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“No markings. It was tiny. Like a mini helicopter. Or maybe the size of a mutant Jurassic Park dragonfly. Small enough I wouldn’t have noticed it if it didn’t fly right over my head. I heard the whirring and looked up.”
Nicholas hated this, but he had to consider someone was watching Ben, as well. Perhaps Melinda? He said slowly, “Mike, we need to identify who owns these drones, right now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Voynich manuscript: Described as a magical or scientific text, nearly every page contains botanical, figurative, and scientific drawings of a provincial but lively character, drawn in ink with vibrant washes in various shades of green, brown, yellow, blue, and red.
—Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University
British Museum
Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury
London
Roman Ardelean presented his credentials—Dr. Laurence Bruce’s credentials—to the security desk at the British Museum.
Dr. Bruce looked the part of the scholar—glasses, longish brown hair, a thick beard and mustache, and a rather ugly brown tweed suit. Radu had created a perfect legend, a full identity, education, history. They’d even gone so far as to publish papers on the various “manuscripts” Dr. Laurence Bruce studied.
Dr. Bruce’s published papers were computer-generated by a sophisticated AI program created by Radu. His program used modern language skills built into a hand-coded system designed specifically to do contextual analyses of rare manuscripts, cryptography, and history, then used the information to generate scholarly papers. The papers and their theories were as fake as a green sunset but real enough to fool the various places they’d successfully published. Bogus research was a well-known problem in the academic field, but Roman wasn’t worried. Radu would stay ahead of it. He was that brilliant.
Dr. Laurence Bruce had a moderately respected reputation, one built entirely online by Radu. He and Radu had been nothing if not thorough. They had contacts all over the world in antiquities departments in museums, universities, and private endeavors. Dr. Bruce was known for being a bit different but harmless, and smart enough. And no one doubted he was completely dedicated to the Voynich—indeed, he was passionate about it. When it was necessary to move in the open, Roman pulled on Dr. Bruce’s ugly tweed suit, pasted on a beard, and topped his head with a wig, letting it settle in until it fit him like a second skin.
And, of course, Dr. Laurence Bruce had made friends with Dr. Persy Wynn-Jones, as well as supposed experts on the Voynich, knowing one day those relationships would come in handy. And today, it had paid off.
He would soon see the lost quire and page 74, touch them, read them. He was vibrating with excitement and thumbed a tablet onto his tongue to calm himself down as he was escorted to the elevator. He had himself well in hand when he reached Persy’s office. He’d visited three other times and saw Phyllis the moment he entered. Always with a large blond bun on the top of her head and a chain attached to her glasses around her neck. She was standing beside a filing cabinet, but Roman knew it was her immediately. Her beauty always surprised him, made him wonder how she’d ended up as the secretary to a crusty old man. Perhaps if he met her as Roman, he’d ask her, but Dr. Laurence Bruce was a man of few words, his brain always focused on some esoteric topic, unaware of those around him, particularly underlings. He knew she liked him, quite a surprise given how unprepossessing Dr. Laurence Bruce was. No matter, Dr. Bruce wasn’t one to think romantic thoughts about secretaries. Still, she might one day be useful, so he gave her a special hello and smile when she showed him into Persy’s office.
There stood Persy’s newest prodigy. Dr. Isabella Marin, young, dark hair, lean and fit, taller than average, and leaning over his ancient mahogany desk. Persy was always plucking the best students from the various universities to come work for him. And Persy did so love having handsome young people around.
He said, “Hello, I’m Dr. Laurence Bruce. Where is Dr. Wynn-Jones?”
She gave him a pleasant smile. “He’s been detained in a budget meeting, I’m afraid. I’m Dr. Isabella Marin.” She came around the desk and stuck out her hand. “And you are Dr. Bruce. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
He took her hand, found it soft and dry. “It’s lovely to meet you. Persy’s said great things about you.”
“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.
