The Devil's Triangle (A Brit in the FBI 4)

A deep shiver moved through her, and she started to cough, spitting up water. He jerked her upright again and pounded her back. Water poured from her mouth, and she was heaving with the effort.

He pulled her onto her side, wrapped his arms around her while she spit up more lake water. Finally she stopped heaving out water and began shuddering. He felt her pulse—slow and faint, but there. He closed his eyes a moment, giving thanks, holding her tightly against him. She was alive.

She wasn’t conscious, but she was breathing, though it was shallow. He needed to warm her up, the water had been very cold. What he knew about hypothermia gave him hope—cold water preserved brain function.

Nicholas pulled his jacket off and wrapped it tightly around her. He checked her eyes with his Maglite, swore he could see the pupils change, though one seemed bigger than the other. She had a concussion. Probably from the nasty cut on her head. And how had she gotten that? She’d struck something when she hit the water, a branch maybe.

He gathered her to his chest and rocked her. He kissed her cold mouth, her forehead, her wet hair, said into her mouth, “Mike, you’re going to be all right, no thanks to me. Come on, do you want me to stroke out? Open your beautiful eyes and look at me. You’re warming up, sweetheart, that’s it.”

Even after this night passed, Nicholas knew he would always believe this a miracle. He heard a young man’s voice—an angel’s—calling from the top of the bank in musical Italian, “Are you okay, do you need help?

Nicholas called back in Italian, “We need a doctor and an ambulance. Now!”

Time passed, then shouts, calls, and people swarmed over the bank. He was suddenly surrounded by Italians, all barking instructions. He heard the sirens start immediately, and then the ambulance was there, the two EMTs racing down the bank with their equipment. One started questioning him in Italian.

“What happened? Why in the world did you go swimming in this weather?”

“Not swimming. It was an accident. We drove off the mountain, into the lake. She hit her head. She was underwater for several minutes.”

They already had Mike on a stretcher, wrapped in a silver blanket, and the other EMT had an IV line started and an oxygen mask in place. “She needs the hospital, immediately. It will be very close. You come with us. The polizia will want to speak with you about the accident.”

So long as it wasn’t more of the Kohaths’ guards or Major Russo’s thugs in the Carabinieri, he was fine with it.

Through the interminable ride, he held her hand, talked to her nonstop, and thankfully, finally, he felt her begin to warm.

PART TWO

Whence, then, does it come? Who knows? Who can assign limits to the subtlety of nature’s influences?

—NIKOLA TESLA

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The Kohath Letters

Venice, Italy

September 18, 1901

Dear Nikola,

I have made a discovery that might change the course of history.

I was having dinner in a small café when I heard the cook telling his brother that there was a new shipment from the Orient for the Collezionista—the Collector.

You know me, I had to see what the man had, and so I went immediately to his shop, which, at first glance, was a jumbled mess. His name is Melzi. He’s ancient, at lease ninety-eight years old, but thankfully, with all his faculties intact.

He had no idea what most of the pieces were in his rooms. Most was rubbish, but I spotted a few terra-cotta statues that might have Etruscan roots.

I found the folio while searching through a stack of old dispatches from the Franco-Austrian War. A thick parchment, very old, and on the cover was a large, hand-drawn lightning bolt. Then I saw small black stains along the top edge—I’m certain it is a blood froth. I undid the twine and very nearly passed out from excitement. You will never imagine what I was holding.

Drawings, from the great man himself, Leonardo da Vinci. I asked Melzi where he got them, and he said they were in a trunk of family papers. Then of course I remembered why the name Melzi was familiar to me. It seems he had an ancestor who was a painter, and lived for a time with Da Vinci. The Melzi from that period, as I knew, was Francesco Melzi, and not only was he a painter himself, he was Da Vinci’s lover and was with him when he was dying. I assume he was archiving Da Vinci’s work.

Melzi took the folio probably because he could not stand having nothing left but memories of his master. I would have done the same had I been in his shoes. After Da Vinci’s death, Melzi returned home to Italy and evidently hid them with his most precious things. No one in the Melzi family are scientists, and the papers had been stored in the family trunks for centuries. So I knew this was no forgery, for Melzi was a direct descendant.

There was a warning that came with the papers—and this teases the mind—the power that could be derived is incalculable. And what exactly does that mean?

What I’ve seen so far is mind-boggling. Not only have I discovered a lost trove of Da Vinci drawings, there is more, as you will see in the enclosed Da Vinci papers. You will know what to do with this incredible invention. Do you feel my excitement? Does your amazing brain already envision possibilities?