The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI #5)(25)
That didn’t sound right, but Nicholas didn’t say anything. The people involved in orchestrating those two affairs were all dead.
Nicholas walked around the drone, studying it, while Mike studied the sky. Nothing, only rolling white clouds.
“Nicholas, why? What could we possibly know this soon? You know this could happen again.”
He whispered in her ear, “Because whoever is behind this doesn’t even want us nibbling around the edges. We know now for certain my father’s been hacked, which means all the Security Services have been, as well. How deep does it go?”
Mike whispered back, “Their operating system is MATRIX, installed worldwide. Are you assuming MATRIX has been completely compromised? Okay, go with me on this. If yes, then it’s possible, isn’t it, that our FBI servers have been hacked?”
He nodded, continued in a near whisper, “Which means when I spoke to Savich and Sherlock this morning, I could have compromised them, as well. I’m going to have to find a secure method of communication with them, with the team.”
She stared down at the still-smoking drone. “Nicholas, we haven’t been hacked, more like we’ve been infiltrated. Who can breach the phones and computers of the most secretive organizations in the world?”
“Like you said, someone with a lot of money, someone powerful, someone who can infiltrate MATRIX.” He took her right hand in his, ran a finger over the callus between her thumb and forefinger, built up spending years on the range. “Remind me to thank your dad when I meet him. You shoot brilliantly.”
“That’s what I tell my dad. When I was a kid, we’d trek off into the wilderness to this remote range and shoot for hours until I was so tired I could barely hold my shotgun. Then he started me on rifles. Finally, I graduated to handguns. I got pretty good. He loved to show me off to his friends. And don’t change the subject.”
Before he could answer her, a distant siren grew louder.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Voynich manuscript: A mysterious, undeciphered manuscript dating to the 15th or 16th century.
—Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University
British Museum
Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury
London
The cab pulled to the curb with a screech, throwing Roger Bannen forward. He looked at his watch. He was late. He quickly paid the driver and bounded out of the cab without a receipt. He’d deal with the expense report later.
He ran into the building and took the grand stairs into the foyer at a dead run. He hit his shoulder on the door as he entered, dropped his notebook, and tripped over his brolly trying to pick it up. He ignored the amused looks from the people nearby.
Would this day ever go right? He’d woken late—not his fault, his alarm clock was on the fritz—his coffeemaker had spit grounds into the carafe instead of coffee, and he’d stepped on the cat’s tail to get at the pot before it boiled over on the floor. He felt like a fool, he, one of the Sun’s best reporters. Well, he could be if he didn’t screw up. Maybe.
He gathered his things, looked up, and cursed once. The hall was full of reporters, some talking on their mobiles, others fiddling with the cameras and lights. What were they all doing here? This was his chance to get the boss’s notice. He had no idea what the topic of the press briefing was, only what Molly the stringer, a former girlfriend, had told him when she’d called his desk. “British Museum, rare discovery, special briefing, Rog, get yourself there at noon, could be a big story.”
Bless Molly’s heart. But how was he going to get an exclusive, with everyone else already here? And then it hit him. Everyone else had received the same call. From Molly? His Molly? Bollocks.
Roger pushed his way toward the middle of the reporters so he could see the head of the antiquities department, Dr. Persepolis Wynn-Jones, Persy, Roger had heard his friends called him. He was at the top of the stairs talking to a pretty young woman beside him, holding a laptop to her chest. Intern, he thought, dismissing her. So where were the big guns? Still, whatever this was all about, Dr. Wynn-Jones was a friend of Roger’s mother, so maybe he’d be willing to share a special tidbit with Roger after the briefing.
He fell in beside a few reporters he knew. “What’s this all about, you lot?”
Three heads turned, a few grins, a few frowns. Todd Benedict, who believed himself to be blindingly brilliant, shook his head. “No one knows anything, Rog. How’s, ah, tricks at the Sun?”
“All’s well, all’s well.” You toffee-nosed ass. “You still a stand out at the Guardian? Hey, maybe we could grab a pint after.” If he still had a bleeding job at the end of this day of disasters. “Oh, here we go.”
Dr. Wynn-Jones made his way to the landing, tapped the microphone three times to gather attention, then smiled at the gathered crowd.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice. We have a very exciting announcement, and we will be passing out supplemental papers to give you the full background on our newest find. Trust me when I say it’s capital.” Roger watched Persy’s eyes land on him, and Persy broke into a grin and nodded to him. Roger smiled back at the crazy old corker. Crazy like a fox, but still.
Dr. Wynn-Jones studied the hungry faces a moment, knowing they’d heard fantastical things about this briefing but had no idea. He wasn’t going to disappoint today. The library often made discoveries, but this one was going to change the world, he could feel it in his bones.