The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI #5)(113)
Nadia said to the Old Princess, “Isabella is a young girl, not of the same ancient superstitious world as you. In this modern world, there are no ties to magic or mysterious words or languages or unknown drawings.”
Where had the Old Princess gone? She drifted, seeing things and people from a great distance or up close, it didn’t seem to matter. Some of them were deep inside her, locked away forever, her memories of them soft as long-ago sunlight on her face.
When had Isabella become enamored with the Voynich manuscript? Then there came the day, that single day, so clear she wondered if the Old Princess had sent it to her now, in this soft, wonderful place where nothing bothered her, where nothing could really touch her, the day she’d told Isabella, “The pages, they’re lost, gone forever. You must forget. Forget.”
She lay there, as if cushioned on soft white clouds, saw herself begging Isabella to swear she would never tell anyone she could read the great manuscript, the Voynich, promise, promise, because Nadia knew it would lead to tragedy, and Isabella had agreed.
Nadia saw the Old Princess hovering beyond her, and she turned and saw her old wrinkled face had smoothed out. She nodded and whispered to Nadia, “Do not be afraid, my beautiful one, soon you will be with me. Soon, but first you must tell Isabella where you buried the pages. She is the only one to reunite them to the great manuscript. You cannot fail, my beloved, you cannot.”
And for some reason no one at the hospital could explain, Nadia Gabor Marin came out of her morphine-induced coma and asked to write another single line to her will. And she wrote in a surprisingly strong hand to Isabella where she’d buried the loose pages and page 74.
THE SIXTH DAY
SUNDAY
Westminster Bridge is 252m long and 26m wide. It’s an arch bridge with seven iron-ribbed elliptical spans; the most spans of any of the Thames bridges. Westminster Bridge was painted green in 1970 to match the seats in the House of Commons, the part of the Palace of Westminster closest to the bridge. Lambeth Bridge, further upstream, is painted red to match the colour scheme in the House of Lords.
The first Westminster Bridge featured semioctagonal turrets at intervals along the crossing to provide shelter for pedestrians. But these cloistered cubby holes soon became haunts for vagabonds, muggers and prostitutes. In the end, 12 night watchmen had to be hired to guard travelers as they crossed the river.
—LONDONIST.COM
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Air Force pilots near Las Vegas can fly drones 7,500 miles away in Afghanistan. The Air Force has 65,000–70,000 people working to process all the data and footage it’s currently collecting from drones.
—Forbes Magazine
Drone Flight Facility
Warehouse on Thames
North London
The room was pitch-black, the screens lit with tracers of red and green, like a demented Christmas decoration, overlaying on a topographical map of central London. There were five pilots at the ready, hands on controls, and the drones were amassed on the makeshift runway, the camouflage canopy stretching for hundreds of feet above them, sheltering the fleet from prying eyes. Roman needed to get them in the air and keep them low, away from the radar so they wouldn’t be seen before he was ready, before it was too late.
Cyrus Wendell, captaining the fleet, said quietly, “You were right, sir. The threat worked. They changed their plans, no more ridiculous barbeque at Buckingham. They’ll all be in Parliament, as you wished. Where will you be, sir? We wouldn’t want a mistake.”
“No, we wouldn’t, Cyrus. I’ll be on the boat, with the cast. It will be their first major exposure to the full army in a city environment. I want to be able to guide them until we arrive.”
To the pilots, Roman gave a different speech.
“Gentlemen, this is a watershed moment for our company. We’ve been tasked with building the biggest threat detection system in the history of Britain. Our drones will protect the skies of this city, will be used to stop attacks on our homeland by the people who hate us, who wish us dead. You are the front line of defense for your country. Be proud.”
There were cheers and applause. They were patriots, they were thrilled to be a part of this program.
Ardelean continued, “The plans are set, the flight paths programmed, all you need to do is get them in the air and the program will take over and fly them on instruments. You will only be needed if the drones go off course, or if it looks like one might be taken. Then, and only then, will you be allowed to take them over manually.”
“Copy that, sir. We’re ready for the final test run. All circuits are go.”
“Then let’s fly.”
He patted Cyrus on the arm, Cyrus, his one trusted employee, the one who knew he’d lied to the pilots, who knew very well this wasn’t a test, that there was no way to take the drones off their course once it was set, that Roman alone had control of their flight paths.
Roman headed for the dock. His fifty-one-foot Bladerunner speedboat awaited, and the cast was aboard, hooded, sitting on their cages, their flying jesses already on. Arlington stamped her feet; she was ready to get in the air.
He started the engine and heard the drones spark to life as well. He set the telemetry in his ear so he could keep track of the cast.
This is for you, Brother. We come from the skies; we come from the water; we come to hit them in their most vulnerable place. We will kill them, as they killed you.