. “I can arrange for it, certainly.” He rose. “Now, let’s have dinner, and, Ben, you can tell us more about the Voynich manuscript.”

  Over Cook Lattimer’s braised beef tips, prepared in the French way, with asparagus and crunchy rolls, Ben said, “All this talk of the drone attacks made me remember when Melinda and I left the museum today, I spotted a drone overhead. Melinda thought it was Scotland Yard’s, but now, I’m not so sure.”

  Nicholas and Mike snapped to attention. Nicholas leaned forward. “Describe it, please, Ben—big, small? Was it marked? All of Scotland Yard’s drones are clearly marked.”

  “No markings. It was tiny. Like a mini helicopter. Or maybe the size of a mutant Jurassic Park dragonfly. Small enough I wouldn’t have noticed it if it didn’t fly right over my head. I heard the whirring and looked up.”

  Nicholas hated this, but he had to consider someone was watching Ben, as well. Perhaps Melinda? He said slowly, “Mike, we need to identify who owns these drones, right now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Voynich manuscript: Described as a magical or scientific text, nearly every page contains botanical, figurative, and scientific drawings of a provincial but lively character, drawn in ink with vibrant washes in various shades of green, brown, yellow, blue, and red.

  —Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University

  British Museum

  Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury

  London

  Roman Ardelean presented his credentials—Dr. Laurence Bruce’s credentials—to the security desk at the British Museum.

  Dr. Bruce looked the part of the scholar—glasses, longish brown hair, a thick beard and mustache, and a rather ugly brown tweed suit. Radu had created a perfect legend, a full identity, education, history. They’d even gone so far as to publish papers on the various “manuscripts” Dr. Laurence Bruce studied.

  Dr. Bruce’s published papers were computer-generated by a sophisticated AI program created by Radu. His program used modern language skills built into a hand-coded system designed specifically to do contextual analyses of rare manuscripts, cryptography, and history, then used the information to generate scholarly papers. The papers and their theories were as fake as a green sunset but real enough to fool the various places they’d successfully published. Bogus research was a well-known problem in the academic field, but Roman wasn’t worried. Radu would stay ahead of it. He was that brilliant.

  Dr. Laurence Bruce had a moderately respected reputation, one built entirely online by Radu. He and Radu had been nothing if not thorough. They had contacts all over the world in antiquities departments in museums, universities, and private endeavors. Dr. Bruce was known for being a bit different but harmless, and smart enough. And no one doubted he was completely dedicated to the Voynich—indeed, he was passionate about it. When it was necessary to move in the open, Roman pulled on Dr. Bruce’s ugly tweed suit, pasted on a beard, and topped his head with a wig, letting it settle in until it fit him like a second skin.

  And, of course, Dr. Laurence Bruce had made friends with Dr. Persy Wynn-Jones, as well as supposed experts on the Voynich, knowing one day those relationships would come in handy. And today, it had paid off.

  He would soon see the lost quire and page 74, touch them, read them. He was vibrating with excitement and thumbed a tablet onto his tongue to calm himself down as he was escorted to the elevator. He had himself well in hand when he reached Persy’s office. He’d visited three other times and saw Phyllis the moment he entered. Always with a large blond bun on the top of her head and a chain attached to her glasses around her neck. She was standing beside a filing cabinet, but Roman knew it was her immediately. Her beauty always surprised him, made him wonder how she’d ended up as the secretary to a crusty old man. Perhaps if he met her as Roman, he’d ask her, but Dr. Laurence Bruce was a man of few words, his brain always focused on some esoteric topic, unaware of those around him, particularly underlings. He knew she liked him, quite a surprise given how unprepossessing Dr. Laurence Bruce was. No matter, Dr. Bruce wasn’t one to think romantic thoughts about secretaries. Still, she might one day be useful, so he gave her a special hello and smile when she showed him into Persy’s office.

  There stood Persy’s newest prodigy. Dr. Isabella Marin, young, dark hair, lean and fit, taller than average, and leaning over his ancient mahogany desk. Persy was always plucking the best students from the various universities to come work for him. And Persy did so love having handsome young people around.

  He said, “Hello, I’m Dr. Laurence Bruce. Where is Dr. Wynn-Jones?”

  She gave him a pleasant smile. “He’s been detained in a budget meeting, I’m afraid. I’m Dr. Isabella Marin.” She came around the desk and stuck out her hand. “And you are Dr. Bruce. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  He took her hand, found it soft and dry. “It’s lovely to meet you. Persy’s said great things about you.”

  “He is very kind.”

  He couldn’t help but stare at her. It wasn’t that she didn’t look like her photo or the video—she did—but in person she looked younger, no more than twenty-five years old. Again, he was struck by her dark skin and the eyes of the women from his family’s homeland. And her name, Marin, and so he said, “Are you Romanian?”

  She cocked her head to one side. “I am. How did you know?”

  “You have the look of a very good friend’s family. They are from Bucharest. Where were you born?”

  “In Florida, but my mother is from Oradea. As
I’m sure you know, Oradea used to belong to Hungary.”

  He nodded and came closer, the handshake not enough. She smelled exotic, like spices, cloves and nutmeg, and up close, he could see her dark eyes had a ring of gold around the iris, very unique.

  She was Romanian, and there was something about her that called to him on the most visceral level—and in that moment, Roman knew he had to have her blood, had to have it for Radu. Did it smell of cloves and nutmeg as well? Could she be the one? Would the coppery tang carry the special taint, the rare compound he’d been searching for?

  He realized Isabella was still speaking about Oradea, a town he knew well.

  He was pleased his voice didn’t shake. “Please tell me more, Dr. Marin.”

  She cocked her head to the side, studying him. “My story isn’t all that unusual, Dr. Bruce. My mother immigrated to the United States from Romania before I was born. She met my father while she competed there. She was a gymnast, you see, Olympic level.

  “When her career was over, she wanted to be an artist. But the government wanted her to train young gymnasts. She applied for asylum and got it.

  “Sadly, I’m not coordinated like she was, nor do I have the necessary talent. To top it off, I’m much too tall for gymnastics. That’s my father’s fault. He was six foot four, and my mother was barely five feet. They always looked mismatched in photos, but they adored each other. I’ve lost them both. My father to a heart attack and my mother to cancer. I miss them.” Why had she said so much? It wasn’t like her.

  “Now, enough about me. You’re here to see the Voynich pages I found. I have them laid out for you. Look, but please don’t touch. I’ll turn the pages as you need me to.”

  No, no, he wanted more, he wanted to hear every memory she had of her mother and Romania, where she’d traveled—and more, had she lied at her press conference? Was she a twin? Could she read the Voynich? If so, why hadn’t she come forward years before? He wanted to grab her and haul her out of there despite Phyllis in the outer office, despite—No, no, not yet, but soon, very soon. Calm, calm. After all, it was his lucky day. The papers and a new bloodline. If only Drummond had died, he’d have won the trifecta.