If she could, she’d slam the door in his face. Whatever did this disturbing man want? She said, trying to hide the distaste she felt, “Gil, this is Dr. Bruce, a Voynich scholar and friends with Persy. We met yesterday at the museum. Is there something I can help you with, Dr. Bruce?”
Even though she made no move to invite him in, tension bled into the room. Gil’s back straightened. “We were just finishing dinner, or we’d invite you in. Surely you can discuss this tomorrow. We’re having a bit of a celebration.”
Bruce’s voice was formal and remote. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Yes, since I see you’re very busy now, we can certainly discuss the issue tomorrow at the museum. Before I go, I’d love a glass of water, if you wouldn’t mind. I have a long trip home.” He shook his umbrella to ma
ke the point, scattering water on her foyer floor.
Isabella didn’t want him in her apartment, didn’t want him anywhere near her, ever again, but Gil said, “Sure, it’s in the kitchen. Come with me.”
Without hesitation, Bruce was through the door and heading to the kitchen as if he knew exactly where it was. But this man wasn’t supposed to even know where she lived, much less how her flat was laid out. Something was wrong. She shut the front door and followed the men.
She caught sight of a glitter, and after another glance and a smile at her left hand, walked down the hallway. Spring, they’d be married in the spring. She wished her mother were still alive. She’d like Gil.
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.”
* * *