The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI #5)(37)

“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.

“Oh, yes. The papers. Let me see.”

“We’ll start with the full quire, pages fifty-nine to sixty-four of the manuscript. I know you’re an expert on the Voynich, so I don’t have to explain the importance of this section.”

Was she lying?

“With page seventy-four, I believe I’m very close.”

And what did that mean? Maddening, she was maddening, and he knew she was hiding something, but what? Her spicy scent wafted to his nose as she bent and carefully, gently, turned a page. “These are from the astrological section, and as you can see, they are crowned with constellations.”

“These match no constellation I’ve ever seen.”

“I believe it’s Taurus.” She laid down the page on the desk, picked up another. “The long-lost page seventy-four. Someone cut it out, folded it into thirds, put it inside the quire, and stuck it in an original Marcus Aurelius, Meditations. Yes, the handwritten version.” Her lies came so easily now, after so much repetition. “A collector named Sweig had it. His collection was donated to us two months ago, and I found all of this while I was cataloging the collection. It was an incredible moment. I mean, you can still see the bast fiber threads on the linen support. That alone shouted at me. But when I saw the Voynichese, I knew what I had.”

Page 74. He couldn’t believe, yet he was standing there, actually looking at it. Words were difficult. “It—it’s incredible.”

“I know, right? We have the provenance of the Aurelius manuscript intact and verified. It originally came from the library of an Italian estate outside of Venice, Gradara Castle.” A bit of truth: she’d placed the pages there, a tribute, really, to Gradara, to whomever had drawn the picture of the castle. How many centuries ago?

“Gradara? Many a Voynich scholar have speculated the castle on page eighty-six might be Gradara. You know, the one with—”

She grinned. “Right, the one with the curved merlons. Yes. No one has ever known for certain which castle the drawing represented, but I’m certain it’s Gradara. It must have been added to the manuscript at least a century, maybe more, after the Voynich was originally penned. I like to picture a young prince looking through the manuscript, drawing the view outside his window. And I wonder if he was punished.” She laughed. “I know, I have a strange imagination.”

“More likely an imprisoned monk drew what he could see from his cell.”

“I like my imagining better—yours is much too dark.”