They flew east, then must have landed either on a boat or transferred to land transport.”
Morgan frowned. “It suggests some serious funding behind the group.”
“Exactly.” Marietti’s voice held the promise of further investigation. “There was also a vicious wind that surrounded the helicopter as they headed east, low over the river toward the sea. Nothing could get close to it. I want you back here to work on what the hell is going on.”
“The leader of the group was a woman calling herself the Valkyrie, and she said some things that reminded one of the academics at the museum of The Lindisfarne Gospels.” Morgan didn’t want to try and explain Blake’s unique ability right now, especially as she knew that Marietti might try to recruit him or at least want to know a lot more than she had time for. “The researcher is with me now, and we’re going to check the Gospels out. Can you call ahead and get that cleared so we have access?”
Morgan heard the hesitation in Marietti’s voice.
“All right, go check the Gospels, but then you’ve got to get back here, Morgan. The press are having a field day with this. While the police work on the crime angle, we need to get that staff back. Based on the footage of the Valkyrie and the wind she generated, there are plenty of people who are going to want it.”
Morgan knew that there was an underground network of organizations and individuals who collected such objects. Most of them kept to the shadows, but others emerged with their plans to impact the wider world. The staff of Skara Brae, resonating with ancient power, would draw them all when the footage was inevitably released on YouTube. Some would dismiss it as fake special effects, the conspiracy theorists would turn it into the start of some global plot, but some would know the truth and seek it out. The staff was powerful in the right hands, and Morgan knew she had to get it back. If they could locate the Eye of Odin as well, then all the better.
The taxi pulled up in front of the British Library on the Euston Road. Morgan and Blake walked into the forecourt, past the huge bronze statue of Newton, bent to measure the world with his calipers, frowning with concentration. The British Library was a modern building, red brick on two sides of the piazza square, with the gothic spires of St Pancras station towering behind it. Three flagpoles stood in the middle of the square, the Union Jack fluttering in the breeze, while readers streamed in the doors or drank coffee in patches of sun, fingers flicking through books. Despite the modern exterior, this library was a treasure store of the written word, a nirvana for any bibliophile. Morgan loved to come here, to feel a part of the grand heritage that was England.
“I’m not sure we can just walk in and demand to see The Lindisfarne Gospels,” Blake said, as they walked across the square.
“We won’t have to,” Morgan said. “ARKANE has phoned ahead.”
Blake chuckled. “I envy you. My research is usually a combination of my own psychometric reading and then a period of begging for access to get it verified through official sources.”
The entrance to the library was flanked by security guards who nodded them through, and they stepped into the spacious atrium. Sun streamed down from skylights high above the central light well, and three levels of reading rooms could be seen, with readers bustling between them carrying the clear plastic bags that were mandatory in the Reading Rooms. The sense was of open space, not crammed stacks, a portal to the information housed here in so many forms, much of it now digitized.
“The Gospels are in the Ritblat Gallery, alongside the other Treasures of the Library,” Morgan said. “This way.”
Up a short flight of stairs, the entrance to the Ritblat Gallery was dark, the light dimmed to preserve the precious objects within. Each glass case held priceless documents, from pages of Leonardo da Vinci’s
Morgan frowned. “It suggests some serious funding behind the group.”
“Exactly.” Marietti’s voice held the promise of further investigation. “There was also a vicious wind that surrounded the helicopter as they headed east, low over the river toward the sea. Nothing could get close to it. I want you back here to work on what the hell is going on.”
“The leader of the group was a woman calling herself the Valkyrie, and she said some things that reminded one of the academics at the museum of The Lindisfarne Gospels.” Morgan didn’t want to try and explain Blake’s unique ability right now, especially as she knew that Marietti might try to recruit him or at least want to know a lot more than she had time for. “The researcher is with me now, and we’re going to check the Gospels out. Can you call ahead and get that cleared so we have access?”
Morgan heard the hesitation in Marietti’s voice.
“All right, go check the Gospels, but then you’ve got to get back here, Morgan. The press are having a field day with this. While the police work on the crime angle, we need to get that staff back. Based on the footage of the Valkyrie and the wind she generated, there are plenty of people who are going to want it.”
Morgan knew that there was an underground network of organizations and individuals who collected such objects. Most of them kept to the shadows, but others emerged with their plans to impact the wider world. The staff of Skara Brae, resonating with ancient power, would draw them all when the footage was inevitably released on YouTube. Some would dismiss it as fake special effects, the conspiracy theorists would turn it into the start of some global plot, but some would know the truth and seek it out. The staff was powerful in the right hands, and Morgan knew she had to get it back. If they could locate the Eye of Odin as well, then all the better.
The taxi pulled up in front of the British Library on the Euston Road. Morgan and Blake walked into the forecourt, past the huge bronze statue of Newton, bent to measure the world with his calipers, frowning with concentration. The British Library was a modern building, red brick on two sides of the piazza square, with the gothic spires of St Pancras station towering behind it. Three flagpoles stood in the middle of the square, the Union Jack fluttering in the breeze, while readers streamed in the doors or drank coffee in patches of sun, fingers flicking through books. Despite the modern exterior, this library was a treasure store of the written word, a nirvana for any bibliophile. Morgan loved to come here, to feel a part of the grand heritage that was England.
“I’m not sure we can just walk in and demand to see The Lindisfarne Gospels,” Blake said, as they walked across the square.
“We won’t have to,” Morgan said. “ARKANE has phoned ahead.”
Blake chuckled. “I envy you. My research is usually a combination of my own psychometric reading and then a period of begging for access to get it verified through official sources.”
The entrance to the library was flanked by security guards who nodded them through, and they stepped into the spacious atrium. Sun streamed down from skylights high above the central light well, and three levels of reading rooms could be seen, with readers bustling between them carrying the clear plastic bags that were mandatory in the Reading Rooms. The sense was of open space, not crammed stacks, a portal to the information housed here in so many forms, much of it now digitized.
“The Gospels are in the Ritblat Gallery, alongside the other Treasures of the Library,” Morgan said. “This way.”
Up a short flight of stairs, the entrance to the Ritblat Gallery was dark, the light dimmed to preserve the precious objects within. Each glass case held priceless documents, from pages of Leonardo da Vinci’s
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