Radu remained silent, watching his twin pace, back and forth, back and forth. Roman stopped, whirled around, and out it all came. “Is it possible the lost pages were somehow found by her family long ago and passed down through the generations as the book was written by ours? We will research her, see if she has a twin. Maybe that is why she can decode the language. Her blood, Radu, I know it’s our blood. I felt it calling to me today when I met her. Can she read the Voynich? Why not? We can.”
Roman struck his fist to his palm. “But why is getting the Voynich together so important to her? You saw the press conference online. She begged for the thief to bring back the Voynich, to reunite the pages. Why? And if it’s so important to her, then why didn’t she steal the Voynich herself?”
He flipped his hand toward the computer. “Turn off the camera, bring Arlington back. Research Isabella Marin, Radu. And I will get those pages.”
Radu said, “I wish we could find out who stole the book from Yale.”
“Perhaps Isabella Marin will help us find the answer. Does the thief also want the pages? We’ll see, won’t we?”
Radu turned to the falcon, pulsed her collar, and away she flew, coming back to them. The screen shook with the powerful thrusts of her wings. Radu looked away. It made him ill, motion sick, to watch the falcons fly like this.
Roman dropped to his knees next to his brother. He took his twin’s shoulders in his hands. “I swear to you we will cure you of this disease, I swear it.” He paused. “I love you, Radu. I want you to be able to experience the world as I do, without death hanging over your head.”
Radu clasped his brother’s hand. “I love you, too, Roman. The world as you have it—it is something I would like to try. Will you be bringing me the woman tonight?”
“You must research her thoroughly first. I want to know everything I can about her before I act.” He rose, and his eyes lit up.
Radu was sure Roman would make something happen, very soon.
“She will tell us all she knows about the Voynich and how she came by the pages,” Roman said, and kissed his brother’s cheek. “In the meantime, I have a command performance at the Home Office tomorrow. Is there anything new about Drummond I need to know?”
“Nothing after they left the house. Drummond spotted Arlington. I don’t know how, the man must have cat eyes. Did he see the camera light? I don’t know. But the latest from inside MI5 says Drummond will be there in the morning, and he and one of his Covert Eyes team will be with him. To speak with you.”
Radu sighed heavily. “They’ve caught on, Roman. They aren’t conducting any conversations by phone or email. Only in person. And whatever Drummond held in his hand as he left the house tonight—envelopes, I think—it’s very possible they’ve decided to communicate by good old-fashioned mail.”
Roman said, “Oh yes, a number of people were at the house tonight. Harry Drummond, now a full-time consultant to MI5. Nicholas Drummond and his FBI partner, Mike Caine. What’s worrisome is, of all people, that Tory bitch, Melinda St. Germaine, showed up with another FBI agent—his name’s Ben Houston, and he’s one of the Covert Eyes team.”
“Yes, very worrisome. It’s a good thing you’ll be there to talk to them. You can find out exactly how much they know and what they suspect. What are you planning, Roman?”
“I will get Marin. You’ll have her by this time tomorrow, I promise. It’s all coming together, at last. Soon, Brother, soon, you will be free.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Say, will the falcon, stooping from above,
Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove?
Admires the jay the insect’s gilded wings?
Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings?
—Alexander Pope
Hungary
1493
The battle was won, and Giovanni Sforza d’Aragona was on his way home to Italy, away from this blood-soaked land and the vicious war, back to Rimini and the warm glow of his castle and his young sons. He had ten ponies taken from the razed stables carrying jewels and trunks of gold and weapons, all recovered from the field.
He would give a small portion of his spoils to his priests, to thank them for their intercessions, a greater portion to the pope, Alexander VI, thus currying favor with the blessed father, and the largest portion to his cousin, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, to expedite the marriage agreements with the Borgias. Giovanni’s first wife had died a couple of years ago, and he wanted Lucrezia to be his second.
It would be an excellent alliance. She was the daughter of the pope, albeit from the wrong side of the bed, and well educated. He’d been told she was interested in many things, and her greatest love: falcons and the hunt.
Giovanni had seen many things, but he’d never forgotten the man he’d met in Hungary, a man who carried the falcon on his fist. His name was Zoltan Szabo, and he’d allied himself with Giovanni, provided him soldiers. He was a pale-skinned man with long black hair. He’d spoken Italian, but with a thick accent, and ate his meat raw and bloody, like his bird. The two men had hunted together, nothing unusual there, but the relationship Zoltan had with the bird had given Giovanni pause. It was an eerie sort of communication, had made Giovanni wonder exactly what the two shared. He’d never spoken of it to Zoltan. He supposed he’d been afraid to. At the memory, Giovanni crossed himself. He hoped Lucrezia’s love of falconry wouldn’t lead her to the unnatural. Or to eating raw meat.
He prayed she would give him many children and hoped the circumstance of her own birth would allow her more easily to accept his sons, born of his mistress, not his wife. The twins would be old enough to ride now. He looked forward to seeing them.
The ride was hard, the days long, and at night, the soldiers would sit around the fire and tell stories. Giovanni was especially fascinated about a tale of a powerful Hungarian prince who drank blood. It was sacrilege to listen to such things, but he couldn’t help himself. He listened long into the night, and when he slept, his dreams were nightmares of men in armor with fangs the size of wolves, who could not be slain, no matter how many times he struck them with his sword. They carried falcons on their fists and spoke with heavy accents.
The next day, unsettled and eager to be gone, Giovanni hurried his groom to saddle his horse. The groom, a lad named Franco, nervous, trying to please his master, left the cinch too loose, and as Giovanni mounted, the saddle pulled to the side, dropping both Giovanni and the saddlebags to the ground. Giovanni was cursing his groom when he saw a book of papers wrapped in a white cloth slide out of the saddlebag.
“Careful, Franco. I’m planning to give it to my new bride when we wed.”
Franco whispered, “I looked at it, sire. It is a fine book. Will she be able to read it?”
“Of course she will. She speaks many languages.”
Franco scuffed his shoes in the dirt, then he leaned close. “Sire, I must tell you, I’ve heard the pages. They speak, at night, from your saddlebags, to me. They tell me to do things.”
Giovanni clouted Franco’s head. “You’ve been drinking the ale again, haven’t you? Do not say such ridiculous things.”
“Sire, forgive me, but truly, the words they speak are not ridiculous.”
What was this all about? Giovanni said, “Don’t say such things to the rest of the men. They might not understand, may decide to drop you off a cliff.”
And Franco bowed his head, nodded.
But that night, when the fire was low, Franco heard the words again, whispers in his head, growing louder and more insistent. He went the saddlebag, put his ear against the worn leather, and the pages spoke.
He couldn’t understand the words, exactly, but the whispers told him many things, including listing the names of the men who were planning to murder his master and steal the treasure for themselves.
Franco took up a sword and went to where three of the men still sat beside the fire. The nearest man was almost too easy to kill, the sword slid through his neck like butter. The second and the third were also easy. The fourth, though, alerted by the crack of a branch under Franco’s foot, jumped to his feet. His death was loud and roused the rest of the camp. The fifth ran from Franco, screaming. The rest of the soldiers wrestled the sword away from Franco. Giovanni, asleep farthest away from the fire, was awakened by the fighting.