“ ‘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.’
“He brought his brother a virgin from the village, and the next night another, until the village was emptied. He grew strong, and soon, the two were feared throughout the land. They fled to a dark castle, deep in a forest. It is said they experimented with many things, with blood and herbs and silver, to find a way to make themselves live forever. Did they succeed? I do not know.”
Napoléon rose to his feet. “Bah. Blood drinking and talking crows. Ridiculous. Off with you.”
The old bard cackled a laugh, then leaned in and whispered to Napoléon, “It was a falcon, sire, not a crow. One truth I do know: the brothers brought the magic pages they used to divine this spell back here to Gradara. This is where a sainted ancestor found them, many years ago. They are mine now, though I do not understand them. But as I said, the brothers understood them very well.”
“I don’t believe you. Show me these pages.”
The old man pulled the pages from inside his shirt. Napoléon grabbed them, but he couldn’t read the pages—all he saw were strange symbols and writing, and puzzling drawings that baffled him, the red and green ink still vibrant. What did it mean? And then he knew. The pages were magic. They would give him the power to defeat the Russian czar. It mattered not he couldn’t read them.
Napoléon said to the old bard, “These pages were ripped from a book. Where is the book?”
“I know not, sire.”
“Then I will keep these pages. This legend you told me—I know now it is a portent of the blood I will spill in accursed Russia. Mayhap I will show them to the czar as he bows before me.”
The mighty army marched away in the morning and into disaster. Nearly half a million soldiers were lost to a bitter winter, to starvation, to people who would rather die than accept Napoléon’s boot on their neck.
Months later, Napoléon looked at the pages and realized the portent he’d believed to be his mighty victory and the blood of the Russians was his own soldiers’ blood and bitter defeat. But he could not destroy the pages, for fear of their curse staying with him.
And so it was that somewhere near Smolensk, a tinker found a saddlebag lying in a pile of bushes. There were only loose pages within. He had no idea what they were but kept them. Perhaps they had value, perhaps someone would pay him for them.
THE THIRD DAY
THURSDAY
Cabal: a private organization or party engaged in secret intrigues; also, the intrigues themselves.
In England the word was used during the 17th century to describe any secret or extralegal council of the king, especially the foreign committee of the Privy Council. The term took on its present invidious meaning from a group of five ministers chosen in 1667 by King Charles II (Clifford, Arlington, Buckingham, Ashley Cooper [later earl of Shaftesbury], and Lauderdale), whose initial letters coincidentally spelled cabal. This cabal, never very unified in its members’ aims and sympathies, fell apart by 1672; Shaftesbury even became one of Charles II’s fiercest opponents.
—ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNICA
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Falconers are a fortunate breed. Not only do we have the pleasure of our current hawk, but also, increasingly over the years, the memory of former hawks, which were dear to us and individual flights, which are etched in the memory forever.
—Emma Ford, Falconry: Art and Practice
The Old Garden
Twickenham
Richmond upon Thames, London
Isabella woke in darkness. She didn’t know where she was or what had happened. She touched her fingers to her throbbing face. He’d struck her. Why? She stilled. Something was terribly wrong.
Fear swamped her, she was inside a tomb, something black—she was dying.
And then she remembered, saw it all again, and—no, no.
Gil was dead, lying on the kitchen floor, dead, dead, dead, and that obviously insane Laurence Bruce had murdered him and struck her down.
She couldn’t accept it, simply couldn’t, but there was blood, so much blood, and Gil was on his back, his beautiful eyes staring unseeing up at her. His throat, something was wrong. So much blood. And Bruce had struck her. She vaguely remembered the jostle and rumble of a car. The smell of gas and asphalt and—
“You’re awake.”
She jerked her head toward his voice. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. A gag, she was gagged. She was tied down and gagged.
“Don’t struggle. If you fight, he won’t like it. He might punish you.”
The man who’d spoken came into focus. Who might punish her? Dr. Bruce? Yes, of course. But who was this? He stood by the door, hair long and unwashed, his jeans and black T-shirt rumpled and stained. His skin was pale, and he was thin. The words coming from his mouth were no language she’d ever heard aloud, strange garbled sounds that held no meaning, only they did. She realized, somehow, she understood them.
She began twisting and fighting, but the man didn’t move to untie her. He stared as if she were a butterfly pinned to a board. She shuddered. She knew she was as good as dead. As Gil was. Her brain shied away from him lying so still, and all the blood. No, no. She didn’t want to see it again. Was this strange man, his face so pale he was nearly translucent, here to kill her? She swallowed tears, looked away from him, up, at the ceiling. Tall, at least twelve feet, timber beams running across it. Everything was white: the walls, the ceiling, the man’s skin. He still stood silently, watching her twist and turn.
“I was looking at your face. You can understand me.”
She began shaking her head. She could smell him, from that far away. Garlic, cedar, patchouli cologne. And blood. He smelled of blood.
Where was Dr. Bruce? What was happening? Panic rose, and she fought it, hard. She needed to stay in control, or she’d die—like Gil. No, Gil, no.
The man moved even closer until he stood next to her, looking down at her. “How is it you can speak our language?”
Of course she understood him, but she shook her head, felt tears burning her eyes, swallowed. She was gagged, so how could she explain he was speaking Voynichese, the language of the Voynich manuscript?
She hadn’t heard it since her twin sister had caught a flu virus and died, so small, shrunken in the hospital bed, covered with white sheets. She shouldn’t have died, the hospital had said, she shouldn’t have, we did everything we could. But their words were meaningless. Kristiana was dead.
He leaned down and took off her gag. “Speak to me.”
She looked up into that pale, intense face. She knew instinctively there wasn’t something quite right about him. She said, “I was a twin.” A special twin, she thought, but didn’t say it aloud, because, quite simply, she didn’t know what it meant. To him. “Of course I understand you.”
He looked pleased. “And your mother and father were Romanian. Roman was right, perhaps you are the one.”
The one what? Isabella heard a flurry of movement in the hall, and she turned quickly and shrank back.
It wasn’t Dr. Laurence Bruce—no, wait, she recognized the dark intense eyes, before hidden behind the thick lenses he’d worn. No brown beard and hair now. His hair was black, and he was straight and tall. And perched on his wrist sat a small raptor bird. He wore a leather glove that covered his wrist and arm up to his elbow, and the bird was wearing a matching leather hood, with a small plume on top. He gave
Isabella a long look, then turned to the pale man who held her gag in one hand and spoke in the same guttural language, twin talk. She knew these might be the last moments of her life, yet she listened as he spoke.
“Look at her, Radu, the one who had our pages. She did not find them by accident. My question is, why did she make such a big production of it at her press conference? What do you think?”
“I spoke to her, Roman. We were talking. She understands me.”
Radu? Roman?
“That’s good, very good. Radu, I need to speak to her now, alone. Please leave us for a moment, all right?”
“But, Roman—”
“Please, Radu, it is important.” He said nothing more until the pale thin man called Radu left the room.
“Now, let’s see.” She watched him take the hood off the falcon and say, in an almost offhand manner, “This is Arlington. She’s a particular favorite of mine.”
Isabella heard him give a whispered command—in Voynichese. The bird spread her wings wide, turned her head, a yellow eye fixed on Isabella. He threw something on her stomach. Then the bird hit Isabella’s belly, a flurry of wings and claws. Sharp talons raked her through her slacks, ripped up her belly. She screamed, tried to pull away, but she was tied too tightly.
He watched her as a scientist would watch an experiment, with only mild interest. He tossed another piece of meat on Isabella’s chest. Arlington was more delicate about it this time, but Isabella still got a full face of feathers. The strange, smoky scent of the bird and the tang of the raw meat made her gag.
The bird stood heavy on her chest, staring at her with its head cocked, and Isabella fought down bile, fought against the fear.
With another scrape of talons, the bird launched herself into the air and landed gracefully back on his gloved arm.
“That demonstration was so you understand I am perfectly serious. If you lie to me, Dr. Marin, I’ll cut you open and let my entire cast in to enjoy a morning treat.”
She was trying to suck in breaths, but the pain in her belly and her unreasoning fear made it difficult. Finally, she stared up at him, silent, as Gil was silent, no, no, she couldn’t think about Gil. But this man had murdered him. “Who are you?”
And suddenly he smiled. “No, I am not Dr. Laurence Bruce, a silly, pretentious little man who has served me well in the past. I am Roman Ardelean. Now, I will ask you only once. How did you come by the lost pages of the Voynich?”
She whispered, “Who is Radu?”
He raised the hood from Arlington’s head.
“No, no, please!”
He studied her terrified face, shrugged. “Very well, I will tell you. Radu is my twin brother. He doesn’t do well with crowds or the outside world. He stays here, where he is safe. He has a good life. He enjoys himself. His computers are his window to the outside world. Though I must say, I was impressed to see him speaking to you. Radu does not like strangers. Now, answer me.” He stroked the neck of the bird, and she preened for him.
“Please, just one more question, and I will tell you what I did. Did you steal the Voynich last year from Yale?”
“No, I did not. Nor do I know who did. I wish that I had now, but of course it’s far too late. No more, tell me how you came by the pages.”
She couldn’t tell him the truth, she wouldn’t, but she knew she had to convince him. After all, she’d practiced her lie so often, it came out smoothly, without hesitation. “I found them inside a book in the museum’s library. The pages were inside Meditations.”
He regarded her for a moment, then said, “That’s a lie, but I will let it go for the moment. How can you understand the language of the pages? Tell me, and don’t lie.”
She realized he’d switched from English to Voynichese. She wished she could pretend she didn’t understand, but it was too late for that. “I can’t explain how I know it, I just do. You know it is twin talk.”
He continued to stare at her, a finger stroking Arlington’s head.
She said, “You are a twin. You can read the Voynich as well as I can. It’s an early medical manuscript, written by twins who were geniuses, twins of Vlad Dracul’s line, one ill, one strong. The entire book is a discussion between them, conversations, about the earth, about herbs and flowers to heal and to maim, and the alchemic relationship between metals and matter, astrology, women, fertility, everything. You know it explains the way blood works in the body, how it nourishes the organs, the brain, the heart. You know it’s an herbal, but it’s also a code. It says for some, drinking blood, if a potion is given first, is necessary to live. I believe the writers, these twins, were probably very misunderstood and very isolated. Feared, most likely because no one could understand them. You and your twin, Radu, are the first I’ve ever met in my life who could read the Voynich and speak Voynichese.”
“I agree with you. I’ve already done your research—I have given the manuscript to many other sets of twins. There was no recognition. The best cryptographers approach it as if it’s a cipher. They look for a key, a code, when it’s a unique language. Your press conference on Thursday—how do you believe your announcement will be received by your peers and other so-called Voynich experts? And your claim that page seventy-four provides a sort of key to help the lay reader understand the manuscript?”
“They’ll probably laugh at me, about all of it.”
“As do I, at least about page seventy-four. I have examined all the loose pages, including page seventy-four. They are more of the same. Why were they torn out? Why was page seventy-four cut out? I have no idea, nor have I been able to find a single clue about it.”
He took a step toward her, and the falcon on his arm leaned toward her, as well. Isabella couldn’t move. “Yes,” Roman said, “Arlington would very much like to visit you again for a bite to eat. A reminder you will continue to tell me the truth. Now, before you tell me why you lied about where you found the pages, tell me, do you believe the twins who wrote it were mad?”
“No. Of course not. They were as sane as I am.”
He slowly nodded.
She was scared, desperate. “Please, you took the pages from my apartment, you killed my fiancé, why did you bring me here? What do you want of me?”
“We need you,” Radu said from the doorway, obviously listening. “We want you to help us.”
Isabella pulled up as far as she could to see him. “How can I possibly help you? I’ve told you everything I know. I’m a twin, I can understand Voynichese and read it, just as you and your brother can. So we are special twins, I suppose, but there’s nothing more I can say, nothing more I know.”
Roman moved closer to her. Arlington spread her wings again, sharp beak clacking at the noise. “Oh, you’ll help, Dr. Marin. Or you’ll wish you were dead, like your unfortunate fiancé.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
MI5 Headquarters, Home Office
Thames House
12 Millbank
Westminster, London
Seven in the morning. The team, with the exception of Adam, sat around the private conference room with cups of hot black coffee in their hands. Except Harry Drummond, who was drinking his favored oolong.
Nicholas sat forward. “Father, Ian, sorry it’s so early, but this is critical. Mike found a common time and location on each victim’s calendar, and we spent the night pulling it all together.”
Mike said, “We think it’s more than a theory, sir. Look at this.” The screen filled with a series of letters and numbers.
Mike took another sip of her coffee. “As you can see, these are GPS coordinates. 21.0976° North, 33.7965° East. They correlate to the Nubian Desert in Sudan, south of the Egyptian border. The coordinates show in every victim’s calendar on the same date, seven months ago, December. We looked at the recent history of the area, and there’s been nothing in the news, nothing happening, no attacks, no people. It’s sand.”
Nicholas said, “So we accessed the satellite footage from that day, for those specific co
ordinates.”
“Do I want to know how?” Harry asked.
“Quite aboveboard, Father, don’t worry. We sent an emergency request to the NSA—Adam has a friend there.” He gave his father a sleepy grin. “We didn’t hack them.”
“I’m glad to hear it. So what did the satellites show?”
Ben forwarded the slides. “This is the area represented by the coordinates the morning of December second. You can see a small village on the dunes. It’s not on any maps we could access, but this is a desert area, things shift and change. Nomads set up shops. Sandstorms blow through. It’s an ever-changing environment. Lidar, short for light detection and ranging, that allows for measurements below the land’s surface area, doesn’t show any permanent structures, no deep foundations. This was all on the surface, temporary. The satellite itself wasn’t trained on it—it simply flew over that area once a day. We’re lucky it was nearby.
“Now, this is the morning of December third.”
Harry could see the village was no longer standing. There were pieces of it in different places, though, scattered like toothpicks across the reddish sand.
“Storm blew through?”
Nicholas said, “No, sir, we think this was manmade destruction. We think this was a proving ground for a weapons test. We checked with all the services we could and no one had any assets in this area. There’s no knowing exactly what happened between the second and the third of December. But—”
Ben flashed up another slide. “Here we have a shot from two weeks earlier. There’s nothing. Now, watch the progression.”
They watched a village slowly take shape, day by day, rising from the desert sand. The footage was clear, easy to pick out the details.
Ian said slowly, “So someone builds a village only to blow it apart. Who does that?”
Mike said, “Someone who had a show to give.”
Harry sipped at his oolong. “And with what sort of weapons?”
Nicholas flipped closed his laptop. “I’m going to bet it was drones. We know whoever is behind this has an army—from tiny drones that can shoot poisoned needles into people’s necks to large ones that can drop bombs on trains. I think this was the demonstration to the people they wanted to fund the drone army, to get them on board. It might be legitimate, it might be off-book. I don’t know. I would assume the victims were a party to this, though if they were funding it, I don’t know why they’d be murdered. Father, have you heard anything about the victims’ possible involvement in building an army of drones?”
The Sixth Day Page 21