The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [155]
37.
Deirdre Falling Hawk stared out the window of her flat as rain drizzled down from a gray London sky.
“Where are you?” she murmured. “Whoever you are, whatever it is you want, I need you to contact me. Please.”
Below, a black car sped down the street. Her heart leaped in her chest. Then, with a splash of rainwater, the car swung around a corner and vanished. She sighed, then sat again at the table. The computer the Seekers had given her whirred quietly. Emerald words pulsed on the screen.
What do you want to do?
“I wish I knew,” she muttered, picking up the photograph of the clay tablet. The photograph that had mysteriously appeared on her desk after someone had broken into the office she shared with Anders. Her eyes blurred, and the symbols in the photo rearranged themselves into new patterns, ones she felt she could almost understand.
Only she couldn't. She had some skill with Old English, and she knew a fair amount of Gaelic, but she was no expert on lost languages. That was why she had given a copy of the photograph to Paul Jacoby. He had the reputation as one of the finest classical archaeologists in the Seekers, and he had made a specialty of ancient writing systems.
Luckily, Jacoby had been so thrilled to see the photograph, he had been more than willing to swear an oath on the Book not to tell anyone else about it. Deirdre hoped she could trust him; she thought she could. Then again, she wasn't certain if she could trust anyone right now.
Or maybe it's you that can't be trusted, Deirdre.
Was that really why Nakamura had assigned Anders to be her new partner? After all, it provided a convenient way to keep a former security guard close to her at all times. And gods knew Anders had a way of showing up at her door at odd hours. She had left the Charterhouse early yesterday, grumbling something about having a headache, and he had shown up at her door at half past six with a bottle of porter and another of aspirin.
“If one doesn't solve the problem, the other will,” he had said in his incessantly cheery voice.
Every instinct in her had told her to send him away, but it was hard to believe he was really here to spy on her. She had opened the door, and they had sat on the couch—she in baggy sweats, he in the designer suit he had worn to work—watching reruns of Are You Being Served? While she wasn't certain if she had the porter or aspirin to thank, by the time Anders had gone, her headache had as well.
It was only after he left that she noticed her computer had been switched on the whole time, sitting on the table next to the folder with the photograph. Had he seen what she was working on? He would have had a few moments to himself while she poured the beer in the kitchen.
Stop it, Deirdre. Farr's the renegade, not you. He's the one they're keeping watch for.
“I wish you were here, Hadrian,” she said, setting down the photograph. “You'd know what to do.”
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard of the computer, then fell to her lap. There was no point in doing another search. She had tried every possible combination of keywords, but even with Echelon 7 access she had found nothing. Which left only one possibility.
The tablet was part of the Philosophers' private collection.
There was no other answer. Echelon 7 granted her access to everything in the Seekers' catalogues—everything except what the Philosophers kept secret for themselves. Which meant whoever had left the photograph on her desk had access to the vaults of the Philosophers. And that could only mean . . .
“You're a Philosopher yourself,” she said, touching the keyboard.
Of course, Deirdre had no evidence that the individual who had spoken to her using her computer was one with the person who had placed the photograph of the tablet on her desk. However, she couldn't believe otherwise.
I know you're out there, she typed on the computer. I know you're watching me. What do you want me to do?
She hit Enter, and the computer let out a chime.
Error.