The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI #5)(74)

Nicholas looked back into the conference room. Adam would locate Ardelean, his father would deal with Barstow. “A falcon? The man was sure?”

“Yes, he was.”

“We’re coming. Where shall I meet you?”

“Dawson Place, Notting Hill, W2. Oh, Drummond? Have you got the murders sorted yet?”

“Yes, sir, I believe so.”

“Ah, excellent. Oh yes, DCI Gareth Scott is the lead.”

He punched off to see Mike beside him, a brow raised. “What was that?”

“Are you in the mood to divide and conquer? Because Penderley needs us, says an American has been murdered in Notting Hill. A falcon was reported sitting on the windowsill. Penderley thought we’d like to get involved. He said something about the manner of the murder was unusual.”

“There’s no ‘we’ in this. I’ll go. You are going to the hospital. No, no arguments.”

He started to argue, but a fierce shaft of pain went through his side. “You’re sure? This could be big, Mike. I really don’t need a doctor—”

“No arguments, or I’ll tell your father.”

“Come back as soon as you can.”

“You promise you’ll go get checked out at the hospital?”

“Actually, there’s usually a physician here.”

“All right, I believe you. Don’t make me hurt you, Nicholas. Now, I’ll catch a cab. How far is it from here to Notting Hill?”

Ian had stepped out of the conference room and had obviously overheard the discussion. “Mike, I’ll drive you. It will be faster. Really, a falcon?”

“Yes, I appreciate that. We should go.” She gave Nicholas’s hand a warning squeeze. “Physician, now. Oh, and Nicholas, don’t shoot Barstow—excuse me—his lordship.”

“That I can’t promise I won’t do.”

“Then do it so we won’t be caught.” And she and Ian were gone.





CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE


The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon, which enables it to strike and destroy its victim.

—Sun Tzu, The Art of War

The Old Garden

Twickenham

Richmond upon Thames, London

Roman soothed Arlington, lightly rubbing her feathers, which he knew the falcon loved. He hated having to need anyone, but he knew he needed this woman who lay terrified, her stomach bleeding. He set Arlington on her perch and turned back to her. “You are Romanian.”

“Yes, you know that.”

“Your mother?”

“Didn’t I tell you? She was a gymnast, from Walachia. She’s dead now. You can’t hurt her.”

Walachia. The birthplace of his ancestors.

It had to be true, she was of his line. But her last name—Marin.

“Your father is American?”

“Yes.”

He felt excitement, a sense of victory, very close now. “Hold still and it won’t hurt. I’ve become very good at this.” He pulled out a kit to take her blood, swabbed alcohol on her tethered arm, then expertly drew off a vial. He needed to run it immediately.

“What are you doing?”

Roman said, “You’re the daughter of a gymnast from Walachia—is your mother Nadia Gabor?”

“Nadia Gabor Marin.”

He pulled up a chair beside her. “She was Gypsy stock.”

Isabella said nothing, stared as he ran a long white finger down the length of her arm. A fine red drop of blood sat in the crook of her elbow. “What are you going to do with my blood? What is this all about?”

“How far back do you know your bloodline?”

“What?”

“Answer me!”

“I don’t—not very far. If you’re at all familiar with Romanians, you’ll know many of the records are lost. The only way we can find each other is through online DNA testing, which of course we’ve done as most everyone has. It didn’t reveal very much, only a few matches.”

“Excellent. I will look on your computer and see what I can find. I want to see every match you’ve made.”

“Tell me what this is all about. You’re taking my blood and you’re probably going to kill me anyway. Why not tell me why you’re doing this?”

Roman smiled at her, patted her arm right above the Band-Aid he pressed down. “You won’t die, not for a long time.” He studied her a moment, recognized her on some very deep level.

“Why not tell you the truth? My brother, my twin—Radu—suffers from a rare form of hemophilia, one untreatable by modern medicine. The Voynich tells how to cure blood illnesses, but there were missing instructions, missing ingredients. I’ve read the pages you supposedly found, and you know what? The instructions are now complete. I can mix the potion and know it’s correct. But I always knew Radu’s illness was different from the others in our line, not like the blood diseases discussed by the twins in the Voynich. When it became clear that only blood from our line would help him, I began a search all over Eastern Europe. It appears Romanians live everywhere. Wherever I’ve traveled, I’ve taken Romanian blood, but have never found a perfect match.

“And now I have you. If you are my perfect match, then with the final instructions in the pages, the potion, and your blood, we’ll cure Radu.”