The Sixth Day

by Catherine Coulter

  He knew in the event of an emergency, Parliament had procedures in place for everything—fire, bomb threats, biological attack, suspicious packages—you name it, they had procedures, procedures, procedures, endless lists of procedures.

  He knew exactly what security was doing inside Parliament. They needed to get the PM out of the building, but since there was a war raging outside, the normal procedures couldn’t be followed. They’d try to get him out another way or secure him inside a designated room. Roman knew they’d conclude the PM—and hoorah!—the bloody president of the United States, and the Queen—well, he did feel a bit of remorse about killing her—would all be safer inside. And he knew exactly where they’d be taken. He also realized getting through security would be hard, even with his drones and Arlington.

  So, he’d make them come to him.

  He pressed his comms and said to Cyrus, “Now!”

  One of the drones flew into the hallway and disappeared. Moments later, a huge explosion rang out, so close and loud the birds shrieked. Roman laughed.

  He didn’t want to kill them with the bomb, no, but he knew they’d make a break for it the moment the room filled with smoke and they’d have to leave, and they’d come right to him. He wanted to look at the prime minister, the head of the monster, the one ultimately responsible for the mission to kill his brother. He wanted to kill him, face to face, like a man. He stood in Westminster Hall, a vast empty space, once the center of British justice. It made him laugh at the irony. This time he would mete out justice. He was prepared, the drones hovering and ready.

  He waited, listened, stroking Arlington’s head. Normally he would hood her, but he wanted her ready, needed her keen senses to alert him.

  It didn’t take long. He heard them coming, heard the voices, the calls, and readied himself. He’d blocked all other egress points from outside with drones. They had no choice but to come to him, from the Commons Chamber where they huddled to the small waiting room for guests that connected to the library and into the great hall.

  He slowed his breathing, calmed his pounding heart. Once he killed the PM, his prime target, he wanted to kill Nicholas Drummond. He’d led the team that killed Radu.

  They were coming closer, the voices louder now. He pulled two Night Hawks from his vest, set them on the floor, set the needles in place, and started their engines. They whirred into life, rose into the air. He used his wrist to position them, one above him, one on the opposite side of the entrance.

  This was almost too easy.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  That was a bomb! What’s Ardelean doing?”

  Nicholas said to his father, “He’s driving them. He thinks security is following protocol and taking the president, the Queen, and the P.M. to the river.”

  Harry said, “So if he came in the Terrace Pavilion, he might still be there. Let’s go. I’ll follow you.”

  Nicholas hit his comms. “Ben, you have Melinda safe?”

  “I do. Go ahead. We’re fine here. The drones are still attacking, but the worst is over. There are some inside buzzing around, but we’ve been shooting them down. It’s like the Wild West in here. Sounds like the response outside is knocking those back, too.”

  “Copy. Adam?”

  “I’m watching the terrace, but I don’t see him. Parliament’s internal security system isn’t working—he’s jammed the cameras. Oh yeah, Ardelean punched in a program that’s halted the subway cars in their tracks. The entire tube system grid is offline.”

  Nicholas closed his eyes at that news, imagined the chaos underground. Nothing he could do about it. “Okay, Ardelean’s here, I can feel him.”

  They started off at a jog. Mike was limping, couldn’t help it, and Nicholas pulled up short.

  She said, “Let’s go, it’s nothing. I twisted it back in the tunnel. Go, Nicholas, we don’t have time to waste.”

  His warrior. They set off again, Mike on his heels, gritting her teeth against the pain.

  The terrace pavilion was on the opposite side of the building. Security was thick, but, with Harry, they quickly passed through every checkpoint. It took ten minutes to get to the terrace with its stunning view of the river. They saw falcons and drones still swooping and diving, but not attacking.

  “You’re right. He’s here. The birds are waiting for him.”

  Nicholas took them to a door tucked away in the corner of the Commons library. “If I’m right, he’s going to be on the other side of this door.”

  Harry said, “He’ll have those small drones with him.”

  They heard the loud voices of people coming. Nicholas quickly called Ben. “Keep everyone back. Stay in the Commons Chamber.”

  “Too much smoke, people are freaking out. We need to get them out.”

  “Then don’t come toward the river. Lead people south, toward the House of Lords. And watch out for drones.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Okay. Now, we need a diversion.”

  Mike pulled a thick book from the nearest shelf. “Sir, is this one really important?”

  Harry shrugged. “They’re all important, but it’s better than sticking our heads in.”

  The terrace river entrance was on the bottom floor. They crept down the library stairs, into a kitchen that fed onto the terrace, Mike with the book in her hand. At the door to the terrace, Nicholas raised his hand. He took the book from Mike, waited for her to get into position with her Glock, her back against the wall. An M4 would be better, but it would be too unwieldy in the tight space. He motioned his father to stay back.

  Nicholas put a hand on the door handle, signaled with his fingers three, two, one, then threw the door open and tossed the book into the dark space beyond.

  Mike came through right after him, her gun up.

  It was dark, too dark, but she heard the faint whir of a drone. She shot toward the sound, into the dark, and the whirring stopped.

  One down.

  She heard the flap of wings and was ready when the falcon slammed into her. She struck it in the chest with her fist. The bird wheeled back, not hurt, but surprised. Suddenly there was light in the room, the switch turned on by Harry, and they saw Ardelean wasn’t there.

  And then Nicholas realized where he was. “Westminster Hall, he’s in the hall! He’s got a whole army of drones with him. He was trying to herd everyone there. Up the stairs, up the stairs!” Nicholas took off, straight up the stairs into Westminster Hall.

  Ardelean was standing with his back to them, arms spread wide.

  Above him, motionless, were hundreds of drones.

  His falcon saw them, though, and shrieked a warning. Ardelean turned slowly, stared at Nicholas.

  He said, “Drummond, how nice of you to come before all those rapacious grasping criminals come flooding in here, believing they’ll be safe from me. It saves me the trouble of tracking you down. Do you know, I believe it’s time for you to die. Like my brother.”

  The small drone moved into position by Ardelean’s shoulder, but before it could fire, Nicholas shouted a command at the falcon, a word he’d overheard Ardelean scream to his falcon that made it attack Mike.

  “Obţine! Obţine!”

  The falcon wheeled in midair and went after the small drone, shrieking, talons out. She whipped the drone to the floor, then flew after another, then another, before dropping to the stone floor, exhausted wings spread. She looked to her master for a reward, confused when there was no fresh meat coming.

  Instead, Ardelean screamed in rage. “No!” He yelled for the falcon to attack, but the bird faltered, confused by two masters yelling at her.

  Ardelean pulled a stiletto and hurled it at Nicholas, but Mike shoved Nicholas hard. The knife struck deep into the wall an inch from his head.

  “No!” Roman screamed again, a death cry, and came at them.

  “Stop!” Mike yelled at him.

  But he didn’t. He was no longer thinking, he was a missile set on his course.

  Nicholas fired, catch
ing Roman in the throat. He spun in place, then crumpled to the ground almost at Nicholas’s feet.

  Nicholas yanked the wrist communicator off Roman’s arm and smashed it to the ground, stomping on it for good measure.

  The drone army dropped to the floor.

  “Arlington,” Roman whispered, the name slurred in blood frothing from his mouth. The bird flew to his side, cheeping, hovering over him. His arm lifted, and Arlington stepped onto her master’s fist for the last time. He stroked the bird once, then his hand fell to his side. His head fell backward, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.

  No one moved as the bird began to keen, a sound that made the hair on their necks stand up. They watched silently as the bird hopped on her master’s body, paced up and down, nudged his head, his arm, flapping her great wings, as if to protect him. She looked back at Nicholas for a moment, and he would swear he saw something primal and vicious in her eyes before she hopped forward, and her sharp talons ripped a chunk out of Ardelean’s throat.

  EPILOGUE

  One Week Later

  Mike suffered the boot, no choice. Her ankle was fractured, not badly, they said, only a hairline crack. But it still hurt like blue blazes to walk on, so they gave her a pair of crutches. How long for her ankle to heal? Not all that long, they said, and after telling her to keep weight off it, sent her on her way—released her into the wild, Nigel said, when he saw the ridiculous boot that marched up nearly to her knee.

  It hurt to look at herself in the full-length mirror in Nicholas’s bedroom because all she could see was the boot, black as her dress, so that was something, certainly better than candy pink. No, she wasn’t a pretty sight.

  Nicholas and Nigel came into the room. Nigel stopped in his tracks. “Ah, you look fetching, Mike.”

  Fetching? She’d like to smack him, but, with the boot, she couldn’t move fast enough. “I look like an idiot. Come on, Nicholas, you need to man up and tell the truth.”

  Nicholas said simply, “You look like a hero.”

  “That’s correct, Mike, your badge of honor,” Nigel said as he handed Nicholas his jacket.

  No, not a jacket, a morning coat. Nigel patted down his shoulders, stepped back. “Very nice indeed.”

  Nicholas gave him an incredulous look, shot his cuffs, and walked to stand beside her. Together they studied their fading bruises.

  “It’s the Arnica balm,” Nigel said. “The bruises are nearly gone.”

  True enough, but the bruises were the least of it. It was the lingering nightmares, Mike knew, filled with mechanical birds shrieking, their razor talons ready to strip off her face.

  At least the real falcons had been sent from both of Roman’s estates and given to a falconer in the Lake District, who was reprogramming them. They were far, far away. Even so, she shuddered. “I’m going to have bird phobia for a while.”

  “It will pass.” Nicholas kissed her temple. “As for myself, I can’t seem to step outside without studying the sky for drones. Still in all, we survived. We’re quite the team, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” she said. She eyed him up and down. “I’m thinking you could introduce your morning coat to the New York field office, set a new style.”

  “My Glock wouldn’t fit well under it, alas. Now, Agent Caine, I lie not. You do look lovely.”

  She licked her lips, stopped, she didn’t want to ruin her lipstick. “Well, okay, I’ll admit it, I’m nervous.”

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “The Queen already loves you for saving her life, and the PM, and the president, not to mention Parliament. It’s a great honor, Mike. And it’s important for the country for us to be acknowledged. My father has been informed by Her Majesty’s secretary that she is very pleased to knight me and dame you. He said the investiture had already been set up, but Her Majesty insisted we be added.”

  “Do I have to be a dame? What does that even mean?”

  “You’ll make a great dame.”

  She punched him in the belly, and he obligingly grunted. He saw her color rise. Excellent, she’d forget her nerves soon enough.

  He swept her up into his arms and carried her down the stairs, Nigel following with her crutches.

  No nerves now, she was poking his shoulder and laughing, and so was he.

  The car was waiting, the baron, Harry, and Mitzie inside. Harry was also dressed in a morning coat, Mitzie in a lovely embroidered white jacket over a sheath dress. She held a huge silk-and-felt hat in her lap.

  Mike stared at her. “Oh, my, you look gorgeous. And imagine, your shoes match.”

  Mitzie laughed and she said exactly what Nigel had said. “You look fetching, Michaela. Now, let’s get you settled, then we must be off or we’ll be late.”

  Once inside Buckingham Palace, Mike tried very hard not to gawk. Now, this place had glamor. Imagine, Queen Victoria had walked through these incredible rooms with all their huge gold paintings, down these wide hallways, up and down the imposing staircases.

  Harry steered them to a small staircase, a white sign on an easel in front of it: Recipients. Once again Nicholas carried Mike up the stairs, followed by Harry with her crutches. Mitzie and the baron took a seat in the gallery.

  I have to remember everything to tell my grandkids. The Queen, there she is, the Queen of England, and I’m going to be a dame. But what’s a dame? Does it mean free Starbucks?

  Mike’s brain continued to squirrel around even when Nicholas took her hand, squeezed it, and the ceremony started with nearly fifty people to be knighted and “damed.” Everyone sang “God Save the Queen,” then they were smoothly settled into place in the line to be presented to Her Majesty.

  After Harry went forward to kneel before the Queen and accept his cross and her tap on his shoulder, Nicholas followed, tall, straight, so gorgeous she wanted to leap on him, but that wouldn’t do, not here, not that she could with the cursed boot. He was knighted, he and the Queen spoke, and Mike heard him laugh.

  Mike knew she was going to throw up on her boot. Or she’d slip on the crutches, her hands were sweating so badly. Nicholas waited for her down the hall, looking somber as a judge, but then the grand voice called out, “Dame Michaela Caine, for services to the security of the country.” She smiled widely at him and walked forward, didn’t even fall off her crutches. And then she was in front of the grand dame herself.

  The Queen pinned the medal to Mike’s left breast and the commander insignia to her waist.

  Elizabeth said, “You acted admirably, madam. You saved many lives. We are most grateful for your service to our country.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Was that her voice, all quavery and insubstantial? Oh dear, yes, it was.

  The Queen took a long look at the boot, then shook her hand, and looked to where Nicholas stood beside his father, watching. “Take care of our young Brit. His grandfather will have my head if something untoward happens to him.”

  This time Mike’s voice was full-bodied American, reaching the entire gallery. “I will be his St. George, Your Majesty.”

  She would keep him safe, her Sir Nicholas.

  * * *

  Melinda, Ben, Adam, and Dr. Marin joined their small party back at Drummond House in Westminster. Nicholas saw Adam had moved away from the group, trying, he knew, to protect the fresh, hot chips Cook had made especially for him.

  Nicholas nudged him with his shoulder, nodded toward Ben and Melinda. “Hey, you’re getting to be an old man, already twenty. Ready for a girl of your own, Adam?”

  “I sort of like that one with Ben.”

  “She might be a whisker too old for you. No, better to let my mother find someone your age. What do you think?”

  Adam appeared to give that some thought, but he said, “Oh yeah, Nicholas, I forget to tell you, they got Ardelean’s right hand, a man named Cyrus Wendell, and he evidently won’t say a single world. So, Ardelean did have someone loyal to him. The coppers also arrested Ardelean’s manager at his main installation in North Berwick, Sc
otland, Raphael Marquez. Unlike Wendell, he couldn’t wait to tell everything he knew, which is plenty. Now about your mom on the hunt for me? Okay, maybe.”

  Dr. Marin stood nearby, listening and nursing a vodka tonic. Mike said to her, “Do you think Adam will let Mrs. Drummond set him up?”

  Isabella smiled. “He did say maybe, and if he’s smart, he’ll at least consider it.” And then her smile fell away, and Mike knew she was thinking about her fiancé and the subsequent nightmare she’d survived.

  “When do you plan to go back to work?”

  “Next week, I think. There’s so much to do, and glory of glories, Persy didn’t fire me.” She smiled again, and this one wasn’t forced. “Imagine, you found the loose pages beneath the mattress of Radu’s bed. And now we’ve restored the Voynich to the Beinecke. Since I’m the one who made the ‘discovery,’ they’ve asked me to come to Yale and personally inset the pages. They’re talking a big ceremony. They want me to read from the Voynich,” she said, more to herself than to Mike. “The pages will like that. After so many hundreds of years, they’ll finally be together again, back where they belong.”

  Mike didn’t want to go there, so she said, “That will sure put the Beinecke on the map. Are you ready to be a world-recognized celebrity? The only scholar ever to decipher the Voynich?”

  Isabella shrugged. “Here’s the question. Do I tell them the truth? The whole story going back to Vlad Dracul?”

  Mike said, “That’s up to you, but perhaps it’s time. And perhaps there’ll be other special twins of your line to read the Voynich.”

  “I do wonder about that. But if I did tell the whole story, they might lock me up in an institution.” And she laughed, a small laugh, but it was a start. “Oh yes, I’ve got something to show you.” Isabella reached into her black handbag and pulled out a piece of newspaper, handed it to Mike.

  Mike read, then raised amazed eyes to Isabella’s face. “They’ve found Dracula’s tomb, in Italy, near Naples, of all places? Why in heaven’s name would Dracula visit Naples, much less die there? Not Transylvania? And how did he even die?”