Nicholas asked, “Was there a drone?”
“We don’t know. My God, sir, three in three days. We were told by the associate he was meeting Alexander for lunch, then Alexander was leaving for Paris.”
“I think Mike and I should head to Notting Hill, see the scene firsthand. It has to be a drone, and we have to find someone who saw it.”
Harry nodded. “All right. I’ll reschedule Ardelean. I’ll call ahead, let them know to expect you, so you won’t have a problem getting past the police blockade. Adam can continue searching the servers.”
Nicholas tossed out an arm, and a taxi stopped with a screech. He and Mike bundled into the back seat, and Nicholas said, “Take us to Marianne, in Notting Hill.”
“Won’t be able to do it, sir, the area’s been cordoned off. Some sort of attack.”
Nicholas said, “We’re coppers, they’ll let us through, trust me. And while you’re at it, could I trouble you for your mobile?”
The driver gave Nicholas a quick stare, then tossed his phone over the seat. Nicholas dialed Penderley’s mobile. No answer. Nicholas left a brief message, saying they were headed his way.
The driver had them there in twenty minutes flat. He was forced to drop them at the corner of Shrewsbury and Westbourne Park Road, as close as he could get. Mike passed over several pounds, and they were running down the street. They saw the flashing lights a block away. “There. Let’s go.”
Media vans were parked along the way, their satellite dishes turned toward the sky, and Mike could see at least fifteen officers in black uniforms wearing black baseball caps with a black-and-white checkerboard pattern around the brim and fluorescent lime-yellow reflective vests. POLICE was stamped on the back of the vests, and long truncheons lay at their sides.
There were a few heavily armed officers as well, with ear defenders on, heads turning, looking for threats.
Several silver Metropolitan Police BMWs blocked the road, their blue and lime-yellow paint screaming a warning. Mike saw a K9 officer leading a large German shepherd along the street, letting the dog sniff chairs and postboxes and car wheels, looking for explosives. White-and-red POLICE LINE crime-scene tape was stretched across the side streets, keeping people from entering the area.
Mike and Nicholas showed their credentials at the roadblock that gave onto Chepstow Road. The officer said, “Superintendent Penderley told me you were coming, Agents.” He pointed. “He’s down there, on the right side of the road. Penderley said specifically you are to avoid the media, no interviews, no chatter, nothing even off the record.”
Nicholas said, “Understood,” and wrote their names on the list of people attending the scene. They both ducked under the tape and headed down the street. They found Penderley standing under an awning talking with a woman Nicholas vaguely recognized from his time at New Scotland Yard.
Penderley was wearing a bulletproof flak jacket over a white button-down shirt and gray slacks and was gesturing around the scene. He was obviously the top brass. He spied them and called them over, shook both their hands, and introduced them to the woman by his side. “Drummond, Caine, meet DI Clare Griffith, she’s one of our best and brightest, and she’s running this scene. I have to get back to Scotland Yard and start the damage control. We’re going to have every eye in the free world on us within the hour, so figure out what the bloody hell’s happening, would you? Oh, yes, and we checked the other two crime scenes, and nothing like a needle was found, though there was plenty of metal trash. It’s all been taken into evidence.”
“Thank you for trying, sir. Good to see you.”
“You, too, Drummond”—and after a nod to Mike, he added to Nicholas, “I thought I asked you to get it sorted.” And he was gone.
DI Griffith looked sharp, tall, black hair twisted up in a roll at the back of her head. She was wearing a blue suit with a bulletproof vest under her blouse. She looked once at Nicholas, looked again, something Mike was used to from nearly every woman who spotted him. To her credit, Griffith got her cop brain turned back on and said, her voice official, “Agent Drummond, I was actually in uniform when you were Penderley’s go-to. You’re a hard act to follow, but I’ll get there.” She looked him up and down, all cop now, shook her head. “Imagine, you left us to become the first Brit in the American FBI.”
Nicholas smiled, said immediately, “Can you tell us exactly what’s happened?”
Griffith waved across the street, where Mike could see the gray wainscoted front of the restaurant; its name, MARIANNE, on a sign hanging over the door. People were huddled along the old redbrick walls, numb and gawking. There were faces staring out of the restaurant windows at the chaos outside.
And Mike saw the shape of a body under a white tarp.
Griffith said, “Mr. Alexander is lying where he fell. Too soon to know exactly what happened, but witnesses say he stopped on the sidewalk right outside the restaurant, to make a call. He slapped a hand to his neck and went down. He was dead before the first emergency calls went out. If we hadn’t had two other influential people die in two days, I don’t think we’d be looking at this as anything other than a heart attack or stroke, but clearly, it’s much more.”
Nicholas asked, “May we see the body, please?”
“Certainly.” Griffith smiled at him, but it was professional this time, cop to cop.
Mike asked, “Were there any drones reported in the area?”
“We haven’t heard of any, and believe me, I’ve told all our officers to ask, given how Mr. Donovan and Mr. Hemmler were murdered.” She led them across the street, where two officers were guarding the body.
Nicholas went down on his haunches and pulled back the sheet.
They looked down at the congested face of the former secretary of defense. His bulging eyes stared back at them.
“Not a peaceful death,” Griffith said.
Nicholas shook his head. “No.” Using his forefinger, he gently moved the head from left to right. “Nothing on his neck I can see. May we roll him over?”
Mike said, “No, wait, Nicholas. Look there, right under his ear. There’s a red spot.”
“Good eyes, Agent Caine. You’re right, there is.” He began scanning the ground. So much dirt, rocks, little bits of litter, detritus on the street.
He grinned up at Mike. “You know what we need, don’t you?”
“Yep. DI Griffith, any chance you have a magnet around?”
“A magnet? I don’t—wait, I do, sort of. The cover of my iPad is magnetized. It’s constantly picking up loose paper clips from my desk. Why?”
Nicholas grinned. “That will work. Can you fetch it, please?”
“Thank goodness Scotland Yard froze the scene,” Mike said, “or we wouldn’t have had a chance of finding it.”
Griffith returned, handed over her red-cased tablet. “Here you go. I also put a call in for someone to bring us a magnet a bit more powerful, just in case.”
He opened the cover. First, he slowly ran it over the body. “I don’t think it’s here.”
“It?”
Mike said to Griffith, “We believe there is a very small needle, or something similar, somewhere nearby.”
Nicholas whooped, stood up. “And here it is, not three feet from the body.” The edge of the case now had a small, thin piece of metal stuck to its edge.
Mike examined it. “Say hello to our murder weapon.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Drones have been around for more than two decades, but their roots date back to World War I when both the U.S. and France worked on developing automatic, unmanned airplanes. But the last few years have been significant in terms of drone adoption, usage expansion across industries, and global awareness.
—Business Insider
The Old Garden
Twickenham
Richmond upon Thames, London
Roman smiled when he saw the name on the caller ID. He said to Radu, “He’s right on time.” He said into his mobile, “Hello, Barstow. I trust yo
u have my money?”
Barstow shouted in his ear, “Are you barking mad? This has to stop! Do you understand me? Once again you’ve acted stupidly, thoughtlessly!” A pause, Barstow sucked in a breath, and he sounded calmer. “All right, tell me why you killed Alexander.”
Roman said, “You told me yourself he wanted out. He cost me another one hundred and fifty million pounds. I trust the others have paid?”
There was a moment of silence.
Roman asked softly, “Who else wants out of our project?”
“No, no one, at least not yet. I’m working on her, she’ll come through.”
“We have two women. Which her?”
“All right, it’s Paulina Vittorini—but, Roman, I can talk her around, but you need to let her see the drone army first. All right?”
“You talk her around, Barstow, and no viewing the army before I’m paid. So how much money do you have for me?”
“They’re still balking. I told you, they want the drone army, then they’ll pay. Think about it, Roman. It doesn’t really matter, does it? I mean, you’ll be paid, and we’ll begin our fight against radical Islam in Africa. Have a little faith, man.”
Roman was silent. Barstow rushed forward. “Listen, you’re going to get yourself caught at this rate, and then where will we be? Too many people are paying attention, and we can’t afford for you to be exposed.
“Roman, I understand your . . . frustration, but I’ve promised our investors the drones will be in their hands as soon as you’re paid. I will convince them to trust me, to trust you.”
“I expect to be paid in full. I also suggest you find two more investors. Do it quickly, Barstow. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes, I’ll find two more investors to pay the back-end costs. I’ll get as much as I can possibly manage for you tomorrow. You know I must be careful about any large transfers, especially since you’ve brought the Drummonds to breathe down our necks. Why in the name of all that’s holy did you try to take out Harry Drummond’s son?”
Roman smiled into the phone, said softly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, you don’t, do you? Didn’t you know? The Home Office has possession of your drone.”
His heart froze. “What?”
“Ah,” Barstow said, his voice malicious, “You didn’t know? And here I thought you knew everything.”
“But that isn’t possible, the drone has a self-destruct mechanism. We activated it—”
“And it didn’t work. Your little game must end now, Roman. We can’t afford to have any more attention that might lead to the discovery of our project, a discovery that would destroy both of us. If you stop murdering people, I’ll find a way to make sure no one links the drone to you. But, Roman, don’t think I can protect you forever. If you continue to behave in such a reckless manner, I will be forced to intercede in ways you will not like. The prime minister would be most interested in the real reason his defense minister was killed, don’t you think?”
Now this was laughable. “Do you truly think you’re in a position to threaten me, Barstow? Even if the drone failed to self-destruct, no one can trace it back to me. I’ve made sure of that. I’m not as careless as you evidently think. Now, the money, tomorrow, or you really won’t like my next step. As for your telling the prime minister anything at all, think about your own illustrious neck. Now, wouldn’t your ancestors turn over in their graves if the eighth Viscount Barstow was hung for treason?”
He cut Barstow off, turned on Radu.
“What does he mean the self-destruct didn’t activate?”
“Stop yelling, Roman! I don’t know, I don’t know. I did activate it—of course I did. Here, look.” Radu’s fingers moved on the computer’s keyboard, elegant, fast, graceful as a concert pianist. “See? It shows the self-destruct was entered three minutes after the magazine was emptied.” Radu pointed to the schematic. “The system shows it detonated. I don’t understand, the drone should be in a thousand pieces.”
“Well, it’s whole, isn’t it, and it’s your fault.” He felt rage building, building, realized his brother was cowering, obviously frightened. Of him. He took three deep breaths, fingered a microdose into his mouth. He shut his eyes and felt the LSD begin to smooth him out.
His rage fell away. He lightly touched his palm to his brother’s cheek, felt him flinch. “I’m sorry, Radu. I would never hurt you. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that. The failure of the self-destruct, these things happen. You will find out why the drone didn’t self-destruct as it should have and we will correct the problem. Obviously, the prototype isn’t ready. We’ll have to make more adjustments.
“I told you my meeting at MI5 with Drummond was moved back. It’s time for reconnaissance. We must make certain I am not suspected. Or that fool, Barstow. If he thought he could get away with it, he would bring me down in an instant. I can’t believe he threatened me with the PM, the jabbering old fool.” His hand continued to lightly pat Radu’s face. “He claims he will add two more investors. If he manages that, they’ll get a good deal, given both Donovan and Alexander already paid in half.
“I believe Drummond is the biggest threat. Arlington is already stationed at the Home Office. Have her follow him, and if it’s possible, send a drone to kill him, the others, as well.” He leaned down, kissed his brother’s forehead. “As always, I am counting on you, Radu.”
Roman was relieved when Radu smiled up at him. “Yes, I will do that.”
“Let me know as soon as it’s done. Tomorrow, at last, Barstow will pay us, and we can deliver his bloody drone army. I want to be rid of that blighter forever.”
Roman began to pace. He placed another microdose on his tongue, felt it working almost immediately. “I must take the woman tonight, and the missing Voynich pages. Healing you is my greatest priority now.”
Radu rose, placed his hand on his brother’s arm. “Roman, you are stretching yourself too thin. Too many operations, too many projects. The pages, the woman, aren’t going anywhere. Do you really think it necessary to act tonight?”
Roman hugged his brother to him, felt his heart pounding against his. “I want you to be cured, and that means we have to have the pages.” He set his brother away from him, placed his hands on Radu’s shoulders. “I want you well, a whole man. I want the world to see your brilliance, your incredible skill. I want you by my side, and that means I must deal with the woman as soon as possible. Tonight.” He paused, looked back at the schematic of the drone. “You will eliminate the threat, and I will take care of everything else.”
Radu had seen him take a third microdose in a matter of minutes. He knew Roman was becoming more and more attached to his LSD, and he was afraid that instead of helping him channel the brilliance, tether it, so it didn’t fly away like his cabal, the microdoses were making his behavior more and more erratic, affecting his moods, his reasoning, making him more unpredictable. Radu understood the benefits to the microdoses, but now, what Roman was becoming scared him.
He thought of all the drugs he’d been given since birth, for both his Asperger’s and autism, or whatever it was, and his rare form of hemophilia and how none had helped him. He knew that too much of any drug was dangerous, and too much of the LSD? Even with the modifications he’d made? Would it eventually tip Roman over the edge? Make him mad?
Soothe him, soothe him. “Don’t worry, Roman, I will take care of Drummond. Please, trust me.”
I trusted you before to self-destruct the bloody drone! Rage flashed, then sank back below the surface. “I know you will, Radu. You need to trust me, as well. Once we have the woman and the pages, we will work to cure you. You will kill Drummond, Barstow will give us the money, and I have an idea how to crush Temora once and for all. Never again will that traitor infiltrate MATRIX. I will personally kill him, perhaps strangle him as he stares up at me. Yes, all will work.” And he rubbed his hands together, frowned a moment, thumbed another microdose onto his tongue, then strode from the
room. Radu watched his strong, brilliant brother, so robust, so full of life and purpose and love for him. What would happen now? Radu slowly walked to the control panel and cooed softly into the microphone that fed directly into the falcons’ mews. His voice woke the remainder of the cast, who were sleeping. It was too dangerous for him to handle the birds himself—even with Roman’s protective gear, a small nick from a talon or beak would cause a bleed that couldn’t be controlled—so all his directions had to come from afar. Like his directions to the drones. Like everything Radu was forced to do. Never touching. Never connecting. Except with his brother. His heart quickened. He didn’t want to believe it, but maybe, maybe, the woman and the pages would lead to a cure for him. And he would walk free in the world. Perhaps he would learn to play cricket.
He sent Ashley and Lauderdale the coordinates in their collars, then sat carefully in his specially made chair, putting his hands on the controls for the drone, but he worried. So much chaos swirling about, so many problems, so many irons in the fire, a phrase he’d heard Iago once say. And Roman, the other half of him, becoming so volatile. What would happen?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Notting Hill, London
Nicholas and Mike watched Detective Inspector Griffith gently place the needle into an evidence bag.
Nicholas said, “We need it tested straightaway, but I imagine it’s the same poison—epibatidine.”
“Yes, I agree. I’ll oversee it myself. Our lab will analyze it immediately, and I’ll be in touch with you the moment we know for sure.”
“Could you also have someone take a look at Alexander’s computers? Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to look at his computer, and we need the hard drives for Hemmler and Donovan as well. Even a copied hard drive will work. But send it to me by courier, and do it quietly. We’re all still compromised, as far as we know, and we certainly don’t want whoever is behind this to catch wind of what we’re doing.”
The Sixth Day Page 15
