The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI #5)(66)

There was a loud grunt from the kitchen. She rounded the corner, but her mind couldn’t catch up with what she was seeing. Gil, on the floor, blood on his neck. Dr. Bruce standing over him, a manic grin on his face, blood on the lenses of his glasses. She was rooted to the spot, staring at Gil’s pale face. He wasn’t moving, his lips bubbling with a froth of red, eyes already staring. She yelled, “No!” and then Dr. Bruce struck her cheek, and she went down hard on her back, something sticky running down her face. She registered that he’d struck her—but then Gil, no, not Gil. She saw Dr. Bruce standing over her, a horrible smile cracking his face in two, before the darkness took her.





CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE


Drummond House

Barton Street, Westminster

London

Mike and Ben snacked on the nuts and crackers Nigel had brought them and watched the news about the train bombing while waiting for Nicholas to come home.

She popped an almond, chewed, then, “Ben, it’s nuts, no pun intended. All these murders and now a terrorist attack on a Eurostar? Do we know yet if it was heading for the Chunnel?”

“Yep, it was.”

“What in heaven’s name is going on?” She hit her knee, winced.

Ben drank down some of his ale. “Don’t jump the gun, Mike. They haven’t said it was terror-related.”

“What else could it be?”

The dining room door opened, and Nicholas and Adam came in the room. “It’s not a terrorist attack, not ISIS or Al-Qaeda, anyway.”

“Then what is it?” But Mike knew what had happened even before Nicholas said, “A drone. Watch this. We’ve managed to keep it from the media, though I don’t know how long we have before it leaks.”

He set his laptop on the table and showed them the feed. Mike was amazed at the precision of the drone strike.

“Bombed by a drone,” she said, shaking her head. “No, not terrorism. It’s more of the same, all part of an insane script.”

“Script? Interesting you’d say that. And this train bombing is a splashy attack, draws everyone’s attention.”

Adam grabbed a handful of pistachios, out of the shell, so he couldn’t resist. “Are you saying all the murders, the computer glitches, and now the train bombing, these attacks are all tied together?”

Nicholas said, “I’m assuming there was someone on that train who was a specific target, someone who has ties to Donovan, Hemmler, Alexander, and Vittorini. We’re waiting on the manifests. Two people have died, tourists from Australia. No one related to the government. But I don’t understand, it’s always been one victim at a time, but now? A whole train of innocent people?”

Mike felt numb. “Maybe it’s a different message.”

Adam said, “Tell her the good news.”

“Good is a relative term. We’re all up late tonight. The hard drives of the victims’ personal computers are in. Let’s have some dinner and get started. We have to find a link between the murders, and find out who was being targeted on that train.” He looked at Mike. “If there was a specific target on that train.”

Mike shrugged. “Let’s go to Vittorini. We know she was running arms through the Govan Shipyards, maybe those are the bread crumbs we need.”



* * *



It was three in the morning when Mike saw it. She sat up, scratched her head, pushed her glasses up her nose, and shouted “Eureka!”

Tired, blurry eyes stared at her. Nicholas asked, “Eureka? Does this have something to do with the water level in the tub?”

“No, no, I have it. I’ve found the link between them. And you aren’t going to like it.”





CHAPTER FORTY-SIX


Ambition is to the mind what the cap is to the falcon; It blinds us first, and then compels us to tower by reason of our blindness.

—Charles Caleb Colton, Lacon

Gradara Castle

Near Venice, Italy

1812

All knew the march to the Russian border would be long and hard, but there was excitement in the ranks, thoughts of pillage in this strange land, of killing heathens and those fierce warriors called Cossacks.

General Barclay de Tolly and General Bagration had planned to stop this fine day for provisioning in northern Italy. Napoléon was given hospitality at a grand castle with views of the Adriatic. It was called Gradara, old and wealthy and filled with treasures Napoléon would not take, for the master was an ally.

It was at Gradara Napoléon read the courier’s message from the front. He walked to the ramparts, gazed beyond, to the Adriatic Sea, a beautiful sight, opened the message, and smiled. Czar Alexander was mobilizing two of his armies to meet them. He said aloud, his words blown away by the wind, “Let him bring every cursed soldier in his lands, it matters not. I will prevail. I will burn Moscow to the ground and dance in its ashes and blood.”

He was still smiling when he walked back into the great hall of Gradara. He drank and dined on fresh pheasant and newly butchered boar, listened to his generals boast of the destruction they would visit upon the Russian upstarts.

At last, Napoléon struck his knife against the wooden table and shouted, “I wish no more talk of war this night. Entertain me.”

The generals glanced at one another, brows raised, not knowing what to do. Suddenly, an old man appeared and walked forward to stand before the emperor. “I am Gradara’s bard.”