The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI 5)

He pointed. “It’s a falcon, in the birch tree across the street. Move slowly, don’t startle it.”

Mike didn’t move. She couldn’t see the bird, but she did see a red dot emanating from the branches.

“I don’t see the falcon. What’s that red light?”

The falcon flew into the air, hovered overhead a moment, then shot away into the darkness.

Nicholas said in a whisper, “The red light, it was a camera. That bleeding bird was spying on us.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

To see a hawk in flight is to be privileged to watch a master of the air. . . . It is a unique hunting partnership—you tame her, tend her, train her, and work her to the peak of physical condition, then release her to the elements whilst you become no more than a mere spectator.

—Emma Ford, Falconry: Art and Practice

Arlington resumed her journey, wings stretched, soaring over the city. She hadn’t been allowed to fly free like this for some time and was tempted to simply keep flying and never go back, but she loved her master and so followed his instructions to the letter.

She flew south, the Thames a smoky ribbon below her, over bridges, adjusting here and there for the GPS coordinates programmed into her special collar. The pulses gave her a path to follow, small pings that focused her flight. If she deviated more than ten yards off course, it gave a tiny shock, nothing so great as to drop her from the sky, only a reminder to adjust back to the proper heading.

She’d trained with the rest of the cabal for months and was the best of them all at following the signals. When she returned, she knew she would be given the choicest morsels to eat and the best cadge.

The camera on her head was an annoyance, nothing more. She was accustomed to wearing a hood; it was part of her daily uniform. The small sliver of leather fit perfectly, designed and cut specifically for her. Each falcon and eagle in the mews had its own hood and special leggings made of Kevlar to cover talons and legs. It was a part of their job to learn how to soar over the rooftops with the tiny cameras recording all they saw.

Although Arlington was trained to hunt drones, to take them from the sky, tonight her mission was one of surveillance only.

The collar pinged, and she pulled up, soaring to her right, toward the final coordinates. She saw pigeons in a nearby tree scatter when they saw her, but she ignored them, flying to the third floor, descending to land gracefully on the brick windowsill. She tensed. She wanted to follow the pigeons, bring them down, talons flexed, tear into them.

A small pulse at her neck.

She looked away from the scattered flock back through the window, to her target. The camera transmitting back to her other master—the quiet one—whirred gently. She trusted him, but she didn’t feel the same affection for him. Still, she would do as she was told. It was what she’d been trained to do.

For ten minutes, Arlington perched calmly, beak forward. A pulse, her head to the left. Another pulse, her head to the right. The camera whirred.

* * *

Back at the Old Garden, Radu looked into the flat. He watched the woman undress, though it didn’t excite him. She showered, made a cup of tea, then sat down at her computer. The computer, now that made him feel something. It was twenty-eight inches diagonally, a perfect size for viewing from across the room. He zoomed the camera onto the screen and started capturing the shots, one after another, as she flicked through the pages.

The quality of the camera on Arlington’s head was professional-grade, which meant he could see every detail, every scratch in the ink, every crease in the paper. The room was well decorated, the computer screen top-notch. He wondered idly how a young woman fresh out of college interning at a museum could afford such a computer, then forgot it, it didn’t matter. They were lucky she had made the investment, because it was making his job easier. Radu loved the spying. Roman was the one who enjoyed the hands-on work.

The woman flipped through the pages, her chin resting on her palm, oblivious to the falcon outside her window watching everything she did. It was a pity, he thought again, that Drummond had not been so oblivious. Radu had a premonition about this Brit, and it scared him. But he knew Roman wouldn’t listen to him if he tried to warn him away, and so he would keep it to himself. Yes, their drone had missed Drummond this morning. Radu would not miss again.

Ten minutes of watching, reveling in reading the words that could cure him of the uncontrolled hemophilia. He’d been told his disease was unique, that unlike most hemophiliacs, a small cut could drain his blood and he’d be dead. Modern medications had no effect. It terrified him. Ah, but these pages—Radu felt they had all they needed. He sent a pulse, and Arlington flew away. His brother said from behind him in their own private language, “Wait, stop her. Look at the desk.”

Radu hadn’t realized Roman was in the room, he’d been lost in the words in

the lost pages, seeing them, reading and understanding them.

Radu sent another pulse to Arlington, and she flew back and crouched again on the sill. Again, her head moved to the right, then to the left, the camera whirred.

Radu said, “The camera is hitting its limit. We will lose everything if I don’t shut it down soon.”

Roman sounded amazed, disbelieving. “Soon, but not yet. Imagine, Radu, that woman has the pages, the actual physical pages. There, in her flat. It is all so prosaic, so common.”

Radu said, “Those aren’t the real pages, surely they’re facsimiles.”

“No, I don’t think so. I believe she made copies, and those are the ones locked in a safe at the museum. Radu, look at the corner of her desk. More pages. I don’t believe they’re part of the quire she announced finding today.”

Radu looked closely. His eyes weren’t as good as his brother’s, and even with the exceptionally high-resolution camera, the angle was too much for him. “But why wouldn’t she release them with the others?”